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wroteclassicaly · 3 months

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Summary: A confession leads to unexpected heartbreak.

18+

Warnings: Language, smut, hurt/no comfort, one sided feelings, heartbreak, angst GALORE, self-esteem issues, mentions Steve’s past head trauma, insecurities on both sides, jealous Steve, mentions Nancy, best-friend!Reader w/ best-friend!Steve, and friends to lovers. This one hurts, folks!

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Word count: 3,985

A/N: No banner for this! Just some raw writing I did early into the hours of this morning/night, adding on some today. I wanted to try something different, so enjoy!

Note: Also posting this the day after I wrote it. Okay, lmaooooo.

“I love you, Steve.”

The words come easy to you, the courage taking years to build. But once they leave your mouth as you’re cradling his neck’s nape, playing with the chocolate curls that have grown out there, you cannot figure out why you wasted time not saying it. It’s been an ongoing thing between you two — a two year thing, in fact. Never any pushing for labels, no exclusivity. You were patient, he was giving, and you assumed you were both reading on the same page.

In a few minutes, however, you’d find out how very wrong that you were. You wished that your mouth and your legs had stayed closed around your best-friend, Steve Harrington.

It was a typical weekday, no dates planned, acting as if his last date hadn’t upset you, or that you enjoyed the one you forced yourself to go on with some guy, so that your feelings weren’t completely obvious. Sidenote: to mostly everyone but Steve, they kinda were. Steve had called you after your shift at the local Burger King, asking if you wanted to come over and spend the night. Not unusual. You always trade spending nights, rolling around on various surfaces, before enjoying breakfast together.

Intimate, casual, perfect.

Your answer was an automatic yes. A quick shower after work for you, a return phone call, and he’d gotten in his BMW, picked up some takeout, went to your door to get you, held your hand to the car, opened your damned door, and the dessert had been him between your thighs. This night in particular, it was one of pent up frustrations and desperations that had just one satiable cure. You ended up on top of Steve, his back pressed into the headboard, mutual clothes scattered all over his bed.

His shoulders became leverage, his massive palms spread out on either side of your waist, pinching the plush skin into his palming grip. Nose dusting across a defined nose bridge, caught in a cheekbone, with kisses rushed, deep, sloppily trying to stay focussed, but driven to reach that place buried inside one another.

Steve’s thighs provide a platform for you to sit upon, ankles locked around his back. He’s slippery with sweat, places you’d like to lick clean. You pull back from your cove to say it again, unable to stop yourself, going in for a kiss. You don’t think he heard, he’s humble sometimes, disbelieving in others. One hand cups his jaw, the other staying put to card through his hair, moisture pooling between your fingers.

“Hey? You still with me, big guy? I said I love you.” You’re smiling softly, thumbpad caressing his jawline. You feel it twitch, his shoulders tense.

Is he gonna cum? You know the signs. “Steve?” Something in your guts feels a little off. You ignore it.

“I know what you said. I heard you say it the first time.” He interrupts, tries to remain impassive, his hips slowing from your combined movements.

Like salt in the wound, a fresh slap to the face. No way.

“You heard me say that I love you?” You have to try one more time. He’s been hit in the head a lot, maybe he didn’t get it? He couldn’t have, right? Are you really this stupid, this dense?

You attempt to kiss him, to lay it all down through your actions, rather than your words this time, but your mouth doesn’t get the chance to meet him.

His lids flutter closed, he sighs, his face leaving yours, hands lifting off your body to wrap around your wrists, slowly untangling them from his neck. “Stop, alright?”

You feel your heart rate accelerate, your body tensing, your throat is choked with a teary panic, a bulldozer driving across your organs, settling atop you with its weight. Every single wall you still have built, they slowly shake off their cobwebs to rise from the dust, smothering you in the smoke. And he’s suddenly a very tight fit, to the point where you’re wincing, body immediately wanting, trying to push him out. He notices, one hand dropping to the side of your face. “Hey, hey. Hon —“ He stops himself, lets your nickname drop, falling back into your regular name.

He isn’t sure who that action hurts the most.

One look at your vacant expression and Steve feels as if he’s been sucker punched, that he’s the meanest version of himself he’s ever been.

He’s still inside of you, you let him into your body, you told him a sacred set of words. And this is what he’s doing to you? Hurting you to the point where your body starts to get frightened? But he couldn’t just come while you poured your heart out, he couldn’t continue like his world was normal anymore. He reaches down to wrap around his base, face wrinkling, teeth gritting. You’re so fucking tight that it hurts, his cock aches for you when he eases his way outward, dragging combined essences with him. “Let me just…” He starts, deep voice a rocky, rasp, finishing when his length is gone from your body, dripping with you onto his sheets, covering him.

Once he’s out, you’re already passed the point of overwhelming vulnerability. Your legs clamp closed, your hands cover your chest, unwillingly to wrap yourself in his damn sheet that smells like home to you. Steve is unsteady on his feet, halfway hard, but slowly softening at your nearly curled position. You aren’t looking at him, you won’t, you cannot. It’s not safe right now, because if you do, it’ll all come apart and it won’t stop. Steve is on overload in his own head, eyes sparkling, tears matted into his lash-line.

He has to breathe through his nose when he says it. It’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong. But he’s helpless, he can’t take this environment, he wants to run from you, from your words.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll, uhm… I can take you home if you get dressed.”

He’s blinking away blurry vision as he catches your wounded, tear fogged expression the moment that he’s snatching his boxers and jeans off the bed, and making for the bedroom door. He shuts it and leaves you to re-cloth yourself in silence. It’s honestly deafening, you’re not sure how you manage. Revealing your body to his room, to his scent, pictures on his wall, various trinkets, but not him. You’re shaking as you put on piece by piece of fabric, dreading having to see him.

Your hand hovers over the door, giving several pauses before you open it. You step out onto the deep carpet, plush across your feet, mashed against your toes. He’s nowhere in sight. And you remember that he took his clothing, so he’s probably getting re-dressed.

Fuck this. It’s in your brain on broadway lights, body in flight mode. You’re heading down the staircase and snatching your shoes up by the entryway, forgetting your purse in his room. You don’t care anymore, you have to get out of here, this place closing in on you like a funhouse. You shut the door as quietly as you can, then you’re sprinting down the Harrington’s driveway.

Is it dramatic? Yeah. Oh-fucking-well, you’re running on adrenaline so your body doesn’t feel the disgusting agony that’s slowly eating its way through your insides. You get about halfway and you hear footsteps approaching at high rates, your name being chanted. Steve is at your side in seconds, breathless.

“Shit, you scared me. Why the hell did you leave like that?”

Your eyes widen to give him an incredulous look, and that’s when the tears escape, rolling down your cheeks. Steve sees your disheveled state next. No purse, no shoes. Your blouse is halfway hanging off your shoulder. It’s an automatic instinct, his fingers brushing underneath the fabric, dragging across your skin as he pulls up to secure it.

You want to flinch away, but you don’t. Hurt settles in his brows. He’s fucking incredible with that question. “You aren’t wearing your shoes. You can’t leave my house like this.”

Autopilot flies in to protect you, leveling off everything else that you could say or do. There’s no anger, there’s no sorrow, there’s nothing. And that’s what scares him the most when you say, “I just wanna go home.”

He can’t stand it anymore, his natural urge to protect your safety, has him wrapping you in his arms. You still smell like his bed, like him, like love making left unfinished. Your arms remain clutched to your chest. No reaction.

He says it out loud, unknowing if he means it to you or just to himself. “We should’ve never started having sex.”

A mistake. You’re his mistake. Not his biggest. Not even a real regret.

Steve Harrington has only ever loved one girl. He’s only ever regretted one loss. He even cared more for Robin before he even went to you. Are you even pretty enough, or does he just like you because you’re friends and he’s horny, or searching for something? You’re not it, not even a morsel.

And it doesn’t matter what you say, what you do, how you feel. You’ll be stuck with that, while Steve clings to whatever he truly wants. Now you’ve lost what you’ve built with him, destroyed his safe place by becoming a cliche. He doesn’t deserve your one sided feelings.

The wheels are spinning in your head, but Steve still sees nothing in your responses, nor your reception. So he lifts his keys from his pocket to respect your wishes, his chest on fire with an acidic inferno, his head clouded with pain far worse than anything he’s ever experienced, his skull echoing with what his brain has just endured. You walk to his car without sparing a glance, feet still bare. He swallows and it just feels like piles of broken glass. He can do nothing but do what you asked of him.

He drives you to your house in silence. Steve Harrington has been sure of one thing in two years, and that’s always been you. But as he pulls up to your house, you’re climbing from his car before he can put it in park, your voice hauntingly, desperately hollow. “I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

And you leave him, the levee going to break once you’re through your front door, pain in between your legs to remind you the next morning before your mind does. His nose crinkles, his fingers pinching, a thin line of snot trailing out. Steve wants to say to you that it’s him who has ruined it all. That he’s so scared of those words, that he doesn’t understand how someone could love him, so he can’t let your words sink in, can’t consciously reciprocate. A coward who won’t let himself feel your declaration.

Steve Harrington’s brain, however, knows the truth.

~*~

Waking up the next morning had been a reality that neither you, nor Steve were prepared to handle. You pretty much cried yourself to sleep, whilst Steve held onto your purse and paced his floor until his feet verged on rug burn, tears blurring his vision. When he finally did lay down, his alarm went off two hours later. He woke to your scent all over his bed, still covering him, lingering even as he showered, especially in his car on the way to the store. The same car that things have happened in, and the very one that he dumped you off like trash last night, after what you’d gone through to tell him the extent of your feelings. He wasn’t functioning on a full level from the second he pulled into the parking lot.

~*~

You could still feel him, your body sore, brain picking up seconds after you opened your eyes, toes hitting the blush rug underneath your bed. Your sclera was bloodshot, burning, clouding over as you passed by pictures of you with Steve, and quite a few you’d taken of him solo, that you had on the corkboard above your desk. You’d deal with taking everything down later, unsure what you would be doing with the items. Forgoing breakfast was a given, your stomach in knots. Showering went painfully fast, leading you right into putting on your work uniform.

You barely made it three hours into your shift, headache, heartache going head to head, and your boss had noticed your discomfort, gently releasing you for the day. Only one person made everything better, but that was no longer an option. Your confession sets you free, backfiring what type of freedom you wanted to occur. It was eleven o’clock when you dock yourself into Family Video’s parking lot, relieved Steve was on his normal lunch hour. Even if you can spend time with Robin, it will help.

You can hurry, you don’t have to see his face.

Fate has other plans.

You’re helping Robin unpack some candy shipments when his car pulls in about half an hour early. She could tell you weren’t feeling your best, so that’s why she’d assumed you didn’t want a male presence around. You’re honestly shocked she hasn’t clocked Steve as the mystery man she’s known about the past two years.

“Don’t worry,” she says, upon seeing your soured, slightly fearful expression. “It’s just our doofus. He’s been in a brooding mood today, probably why he’s back early.”

A mood? So you have ruined it all.

You nod, forcing yourself to stay put, immediately gaining on deep breathing. At least you don’t shake when you begin to alphabetize the candy. You can hear her greet Steve before he even gets a word in. She snatches some kind of paper bag, that you assume he brought back for her — away, rifling through its contents as she speaks.

“Dingus, you still have that bottle of Tylenol in your car?”

Steve’s heart is in his throat, wrapping him tighter than Vecna’s hive minds did. He gives a silent yes, head trying to lean around a few shelves. Fuck. Of course that was your car out front, he wasn’t just imagining shit. He’s hopeful, anxious. What are you here for? Who?

“Good. Can you go get it, please? She doesn’t feel good and she’s been helping me all morning.”

Immediate worry doesn’t cover it. You’re here and not at work, and you’re sick? Steve snaps out of what trance he’s in, eyes pinching closed and he nods rapidly. “Shit, yeah. I’ll go get it. Here, Robs. Can you take my water to her?” He hands off his half drank bottle without question, moving back outside to get the medicine.

It’s funny, the look on your face as Robin presents you with his drink. You all share off of one another all the time. She places the food bag beside her, to which you politely decline her offer for some. Doesn’t matter if you haven’t eaten, you can’t.

“I know he has cooties, but I think we’re safe.” She shoulder bumps you, trying to get a smile. When you barely lift your mouth, she goes into her version of mom mode. It dawns on her and it comes from her mouth without tact.

“Wait, is this about that mystery guy who took your virginity? The one you’ve been seeing for two years? Holy shit, did he finally commit?”

If Robin couldn’t tell how you felt about Steve, or see anything from his part, then you guess it’s true.

There’s nothing to see.

You can feel your rib cage gape open, heart falling into your ass, strangled by your intestines.

Luckily, Steve has perfect timing, appearing right in earshot as Robin reveals information you never told him. The room feels small, you feel as if you could melt into the floor, non-existent. Would it matter? You are starting to think love controls everything, after all. You’re fucking doomed.

He lets his Nikes carry him forward, bottle of Tylenol in his massive hand. He’s starting to tremble, betrayal etched into his mouth, giving away what Robin now feels stupid for not knowing. It all clicks when your moods are matched, your mixed reactions combining.

“Oh. Oh, holy fuck. I’m…” She looks at her best-friend, who is halfway seething to near sobbing, and at you, who cannot look her in the eyes. “Shit, I should’ve known. Why didn’t I know? Fuck. I’ll give you two a minute —“

“Steve?” Your voice is tinged with something, one that has him slightly elated that you’re vocal, and even more pissed at you. He waits, his tongue caught in his throat, about to ask you, but you’re adding on. “May I have two Tylenols please?” Standing on your feet right after.

He’s like a fucking statue, on autopilot, unmoving this time. Robin rises, plucks the bottle gently, shaking out two and drops them into your hand, handing the container back to Steve, ultimately giving his water to you. She mouths an apology, but you’re smiling a tacky, forced grin that looks as if it’s pinching your lips. She’s bound to be upset you both neglected to tell her. Keeping your mouth shut should’ve been the reverse way.

“I’ll call you tonight, Robs. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Hey.” She stops you before you can step back to leave, wrapping her arms around you, maroon coated lips by your ear. “I don’t have a foot fetish, but I really should’ve kept the entirety of my own in there to avoid this.”

That gets you laughing softly, and you don’t look at Steve as you depart from her arms and for your car. He’s still frozen.

Robin does, though, stares right through him. She can see how much he’s hurting. She doesn’t want to judge either side, so she simply reaches up to rub along between his shoulder blades. “If you need to —“

“I’ll be right back.” His eyes are trained on your retreating form, handing her the pills as he follows you.

“That works too!” She points a finger in his direction, sighing. Is everyone else onto this, or is she just off her game?

~*~

You’ve just barely downed the pills, tasting Steve’s cinnamon breath spray, combined with his morning coffee all around the lid of his water. You chug it fast, your back still turned to the front door. That’s when the dumbass little bell rings, slapping back against the door, and his voice comes into play.

“You can taste my mouth on that, right?”

You remain non-verbal. This angers him to the point he steps close enough that you can smell his cologne and aftershave. His tone shatters, emotion bleeding through. “Because friends share things with one another.”

“Well, friends sure as hell don’t fuck!” It snaps free of your mouth, shocking the both of you, plastic crinkling in your hands. Your head is hurting, between your thighs is aching, and you’re positive that a piece of your chest has been carved out.

He’ll always have that, whether he wants it or not.

“They don’t lie about being a virgin, either! They don’t say that it’s been a while when they’re in pain and I’m fucking asking what’s wrong the first time that we have sex! If I would have known, then it would’ve been—”

“Wouldn’t have happened, so I didn’t build some little attachment to you, right?”

Steve visibly recoils.

“Is that really what you thought of me? That I was still that big of an asshole? Because we were already pretty attached. I did everything with you, you practically lived at my house.”

“If you didn’t have a date. Maybe it was just sex, me and you. Still doesn’t answer if you found me attractive. Probably just biased because you were my friend.” Word vomit. Too late to stop now.

Steve mulls over the meaning of were. Past tense? Does it apply to current?

His hands go onto his hips, a sidestep, and he turns back to look at you in astonishment, having to swipe aggressively at the wetness in his eyes. He doesn’t even know where to begin with everything you just said. His brain is screaming to tell you that no, he’s always found you fucking beautiful. That he would have preferred you over all of those dates, or any that he’s ever had for that matter. But he’s so confused about letting anything in, his tongue becomes tied, only able to get out one lame question. “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”

When your gaze flickers up, you see he’s snarling, but there’s tears clouding his vision. You’re a little lighter in how you speak to him, dismantling your armor. “Because I didn’t want you to think I was a loser, I didn’t want our first time to be about that, I didn’t think you would want to… I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry, Steve.”

He marvels. You really thought that? Did he not express his care for you?

“I would’ve made it better for you. Fuck, were you even okay after it happened?”

His moral compass is extraordinary nowadays, and it does make you hesitant, but you let your fingers cup his cheek. “It was the best. You were the best. I wanted it to happen with you. And it’s something that I would never take back.”

Your teeth start to chatter, your own tears forming. You want to console further, to wipe away his. But you start to let your hand slip. Steve catches it, holding your fingers in his palm, wrapping his digits around to lace. His deep voice drags along each syllable, crooked and wet with emotion. “Please let me hold you before you leave?”

And god, do you want to. You’ve never needed anything more. But if you let him… You just refuse to put yourself into that place right now. You shake your head, replacing your hand with his water bottle. His tongue pokes at his cheek, he shakes his head, attempting to argue. He closes his fist around the plastic.

“I meant what I said last night. And I realize that I ruined everything, Steve.” He can’t speak, why isn’t he able to disagree, why is it like he’s drowning, running in slow motion?

“I just don’t know if it can be repaired.” By the time you slide into your car, hand over your face, arm propped to your steering wheel, body heavy into your seat, Steve finds himself worked up to the point that he can’t bear to be around you, he can’t watch this, his figure pivoting, and he returns straight into the store, booking it to the break room.

~*~

After you’ve cried for what feels like forever, embarrassing yourself, light headed with guilt, you don’t end up driving yourself home, unable to do it in this state. You make your way to a pay phone to call Nancy. How fucking ironic. What’s worse, is that she can’t make it, you find out, as Jonathan Byers pulls up in her station wagon, letting you know that she’s sorry, but she got a call back to her job. You assure him it’s fine, grateful another friend is here, at least, joining him.

He doesn’t press you. But he knows. He’s one of them that pegged it from the start, he and Nance both.

“You okay?” Is his gruff question.

“Yeah, I just have to go home.”

He says nothing else. But what neither of you see, is Steve Harrington, as he’s just getting to the doorway, regretting his decision to not go back once he realized you didn’t leave, unable to stand you being that upset and not trying to do something (if he could) — watching the affection Jonathan Byers extends your way, and your rejection of any reluctance to accept it. His amber eyes are smoldering, his fist clenched, every muscle rigid, heart rate firing off rapid shots.

“Steve…” Robin tries, folding in beside him, seeing his dismissal of logic, his brain switching, latching onto primal panic. “You’re at work, remember? Video tapes, acne covered boss?”

But he’s throwing off his vest in response and striding towards his car, ignoring her pleas.

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suosgirl · 3 months

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Party in the USA (the dayger’s going crazy)

Word Count: 15k+

୨ৎ Read me before interacting!

୨ৎ Characters: Hayato Suo, Haruka Sakura, Hajime Umemiya, Kotoha Tachibana, Jo Togame, Ren Kaji, Mitsuki Kiryu, Akihiko Nirei, Choji Tomiyama, Toma Hiragi, Kyotaro Sugishita, Taiga Tsugeura

୨ৎ Warnings: mdni, gn!reader, alcohol (lots of it), alcohol consumption, weed, weed consumption, cigarettes, ooc (most definitely), shitposting, for fun! – if I’ve missed one, I apologize + please let me know!

୨ৎ Note: I feel very well qualified to write about this. I have hands-on experience and feel strongly about this topic. Please feel free to send me an ask regarding any of my references (I have attended many, many daygers.) This is actually so americancore and niche of me – sorry (not sorry). Also! Don’t be fooled, I hate America!

Hajime Umemiya | “Hey! Hi! Are ya hungry?”

The first face you see when you walk in, all in his shirtless glory

An absolute king at grilling – he’s got burgers, hotdogs, skewers, the works

The lettuce and tomatoes? Yeah, he grew them

Will take every chance he has to tell everyone too

Be careful though – for as much as he’s hot, he’s also a yapper

Being behind the grill unlocks a side of him that not many know – his dad side

“There’s a lot at steak… it’s un-grill-ievable!”

Buzzed & responsible – doesn’t let himself get too lit when he’s grilling

But once everyone’s had their fill and he’s got some downtime? Oh he’s inviting everyone to shotgun a beer with him

Can slam down a can in like 3 seconds no joke

Then, he’ll turn to you with stars in his eyes waiting for your words of praise and acknowledgement (how do you tell him that he did it so fast that you didn't see it?)

Toma Hiragi | “Whaddya drinkin’?”

You’re telling me you WOULDN'T trust this man to get the best liquor for the party?

Gonna go out on a limb here and say that he leans toward either Hennessy or Casamigos

Throws back his shots like a fucking champ – no chase needed (he likes the burn of it)

Definitely a heavy weight, so he’s got at least 2 of whatever he’s drinking just in case

Also doesn’t drink chase because of his stomach, so you know – go big or go home

Never lets you pour your own shots (chivalry isn’t dead, everyone)

And … if you ask him nicely … he’ll birdfeed it to you

Ren Kaji | “Chase is over there – you need help getting it?”

With how much candy he has to inhale on a daily basis, it just makes sense that he would be getting the soda, juice, or whatever pairing he thinks goes well with the corresponding liquor

And he definitely went with Hiragi to pick everything up (so cute)

Also in charge of the playlist for the day (I know his music taste is impeccable)

If you tell him this, though, he’d try to be so nonchalant about it (inside his heart is doing little pitter patters)

I feel like he has little shit tendencies and once everyone is feeling good he’ll see how many times he can queue Party In The USA until someone notices (wears his headphone tho bc ofc he would get annoyed)

Akihiko Nirei | “I made it! It’s really good – want a sip?”

JUNGLE! JUICE! PRO!

I just know he’s got the most insane recipe in his notebook (he’s got the exact measurements and brand names too)

Based on countless interviews, many trial runs, and many hangovers – he’s perfected it to a T

Literally one cup has everyone on a good one – and he’s somehow got it to not taste like alcohol at all?

So proud of it too – if you tell him how good it is he’s got hearts in his eyes and he’s offering to get you another cup (with your consent of course)

Haruka Sakura | “I just grabbed the first one I saw … is it good? Do you like it?”

He’s new to this you know, so he’s keeping it cute and simple and easy

Besides, you can never go wrong with a pack of seltzers

He’s so cute and flustered about it too –

Like imagine him standing in front of the fridges just looking at all of them and getting slowly overwhelmed by all the different types and seeing that they all have different alc % and it’s getting so confusing

He just grabs one that looks decently good or has a name that seems kinda familiar to him and he storms off

And it’s literally like Twisted Tea or White Claws or something

But, as I said, you can never go wrong with a nice basic seltzer

Compliment his choice (even if you know it was made on a whim) and he’ll blush (he blames it on the summer heat)

Hayato Suo | “Do you want me to get your back?”

Sweet, thoughtful king

Brings sunblock and aloe vera gel because he just knows that everyone else will forget the basic necessities

If you need help getting your back, he’s more than happy to offer his services

Also – who would he be if he didn’t bring green tea shots (it’s a given)

He actually created them not many people know that

It’s always the perfect ratio too – never too strong and never too weak (the perfect balance)

Anyways, also a heavyweight (potentially) but gets just a bit touchy when he’s buzzed

So when he offers to reapply sunblock on you despite having done it less than 30 minutes ago, who are you to say no?

Kyotaro Sugishita | “I need a partner … You any good?”

This man absolutely demolishes at beer pong

Never leaves the table actually (and stays undefeated the whole dayger)

He’s so tall like he’s got built-in stats for it already

If Umemiya takes a break from grilling and comes to join him? Oh they’re absolutely wiping everyone

If beer pong was an Olympic sport, Sugashita would’ve already been scouted

Because he’s so good, he doesn’t even need a partner that’s at the same level as him – he just needs a partner

But – to him, making at least one cup is better than nothing, and if you’re able to do just that? Oh, you’re never leaving his side

Mitsuki Kiryu | “You want a hit, cutie?”

It’s actually canon that Kiryu smokes like I just know it in my heart and soul

Loves to make different blends too, some with rose petals and some with lavender

His blunts are so pretty too, and he’ll use pink wrapping papers

Also has a small bong just in case anyone wants it in that form — and also edibles

And also cigs

He has money, why wouldn’t he show out?

His lighters all have decoden on them too, and they all have his name spelled on it (he was tired of people stealing them)

Also incredibly respectful – brings his own ashtray that he disposes of on his own

I feel like he transitions a lot of people into smoking for the first time (if they’re interested, of course! Would never peer pressure.)

But …. Oh boy… the way that he would gently tilt your head back to blow a hit into your mouth

Kotoha Tachibanau | “I’m gonna get you so wet!”

Give this girl a break she deserves to have fun!

Stays in the pool most of the time, but also loves to soak up the sun so she’s got her own self-care agenda for the day

Loves water guns! Brings like 2 or 3 of them

Also probably brings a book to enjoy by the pool when she’s tanning

Definitely the type to get the ice water from the coolers and spray anyone who tries to come within 5 feet of her

If she feels silly (and buzzed) she’ll pour jungle juice into them and shoot them into people’s mouths

Takes this time to truly relax and unwind (we love a work-life balance!) – and loves doing it beside you

Taiga Tsugeura | “Don’t forget to drink water!”

Absolutely brings cases of water and liquid IV

He’s all for partying, don’t get him wrong, but he’s also got to hit the gym tomorrow so

Makes sure that everyone’s got a bottle of water on them – his virtue is caring too much

Also decently good at beer pong, but his downfall is that he throws the ball too hard and ends up hitting people like 10 feet away from him in the head

Also strikes me as unhinged, so – if you’re cool with getting pulled into the pool, then he’s definitely your guy

Definitely does flips while diving into the pool to try and impress you (it works)

Jo Togame | “Need some help with that?”

What Sakura may lack in seltzers, Togame makes up in beer

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s a good brand of beer

Also clocked in my mind as a heavyweight, so if he’s up to drink, he’s bringing many many cases

Has a bottle opener that has sentimental value to him – probably one that Choji got for him

Can also pop it open with his teeth (but no one ever lets him because it’s bad)

("Sure, okay, whatever squares" — he listens.)

If he sees you struggling to pop the cap off, he’s already grabbing it from your hand and doing it for you – no questions asked

(Ask him while he’s buzzed, and he’ll do it with his teeth, all while staring into your eyes)

Choji Tomiyama | “Let’s take a shot!”

The first thing he does is do a cannonball in the pool (this is so canon)

If you’re a soju lover – he’s got it!

Brings all the flavors too, but is most partial to yogurt-flavored soju

Is flitting all over the party talking to everyone and anyone

(Tries his hand at beer pong – going to go out on a limb here and say that he sucks)

However! He is a heavyweight!

Can hold his own with Umemiya and Togame for sure

Is definitely the one gathering everyone together to take some shots

Will probably ask Kaji to play Shots by LMFAO and Lil Jon every single time (after the first time, Kaji starts ignoring him)

If you’re open to shots, is absolutely pulling you by your arm to take yet another one

#im sorry #melody writes (& never stops)#wind breaker x reader #windbreaker x reader #hajime umemiya x reader #jo togame x reader #choji tomiyama x reader #taiga tsugeura x reader #kotoha tachibana x reader #mitsuki kiryu x reader #kyotaro sugishita x reader #hayato suo x reader #haruka sakura x reader #akihiko nirei x reader #ren kaji x reader #toma hiragi x reader

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a-clown-with-wings · 4 months

Text

🍉🍉🍉 VERY IMPORTANT!!! 🍉🍉🍉

I know that I usually post about silly robots and my OCs, but for once, this isn't a silly fun post about my hobbies.

Palestine and Gaza are still very much under attack, and their people need our help in order to survive the malicious and hate filled violence that's claiming lives every day. It hurts to know that literal children are being torn apart and being separated from their parents, their homes for nothing. There is no reason for any of this to be happening, but since it still is, it's never too late to take action and help out. Whether it's donating to Palestinian charities to help with removing them from the hostilities being forced on their homes, or if you simply repost this post, you are helping with spreading a message and are bring us one step closer to helping these people and free them from this one sided war. It's not over until they are safe.

For those with money to spare, here are some charities to donate to in order to help out:

Every penny counts, so don't dwell on only donating so much. One dollar is better than nothing.

Slight relation: Companies that support Israel.

(I get that it's impossible to boycott everything, but even reducing the amount of money you give to these companies is spreading a message.)

KFC

McDonald’s

Starbucks

Pizza Hut

Dominos

Kit Kat

Burger King

Häagen-Daz

Costa Coffee

Aroma

Subway

Nestle

Walmart

Hardee

Mars

Pepsi

Coca Cola

Minute Maid

Fanta

Carnation

Smarties

Nerds

Laffy Taffy

SweeTarts

Alpo

Lipton

Tropicana

Dasani

Perrier

Sprite,

Twix

Nike

Addidas

Puma

L’Oréal

Estée Lauder

American Eagle

The Body Shop

Tommy Hilfiger

Lancôme

Ralph Lauren

Johnson and Johnson

Chanel

Kyle Cosmetics

Garnier

Olay

Clinique

Urban Decay

Neutrogena

LifeBuoy

Wix

Motorola

Nido

Giorgio Armani

Victoria Secret

Maybelline

NYX

Revlon

Siemens

Skims

Goop

Marks & Spencer

Smartwater

Aveda

Tom Ford

Covergirl

Nesquik

Papa Johns

MAC

The Ordinary

Disney

Bobbi Brown

Honest

Sabra

Nokia

Nido

Walls

Tom Ford Beauty

Summer Fridays

Soda Stream

Ahava

Keter

Strauss

Danone

Tivall

AXA

Teva Pharmaceuticals

Airbnb

TripAdviser

Again, our society relies on most of these companies, so I'm not expecting you to just live off of air and hopes, but consider your favorite brands you like to shop from and think to yourself if it's worth the harm they are causing. Remember, at the end of the day, they only care about your money, not you.

#free palestine #free gaza #palestine #israel #help palestine #putting this under my main tags to spread the word #mxiize #fnaf #fnaf security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #dca community #sun fnaf #fnaf dca #digital aritst #donations #donate if you can #please donate #spread the word

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animusrox · 2 years

Photo

LETTERBOXD

1. The Batman 2. Everything Everywhere All at Once 3. Prey 4. Triangle of Sadness 5. Barbarian 6. The Northman 7. Bodies Bodies Bodies 8. The Banshees of Inisherin 9. Bones and All 10. Avatar: The Way of Water

Grade A

11. Turning Red 12. The Menu 13. Babylon 14. Hit the Road 15. Cow 16. Watcher 17. Funny Pages 18. Mad God 19. On the Count of Three 20. Armageddon Time 21. Terrifier 2 22. Marcel the Shell with Shoes On 23. Smile 24. Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery 25. Holy Spider 26. Aftersun 27. The Fabelmans 28. Breaking 29. Decision to Leave 30. The Whale 31. All Quiet on the Western Front 32. Brian and Charles 33. Piggy 34. Saint Omer 35. Thirteen Lives 36. Men 37. The Fallout 38. Resurrection 39. Causeway 40. The Black Phone 41. Official Competition 42. Nope 43. Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio 44. Apollo 10½: A Space Age Childhood 45. Till 46. TÁR 47. Happening 48. A Love Song 49. The Outfit 50. The Innocents 51. Jackass Forever 52. BARDO, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths 53. Montana Story 54. Three Thousand Years of Longing 55. You Won’t Be Alone 56. The Sadness 57. Halloween Ends 58. Pearl 59. X 60. Vesper

Click "Keep Reading” For My Full List

Grade B

61. This Place Rules 62. Fresh 63. Windfall 64. Kimi 65. No Exit 66. Top Gun: Maverick 67. “Sr.” 68. Farha 69. The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent 70. Weird: The Al Yankovic Story 71. Nitram 72. Speak No Evil 73. Run Sweetheart Run 74. She Said 75. White Noise 76. Puss in Boots: The Last Wish 77. V/H/S/99 78. The Wonder 79. Women Talking 80. Hatching 81. Soft & Quiet 82. Scream 83. To Leslie 84. Hustle 85. Chip ’n Dale: Rescue Rangers 86. Dual 87. God’s Country 88. Emancipation 89. Vengeance 90. Fire of Love 91. Bullet Train 92. Incantation 93. The Valet 94. Hellraiser 95. Christmas Bloody Christmas 96. Significant Other 97. Cha Cha Real Smooth 98. Lucy and Desi 99. Not Okay 100. A Christmas Story Christmas 101. Blonde 102. Deadstream 103. Sissy

Grade C

104. The Bad Guys 105. The Cursed 106. Empire of Light 107. A Man Called Otto 108. Broker 109. Black Panther: Wakanda Forever 110. The Princess 111. Beast 112. After Yang 113. RRR 114. Fall 115. Jackass 4.5 116. Beavis and Butt-Head Do the Universe 117. Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness 118. Jennifer Lopez: Halftime 119. Lightyear 120. The Pale Blue Eye 121. The Woman King 122. Violent Night 123. God’s Creatures 124. Ambulance 125. Elvis 126. You Are Not My Mother 127. Emily the Criminal 128. Crimes of the Future 129. The Apology 130. The Lost City 131. Wendell & Wild 132. Trainwreck: Woodstock ’99 133. The Found Footage Phenomenon 134. See How They Run 135. Spiderhead 136. Studio 666 137. Bros 138. Spin Me Round 139. We’re All Going to the World’s Fair 140. Paws of Fury: The Legend of Hank 141. Honor Society

Grade D

142. Thor: Love and Thunder 143. Summering 144. Strange World 145. Glorious 146. The Gray Man 147. Devotion 148. Clerks III 149. The Forgiven 150. Enola Holmes 2 151. Father Stu 152. Jurassic World Dominion 153. DC League of Super-Pets 154. She Will 155. The Bob’s Burgers Movie 156. Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody 157. Hellbender 158. Samaritan 159. Day Shift 160. Sonic the Hedgehog 2 161. Prey for the Devil 162. Troll 163. Uncharted 164. Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile 165. Dashcam 166. Firestarter 167. Do Revenge 168. Catwoman: Hunted 169. The Munsters 170. Amsterdam 171. Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore

Grade F

172. Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris 173. The Bubble 174. Dead for a Dollar 175. Jerry & Marge Go Large 176. Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. 177. Infinite Storm 178. Marry Me 179. Don’t Worry Darling 180. Spirited 181. Disney's Pinocchio 182. Alice 183. Black Adam 184. Orphan: First Kill 185. The Adam Project 186. The Invitation 187. Texas Chainsaw Massacre 188. Ticket to Paradise 189. The 355 190. Umma

Bottom 10

191. Green Lantern: Beware My Power 192. Deep Water 193. Where the Crawdads Sing 194. Blacklight 195. Mack & Rita 196. Memory 197. Me Time 198. Death on the Nile 199. Morbius 200. Moonfall

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codfanficedits · 1 year

Text

The Silent Treatment.

Pairing:

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader.

Wordcount: 3695| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Arguing, cussing, swearing, mommy issues, communication, mention of a finger in an ass, angst with no comfort.

A/N: No alternative endings for this one, life's a bitch and if I have to suffer so have you <3 also maybe thinking about taking request, idk.

There were three rules in your relationship with Simon.

One – NEVER eat leftovers that aren’t yours.

Two – Bending over is NOT an invitation to poke someone’s ass.

Three – Never go to a mission while still in an argument.

Rule number one was an easy one. You’d gotten fed up with him eating your leftovers. You’d spent the whole day dreaming about the leftover pasta carbonara only to be met with an empty plate when you came home. An innocent look on his face when you scolded him. “I was hungry.” He pouted. “If your name isn’t on it, it isn’t yours!” You scolded him.

Simon would just put a post it with his name on your leftovers. A cocky grin on his face whenever you called him out on it. “Whaddya mean lovie? It clearly says my name.” In the beginning you wanted to wipe that cocky grin of his face, but over time you found yourself cooking a little extra, just so there would always be a portion of leftovers for Simon. In return you would just keep the good leftovers in an old, empty tub of butter. Your little secret and he didn’t need to know.

Rule number two was brought to life when Simon was finally fed up with you trying to poke his ass every goddamn time he bended over.

“It’s off limits!”

“But that’s not fair.” You protest. “My ass is not off limits for you.”

“You like it.”

“You won’t know it if you won’t try it.”

“You are out of your goddamn mind.”

“Just once.” And with those words you take a step closer, holding out your pointer finger.

“I swear to God, one more step and I’ll put you up for sale on Facebook Marketplace.”

A loud exaggerated gasp leaves you while you lower your hand. “You would never!”

“Correct.” A twinkle in his brown eyes. “I would have to pay people to even be interested in picking you up.”

“Simon!”

You’re met with two arms around you and a million soft kisses on your cheek, forehead, neck. “I would never do such a thing.” He mutters into your ear. “I like my money too much.”

It became a little inside joke. Every now and then he would take the most unflattering picture of you, his favourite was the one where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, your mouth open, snoring while a little bit of drool was on the side of your face. Simon would proudly show you the picture.

“This is the one I would put up with that Facebook Market place ad.” He would grin.

“Please do. Maybe some rich prince will pick me up.”

“Yeah if you count someone with a Burger King crown a prince.”

In return, when the two of you were watching tv, you’d point at some of the rich women you’d see on there.

“That would be me when some rich man responds to the ad you made about me.”

“Be sure to send me some allowance every now and then.”

“As if!” You scoff. “I’d be too busy being rich and pretty to think about sending you a tenner every month.”

It would always be met with a low, grumble, mixed in with a laugh. “You’re already pretty, lovie, pretty sure you can miss a tenner too already.”

But he would always, always pull you close to him and press a kiss onto your hair, and you were pretty sure you could hear him mutter the word “mine”.

Rule number three came to life after the first time the two of you had a big argument. While the two of you could communicate perfectly fine most of the time, every now and then it would escalate. He had a temper, you were so fucking stubborn and sometimes it just had to clash.

And this was the first time. The two of you had just moved in together, and with that came a lot of irritations. Both of you were used to living alone. You didn’t have to worry about people nagging you about your dirty sock scattered around the floor. Simon was used to putting his socks directly into the hamper when he took them off. In return, he could make the kitchen explode while cooking and was perfectly fine with leaving it like that for the night, your fingers would itch whenever the kitchen wasn’t spotless after dinner. But this was new for the both of you, and all of the sudden the two of you weren’t just soldiers, but two people, madly in love but both trying to be right on an argument that only needed compromises.

And it felt as if the world was coming to an end at the kitchen table, while the two of you were arguing and crying, eating of the last, sweet bite of your relationship.

Unfortunately a mission doesn’t stop for a little argument, so the argument had to be cut short. You’d be sent away for no longer than two weeks, and leaving tore your heart out, leaving it behind on the shoe rack for him to look at while you were away. You didn’t even know if you would be single or not when you would come back.

Inside your shared house, Simon would be sitting on the floor, gaze fixed on the door through which you left, hoping you’d come back through that door, tell him you love him, and that you would clean up your socks.

But you didn’t.

Instead he received the news that the communication was cut off between your squad and base. An unforeseen enemy ambush that no one had seen coming. And your socks on the floor no longer mattered to Simon, he promised himself he would never, ever complain about the socks scattered on the bathroom floor if that meant you would come home safe. Simon had never been a religious man, but he would find himself praying at your empty side of your bed every night he was home, begging all the Gods above that you would come home to him.

And you did.

He had been waiting for you the moment he got the news you and your squad had been found. Nervously pacing around, while he was Ghost out on the field, for you he was just Simon, and right now Simon needed you more than ever before. You had been gone for nearly a month now, and he could no longer care about your socks, or the way you would kick out your shoes. All he could care about was you, and having you.

You on the other hand, had no idea what you would come home to. Maybe he had left, maybe you would come home to an empty house with a lover long moved on. But that wasn’t the case, you were greeted by a large man, his hands instantly cupping your face, lips all over your cheeks, nose, lips, eyes, forehead as if his lips were trying to imprint your face in his mind.

After that, the two of you decided to never, ever leave on a mission again while still mad and that rule needed a little tweaking.

By the next big argument, months later, the both of you stayed up all night, trying to talk out the argument. The lack of sleep only fuelling the anger on both sides. It made you both irrational and unable to think in solutions. Eventually the both of you fell asleep, Simon sitting at the kitchen table, you had made your way to the couch, holding on to his hoodie out of spite. The next morning the two of you could in fact talk it out, without the crying, without raising your voice, without the cussing.

So eventually rule number three became really simple. Don’t go on a mission while you’re still in an argument. No matter the subject, no matter how angry one of you was. If someone had to leave for a mission, the argument was put on hold, almost always accompanied by some soft words.

“I’m still mad, but I love you, and we’ll find a solution when you’re back”

“You’re still a pain in my ass, but I love you, and we will work this out.”

“When you’re back, we will talk about it, but for now, all you need to know is that I love you.”

A kiss always followed afterwards, usually on a lips, a single time on the forehead.

Today the two of you were about to break rule three. The past few months had been hectic, to say the least. A lot of missions, birthdays, other obligations. Not enough sleep, not enough intimacy, not enough time for each other. It had placed a ticking bomb under your relationship with Simon. An argument waiting to happen. The little things that would usually just make you shake your head and go on with your day, suddenly became a big deal. The way he would leave the kitchen, the way he would drape his shirts over the armrest over the couch. How he would leave his razor in the shower, always next to your shampoo. Speaking of it, you were certain he was using your shampoo, despite you asking him not to. Multiple times and he never fucking listens.

On the other hand, Simon was getting annoyed by you more and more, the way you would leave your socks on the bathroom floor, how you would leave a door open if you had been in that room. And you always left the fucking light on in the bathroom, no matter how often he would tell you to be mindful of it.

So there you were, walking into your kitchen after he had come home after a long, tiring mission. You had just come home from a day full of meetings and preparations for your upcoming mission.

Your whole kitchen a goddamn mess, who the fucks needs two pans, a cutting board, three plates and a fork, a knife AND a spoon for a portion of scrambled eggs anyway? But you try to let it go, you try counting to ten, you try to ignore the eggshells on the stove, the ketchup on the counter, you try to ignore it all.

Then he barges in, a pair of your socks in his hands, while he looks you in the eyes, using his foot to open the bin, tossing your socks in there.

“What the fuck is that for?”

“I’m sick and tired of finding your fucking socks everywhere.”

“Oh so you can throw away my socks, but throwing out eggshells while you’re cooking is too much to fucking ask?”

“I was going to do it after my nap.”

“Sure you were.” An eyeroll from you followed.

“Don’t give me that fucking attitude lovie.”

“Attitude?” You narrow your eyes.

“Attitude. All I want is some fucking peace and quiet and all you’re doing is fucking nagging.”

“I wouldn’t have to nag if you would just clean this fucking kitchen! Other people want to live and cook here too.”

You can see him press his lips together, a sign that the temper in him is rising, but you don’t care, you can feel your own anger building up and it needs to get out.

“Well, other people would like to go to the fucking bathroom without having to cross a fucking path of dirty, filthy fucking socks!”

“They’re just fucking socks, what is your big fucking deal?”

“My big fucking deal is that little miss perfect over here is nagging like a fucking bitch, while I’m following her around cleaning up her fucking socks, closing fucking doors behind her fucking ass. You can’t even turn of the fucking light after you’ve been in a room and you’re whining about the fucking kitchen!” His voice is raising with every word that comes out of his mouth.

But you were raised by a woman couldn’t love herself, so you don’t back down, instead you get in his face, your tone and volume matching his. “Because this kitchen is fucking disgusting Simon! How the fuck could the army recruit someone so fucking filthy?” Bringing in his career was a low blow. “How fucking hard is it to clean the goddamn ketchup if you spill it?”

His hands form two fists, clenched while they hang beside his body.

“Do not.” His voice is a hiss. “Bring my fucking work into this.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Whatever you fucking say Simon.” You turn around as you spit out your words.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Out of this fucking swinery of a kitchen.”

“We’re not done talking.”

“What else is there to fucking say? You’re a fucking pig and I am the problem apparently.” Another turn to face him again.

“You know, when you act like this, you’re just your mother.”

Oh, your mother. The woman who was your first friend and your first enemy. The woman who had taught you that your worth was what men thought of you, while slut shaming you in the same sentence. The woman who never loved you how you needed her to. The day she called you ugly wasn’t the day you stopped loving her, but the day you stopped loving yourself, and you had told him. You had cried in his arms about your fucked up relationship with your mother, you had cried about what you had wanted her to be, but what she never could be for you.

“If I’m my mother, then you’re your fat-“ He cuts you off.

“Don’t fucking go there.”

“Why not? You can compare me to my fucking mother. My MOTHER out of all people!” It’s your turn to raise your voice at him.

“It’s different.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite Simon.”

“I’m the hypocrite? I can’t even come home without you nagging on my fucking ass about this fucking kitchen while you leave a trail of your fucking mess throughout the whole fucking house.”

“Oh well, I’m sorry for not wanting fucking eggshells on my stove, or your fucking shirts all over the couch. Or your FUCKING razor next to MY fucking shampoo!”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Oh don’t fucking act all innocent now, Simon. I’ve told you plenty of times to keep your hands of my fucking shampoo. That shit is fucking expensive.”

“So I don’t deserve nice, expensive things?”

His comment makes your blood boil. “Stop trying to be the fucking victim.”

“The fucking victim? I can’t even use some nice smelling shampoo in my own fucking house without it being used against me.”

“Oh my God! You could’ve bought your own fucking shampoo. But noo, you always have to take my fucking things. Not even my fucking leftovers are safe from you!”

“Are you still upset because I ate some leftovers?”

“Yes!”

“You’re a fucking child.”

“You’re a fucking leech.”

“A leech?” His fists turning white at your comment.

“A fucking leech. Feeding off others like a fucking parasite.”

“It would be a very good idea if you learned how to shut up, lovie.” The last word didn’t even sound as a pet name anymore.

“Oh I’ll fucking shut up.”

“Finally some fucking peace around here.”

You press your lips together, not making another sound. If he wants some fucking peace he can get it. You turn around to leave the kitchen.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Without looking at him you point at the whiteboard, the date of the mission you had to go on today circled with a red marker.

“Be sure to pack some extra socks so you can litter the fucking battlefield.” He shouts at you as you walk off to pack your bag.

Never break rule number three.

You’re angry when you pack your bag, stomping around, making sure he hears how pissed off he has made you. You even want to take your stupid fucking shampoo with you, but you decide against it, it would be too much of a hassle.

You go downstairs again with your packed bag, and the two of you make eye contact. But neither of you says a thing. Neither of you say the words you had promised each other to always say before a mission.

You turn around while his eyes look back at the tv again, and you make sure to slam the door a little too hard while you leave on your mission.

Turns out all Simon needed was a good nap, some food, a shower and some more sleep. When he wakes up from his little nap and the sky outside is already dark, he realises how much he misses you, how he didn’t tell you he loved you when you went away. He lets out a sigh when he gets to the bathroom, your socks still on the floor, and with a small huff he bends over to pick them up, his hand automatically covering his ass, a force of habit to make sure you don’t poke him while he is bending over. A soft sigh leaving his lips when he realises you’re not there.

For the first time since the two of you got together, your side of the bed felt extra cold, extra empty, and he found himself on his knees again, praying to the heavens you would be home quick, so he could tell you he loved you, and so the two of you could have an actual conversation about the things that had been bothering the two of you.

Simon lets out a soft groan when he sees the kitchen, you had been right, it looked like an active warzone in there. Maybe he should learn to clean up the kitchen after cooking. He’s a grown man for fuck sake.

He rolls up his sleeves, puts on some music and it’s time to clean that goddamned kitchen. And while he is cleaning his thoughts wandered to you, how hurt you looked when he compared you to your mother, and a jolt of guilt shoots through him. It had been unfair to compare you to your mother. You were nothing like her, and when you would be back he would make sure to tell you that.

He's sweaty and Simon isn’t sure how it happened, but he got eggshells in his hair, but the kitchen is clean, and he intends to keep it that way. With a light spring in his step he makes his way to the shower. He automatically reaches for your shampoo, he just loves how your hair smells when you’re laying on his chest, or when he is your weighed blanket and his face is buried in the crook of your neck. Washing his hair with your shampoo reminds him of you during the day. Simon unscrews the cap, bringing the bottle to his nose and he closes his eyes, the steam and the scent of your shampoo give him the illusion that you’re with him again, and when he opens his eyes he feels empty when you’re not there.

He promises himself to tell you he loves you when you’re finally back.

When he lays in bed at night, and you’re not there to hold, he feels lonely, for the first time since forever, you had always feel like home, and now his home was gone. Simon keeps reaching out for you, only to be met by the cold feeling of your empty pillow. The scrolls past the pictures he has from you, the ones he had always threatened to put in a Facebook marketplace ad, and they bring a smile to his face. He remembers the first time he gave you the playful threat and how he had to make sure to smother you in kisses in case you were angry at him. But you weren’t, you had always been a saint and today he had let his anger take control.

He promises himself to tell you he loves you when you’re finally back.

But when you finally return and he gets the chance to tell you that he loves you, the words get stuck in his throat. Rule number three had been broken and he wasn’t sure how to continue from there. Eventually he finds the courage to speak to you again.

“I love you.” The words are simple, yet raw. But you’re not done being silent, after all, he wished for some peace and now he was getting it.

And so the minutes pass, the hours pass, the days pass, but your silent treatment doesn’t end, you’re a stubborn one, and he knows it.

But he has to speak to you, it is the least he could do, but it’s hard to speak to you when he knows you won’t say a thing back.

“I should’ve hugged you tighter the last time I saw you. I just miss you, in a quite simple, desperate, human way.” The words are raw again, as if they are ripped from the very core of his human being. Again there is no answer from you, and it rips his heart out. He just wishes the last thing you said to him were words of love, not words out of anger.

And now he is sitting next to you, a blanket around the both of you, while he finds the courage to speak to you. Simon’s gaze shifts from the flowers in front of him, to the stars in the sky.

“The stars will go out before I forget you.” His voice is soft, a whisper, the words are meant just for you.

He sighs when you stay silent, oh what he would give to hear your voice once again.

“You know, this is not how I had imagined life, lovie. I want to stay on the back porch, while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me back to bed.” His voice breaks in the middle of his sentence.

Simon rests his head against your tombstone. “This silent treatment has been going on for long enough, don’t you think, lovie?”

583 notes · View notes

haikyu-mp4 · 28 days

Text

Shark week

word count; 505 – f!reader on her period

“Who are you texting, Hoshi?” Romero asked, patting the short spiker on the back and making him look up from his phone, frown barely softening.

“Y/n is on her shark week, asked me to get some stuff on the way home,” Hoshiumi mumbled, sending off an ofc<3 before putting his phone in his locker and following the team out.

“Shark week? Do you mean her period?” Ushijima asked for clarification, and the way Hoshiumi’s pale face reddened was embarrassing, to say the least.

“Do you even know what to get her?” Hirugami asked, clearly teasing him with that tone.

Hoshiumi’s nose scrunched and he was about to start barking out a response when he was interrupted. Sometimes he felt like all these tall players forgot he was even there, and it annoyed him to no end.

“You should get chocolate. And ice cream, her favourite kind if you know it,” Kageyama said, looking weirdly proud of his knowledge. ‘If you know it’, obviously he knows it!

“Of course-”

“It’s not embarrassing to say period. You should not be ashamed about the natural cycle of a woman’s body.” Ushijima continued his earlier thought.

“I know that, she-”

“Some women are more into food on their period, like a proper full meal. My wife is that way, at least,” Romero added, only fuelling the fire because Hoshiumi knows what you like.

“You should probably ask her if she wants anything else.”

“And don’t get confused about the wings.”

Now Hoshiumi was definitely red, but it was more along the lines of hot-headed. “I know how to take care of my girlfriend!” he snapped before stomping off to start jogging around the court for warmup.

The audacity of these men acting like he doesn’t know you.

Hoshiumi kicked the door shut behind him, a plastic bag in one hand, a reusable tote bag in the other and his training bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m here, baby!”

He found you curled up under your duvet, and he knew there was a heating bad under there somewhere too. “Can you come cuddle, please? The sharks are killing me.”

First, he went to refill your water bottle with cold water and put it on your nightstand, always encouraging you to drink more when you felt ill. Then he put the ice cream away and prepared a little bowl with the rest of the snacks he got.

He also put the snacks on the nightstand before crawling under the duvet and curling around your back, face nuzzling into your neck and leaving little kisses. His hands found the heating pad, holding it against your stomach so your hands were free to grab any snacks you wanted.

“Let’s get Burger King later, yeah?” he mumbled. Because of course he knew you hate asking for it and would rather have him encourage a cheat day.

“Yes!”

And the relief in your voice was more than enough to prove that being your boyfriend is the one thing he would always do best.

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redtsundere-writes · 7 months

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Jinx | Sukuna Ryomen

mma fighter!sukuna ryomen x femalecoach!reader

Part 5. New & Old

Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

Sypnosis: Sukuna is a world champion with anger issues. It's believed by many that he is untrainable. Yeah, you can't train him, but you can dominate him. Contents: Fighting. Sukuna being Sukuna. female reader being dom. Jinx AU (the BL, not the character from lol) Warnings: Mentions and sexual harassment. Angst. Humiliation. Cursed words. Word Count: 2743 words. A/N: Hello peeps! Another day, another slay. I really enjoy writing this fic and I am really happy that you seem to like it as well. Thanks! :3 Ps. Fuck me you Joo Jaekyung

“Cheers!” We exclaimed as we clinked our beers.

We had finally returned home after a great victory in Dubai. The bar was full, the food kept coming to our long table and the mugs seemed bottomless. The entire Team Black was gathered to celebrate the crushing victory of our terrifying champion. The air was filled with laughter, pleasant chatter and popular music. Sukuna was at the head of the table, watching everyone like the king he is while wisely drinking water.

“C’mon, drink one with your coach!” I asked with a goofy smile due to the effects of alcohol. I had two mugs already, and it was starting to show.

“No. Do you know how many calories that have?” He rejected me completely.

There were few things I knew about him in the short time I have been his coach. Sukuna was grumpy, foul-mouthed and a jerk in every definition of the word, but his strongest characteristic is that he is ridiculously disciplined. He was a fucking ninja with incredible mental strength. He invited the whole team to eat burgers, wings, nachos and drown themselves in beer, while he just drank plain water and ate a veggie burrito. Sukuna was a great athlete, but he needed to learn how to relax once in a while.

“That only means that I have to maintain my title. I can't lose focus now,” he answered without paying me much attention. He surely noticed my drunkenness.

“That’s why you are always so cranky, you are always thinking of fighting and being a champion. It’s okay to enjoy life once in a while,” I tried again.

“You enjoyed too much and look where you are,” he exposed me, pounding his glass against the table to emphasize his point.

My body moved away from him at the loud bang. Everyone turned to look at us to see what it was all about, but when they saw that it was just another Sukuna tantrum, they went back to their own thing. My hand went straight to my neck. I avoided his gaze and resigned myself to continue drinking.

“You say it like it’s something bad,” I mumbled before taking a shy sip. “I refuse to become a coach,” Sukuna spat angrily.

“You couldn’t become one even if you tried.” Someone behind me defended me out of the blue.

I turned around, and my cheeks burned instantly. It was Choso. He's standing there like a guardian angel with a dark aura ready to defend me from a mean demon. He gave me a mischievous compliance smile that I couldn't help but mimic.

“It’s good to see you, bro! Sit down,” Yuuji, who was seated next to me, offered him his seat.

“Who the fuck invited you?” Sukuna frowned.

“Yuuji. He said he wanted to introduce me to someone,” Choso answered without looking away from me as he sat down.

"This guy always knows how to surprise me," I thought as I scanned him from head to toe. Seeing him up close was like paying attention to a piece of contemporary art, simple yet complicated at the same time. His long hair was down and neatly combed, his unruly curtain bangs fell perfectly to the sides of his eyes, framing them perfectly. You could tell he was Sukuna's brother by his sharp features and outlined eyebrows. I could imagine him frowning without needing to experience it.

“He is all yours. I’m drinking with Megumi,” Yuuji said, after introducing me to his brother for a second time. He went to the other side of the table to drink with his buddy, who was drinking alone.

He gave me a discreet wink that I could only see. That's when I realized what he had done. This was the "date" he had arranged for us as a favor. I hadn't been on a date in years, so I was super nervous. How could I not be? I wasn't ready. My hair was in a tight ponytail, I was wearing athletic clothes, and I was tired from jet lag. He looked so good in his denim jacket, baggy jeans and his smooth cologne that brushed my nose.

“Yuuji has told me so much about you,” I said, trying to hide my shyness.

“What a coincidence. Yuuji had also told me so much about you.” That was unexpected.

“Really? What did he tell you?” I asked, curious.

“That you are patient, nice and very cute,” he complimented me with a shy smile. “He didn’t tell me that last thing, it's just what I am seeing,” he corrected.

"He's so cute!" I thought excitedly. I could feel my poor heart in love running around in circles in my chest and my hands were starting to sweat, but I was calm. Who am I kidding? My cheeks hurt from grinning like an idiot. I felt like an awkward teenager in front of her out of her league crush.

“Is that your pickup line?” Sukuna joked.

“Shut up!” I barked, so he wouldn’t interrupt us. “Thanks, I think you are really cute as well,” I answered Choso’s flirting, paying him all of my attention. He looked a bit shocked that I was able to scold his brother so easily.

“Yuuji told me you used to fight in the UFC as well,” he said, ignoring Sukuna’s comment.

“I was the best. There are some of my fights on YouTube, my nickname is ‘Medusa’s Snake’,” I flexed proud as I poured him a beer from the bucket in the center of the wooden table, surrounded by delicious greasy snacks.

“A very poetic nickname. Did you know Medusa means protector in Greek? I think it goes well with you.”

When my first coach named me like that, I was flattered. Medusa was the mortal gorgon, one of the three daughters of the god of the sea, Forcys, and the goddess of sea monsters and the dangers of the sea, Ceto. She became the main enemy of men after suffering a painful rape by Neptune in front of the sanctuary of Minerva. Although early poets depicted her as a monster from birth, along with her immortal sisters, later writers claim that she was originally a beautiful maiden, but was turned into a monster by Athena or Minerva.

“Thanks, you are the first one who says it,” I said as my cheeks blushed. “Do you like mixed martial arts?”

“I used to practice kick boxing regularly, until someone discouraged me from continuing.” I noticed that he looked at Sukuna when he said “someone.”

I couldn't blame him. The active UFC community is pretty small. I wouldn't want to continue coexisting in the same environment as my biggest traitor. Besides, sports publicists love to compare athletes who share some sort of bond and spread drama. If Choso kept practicing to a professional level, reporters wouldn't leave him alone if they found out the champ fucked his fiancée.

The night flowed its course and the conversation continued to flourish between us. We drank, laughed and shared funny anecdotes. Choso was so nice, just like Yuuji, but shared that strong aura like Sukuna. He was the best of both worlds. Elegant, kind and respectful - what more could a girl ask for in a man?

Choso had to leave early because he had to work in the morning. He said goodbye to everyone except Sukuna, and I offered to escort him out. The vibrant street was still alive despite the darkness that ruled the skies as it was so late in the afternoon. People were still passing down the street in beautiful attire under the colorful lights of passing bars and restaurants. It had been a pleasant evening. It had been a long time since I had had so much fun.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Choso smiled friendly. His shoulders were relaxed, and his kind eyes conveyed to me that he was more comfortable than before.

“I say the same thing,” I smiled at him as well. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and avoided my gaze out of nowhere. That comfort turned to anguish again, so my smile gradually disappeared.

“Yuuji told me you were interested in me…” he sighed. “Look, you are a great girl, but right now, I have a complicated situation with my brother, and dating his coach doesn’t sound like a good idea.” He scratched his neck embarrassed, still avoiding my sight. “So it was about that,” I thought.

“I get it. Thanks for giving me a chance at least,” I said kindly. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel bad for rejecting me, but I wasn’t going to give up so easily. At the end of the day, I am a fighter at heart. “The truth is that I am not planning on being his coach for a long time. Seeing him holding his belt with pride on the ring, reminded me that I will be there again one day.”

I caressed my injured area with nostalgia. I missed being the star with the white lights illuminating my every dangerous move. I missed the audience yelling my name with excitement as they watched me destroy another one of my opponents. I missed the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I fought for my honor. Choso looked at me again, seeming confused by my answer but hopeful for the explanation.

“What I am trying to say is that when I become a protector again, I’ll call you,” I said with a proud smile. His eyes widened, surprised when he understood what I was trying to say.

“I’ll wait for your call then,” he smiled.

With that, he kissed my blushing cheek goodbye and drove off down the sidewalk. As I watched him get into his car, I stood a while longer by the door processing what had happened that night. "You're going to be mine," I affirmed, sure of myself.

Another day at the gym. Another day in hell. By this point the gym was my hell on earth. Dealing with the devil himself was complicated, sometimes there were good days when he would do everything I asked him to do without batting an eye and others were the fights were no longer physical, but verbal. Over the months as his coach, I had learned to deal with his heavy attitude.

“¡Ten kicks!” I ordered as I placed the cushion he was supposed to kick at the height of my stomach. “1, 2, 3…!” I counted every hard kick. I made sure to hold the cushion tightly so it wouldn’t fly away. “…7, 8, 8, 8, 8…!” I repeated with a smug face.

“Stop it!” He yelled without losing the beat.

“Don’t give up! …8, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9…!” I yelled, gripping the cushion hard. Sukuna huffed but kept kicking like the champ he is. “…9, 10!” I finished counting after 30 kicks.

“Go fuck yourself…” He sighed mad.

“For that, another 10,” I said, pulling the cushion back up.

“I missed seeing you like this.”

My heart stopped the moment I heard that voice. I could recognize it in any place, time or date. I knew exactly who it was and didn't want to turn around to confirm it, but I had to face it. The UFC world is small, so it was inevitable that we would meet again at some point, but I never thought it would be like this. Sukuna glared at the person behind me, sure he was wondering why a snoop was in his gym. I gulped dryly before confronting the biggest son of a bitch I'd ever met.

“Don’t frown like that, you will ruin your pretty face, beautiful,” he said with a pout. My jaw contracted when I heard such stupidity.

Naoya Zenin. One of the best fighters in the Zenin family, the current middleweight champion and my second coach. If I had to thank one person for teaching me how to deal with Sukuna, it would be this bastard. Because if I could survive him, I could survive anything. An arrogant, self-centered, stubborn man disguised as an angel incarnate. He was standing there with his stupid minions that followed him around like they were his ducklings.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, mad at his bare presence. From my tone and volume, some fighters stared at the scene.

“Sukuna lets you talk like that? I think you need a muzzle, bitch,” he smirked, as if it was something normal to say.

I wanted to beat him to silence. I let go of the pad with a thud and took off my protective gloves as I approached him to jump him. I was ready to beat the fuck out of him. I didn't care if I got fired, ruined my neck, or got beat to death, I had to get that stupid grin off his face no matter what. I couldn't let him say those kinds of things to me just because.

When I was about to jump out of the ring, Sukuna grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him. He forced me to stay close to his body, so I could only see his chest. I tried to break free from his grip, but his arm wrapped perfectly around my wait. My body trembled like a Chihuahua ready to bite. I looked him in the eye, asking him to let me handle this, but he ignored me.

“Can you leave my coach out of this?” He asked, clearly annoyed.

“Yours?” Naoya laughed out loud. “She is mine since she gave me her weak ass,” he said with a wide grin full of confidence.

I closed my eyes in embarrassment as soon as he said that. I didn't want Sukuna to find out like that. I wanted to erase him from my life forever, but he always managed to infiltrate like heavy humidity. I couldn't see him, but I knew he had a relaxed posture, his sharp eyes scanning my figure up and down and critiquing my current position.

“I don’t give a shit about what kind of relationship you have, but now, she only listens to me. You better get the fuck out of my gym before I release her so she can beat your ass,” he barked in my defense.

I looked at him in surprise at that answer. His red eyes were calm but determined. He meant every word he said. If Sukuna allowed me to, I could beat him at my pleasure. I wasn't going to waste the opportunity, I would make him very proud.

“Get the fuck out?! I just arrived to introduce myself as your next opponent!” He yelled excitedly. The gym looked at him in shock at the statement, especially me. Sukuna was going to face Naoya for the belt of the light heavyweight category?! “The UFC accepted the fight today. I was so excited that I came all the way to see you! I am a big fan!”

“You already saw me, now fuck off. I won’t repeat myself,” Sukuna asked, surprisingly keeping his composure.

“At least let me say goodbye to my cute wife,” Naoya pouted.

“I am not your wife, motherfucker!” I yelled, turning around suddenly to dispute that fat lie he dropped. Sukuna held me back to not jump him.

“Awww, just like the good old days,” Naoya grinned. “That’s how it is going to be then, see you later…” he turned around to go back from where he came from with his stupid side chicks. “…maybe sooner than you think,” he winked at me before leaving.

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists in frustration at not being able to say anything else to her stupid face. I pulled myself out of Sukuna's grasp. We both stood in silence while the others murmured and whispered about the strange encounter. I didn't know how to explain the situation to him, I didn't even want to, but I had to.

“I…”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said before returning my gloves that I tossed earlier. “Let’s get back to work.” I took the gloves, relieved.

“From now on, I won’t teach how to be a floor fighter,” I said as I adjusted my gloves around my fingers. “I will teach you how to kill that motherfucker,” I stated strongly. A wide grin appeared on his proud face.

“You have all my attention now.”

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writer-kermit · 1 year

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“Thank you for the meal.”

❥ PAIRING: BAROU SHOUEI x GN!READER

❥ GENRE: SMUT & FLUFF

❥ COMMISSIONED OR SELF-MADE: SELF MADE

❥ WORD COUNT: 1.04k

ঞ SUMMARY: After a small argument about food. You decide to give Barou the cold shoulder. That didn't work out well for you (or maybe it did?).

ᰔ KERMIT'S NOTE: Wow. Um 😀 - Sorry for being dead for like a few months now. Here's this fic to cheer y'all up. If you want commissions, DM me or visit my Ko-Fi. If you want, I'm also drawing commissions too! Thanks for the support!

ʚ WARNING: NSFW, Sensual biting, Teasing, Overstimulation, Orgasms, Slight Degradation MINORS!! PLEASE GO AWAY.

“Oi,” Barou Shoei called out to you. “Mind telling me why there’s no good food in this house?” “What do you mean?” You asked, “There are leftovers and reheated meals I saved just for you.” “Those so–called leftovers have been in the fridge for three days,” Barou scoffed. “You think I'm gonna eat something like that?” “Well, if you weren’t so high maintenance and picky, then there wouldn’t be so many leftovers.” You explained.

“Whatever, I’ll just order takeout.” Barou took his phone from his pocket and secretly dialed your favorite burger place. “Shoei! What the hell do you-” Barou interrupted you by placing his hand in front of you. As he was busy on the phone, you threw a roll of paper towel at him. Unfortunately, he caught the roll with ease and placed it on the dining table. Defeated, you stormed to the master bedroom and slammed the door behind you.

A few minutes later, you heard the door click open. “Enjoyed your little tantrum?” Barou asked you. You responded with a faint grunt. He chuckled warmly at your little fit. “What? You still mad at me or something?” God, you couldn’t tell if he was joking or oblivious. Either way, you kept your ground and ignored him. Barou shrugged off your behavior and went to the bathroom. Good, that meant you have more time to yourself. You got out your phone and scrolled through your social media.

You heard the door open once again. Your eyes peered at Barou, drying out his hair with a towel and wearing nothing but sweatpants. Despite your craving for him, you continued to resist him. You felt the bed creak as Barou lay next to you. “What are you watching?” He whispered in your ear. That was your queue to get up and leave. But before you could get up, Barou pulled you into a close embrace. “Leaving so soon? Why is that?”

“What I'm watching is none of your concern.” You spoke. “Now, let go of me. I want to go to the living room.”

“And what if I don’t?”

You didn’t respond, but Barou still let you go. “Are you still upset with me?” He asked you. “What do you think?! Every time something doesn’t go your way, you act like a brat! You're just so spoiled!” Barou cocked an eyebrow at your frustration. “Really? Cause I wasn’t the one who threw a roll of paper towel at my boyfriend and threw a hissy fit.”

“Sho, that’s not the point!” You yelled at him. “You know, it couldn’t hurt for you to be more surface level.” Barou stayed quiet, but soon shrugged and embraced you lazily. “Fine, fine. I’m sorry. Happy now?” He murmured. “Augh! Absolutely not!” You puffed. “That was an awful apology!” “Huh? Then what’s the fucking point of apologizing if you’re still mad at me?” “That’s not my problem.”

Silence waved across the room once again. Barou then grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You know,” he started, “I'm getting sick of this attitude you’re giving me.” “Oh yeah? I wonder whose fault is that?” You said, still provoking your lover. “Hmm, I wonder.” Barou rested his chin against your shoulder. “Something tells me you’re acting like this on purpose.”

“Whatever do you mean, king?” You spat. “Still giving me attitude?” Barou growled. You kept quiet and smirked at him. “That’s fine, I'll get rid of it one way or another.” He then forced you into a rough kiss, leaving you surprised. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt Barou’s growls and hum vibrate inside your mouth. Your breath hitched as Barou’s hands went under your shirt. His bristled fingers caressing your horribly sensitive skin. Barou watched you with amusement as you tried to find your breath.

“What a cute face you have sweetheart,” he cooed. “Want to give me more of that?” “Haah... Y-you wish...!” You hushed out. “Mm? We’ll see about that.” Barou plopped you onto the bed and lifted your shirt, revealing your chest. His tongue laved around your nipples, occasionally sucking and grazing them with his teeth. You bit your lip hard as you tried to resist Barou’s addictive lust. Barou quickly noticed and smiled impishly.

“The more you try to hide, the more I want to devour you...” He sang in your ear.

And he kept his word. He took his time making sure every patch of your skin was left untouched. His lips traveled down to your stomach, stopping briefly to lick your navel.

“Shou...” You whimpered, pressing your legs together. Barou chuckled darkly as he gazed at your state, he leaned forward and kissed your swollen lips.

“God you’re so fucking adorable.” He grunted. “Do you have any clue of how much I want to fuck you right now?” He kissed you again, only this time, the both of you became more sex–derived. You became more touch starved as your sex began to ache, waiting to be touched. You hate to admit it, but only Barou can tend to your ache. You guided his arm to your lower stomach, his fingers barely touching your clothed sex.

“Oh?” Barou hummed, “Want me to touch you here?” His fingers slowly teased around your sex, causing you to jolt and arch your back. “Sh-Sho! Sho p-please...” You whined, stretching your arms out to Barou’s. “Hm? What is it baby? You can use your words, right?” “Please Shou... Please don’t stop...” Barou only smirks as he slid his hands down your clothes, his calloused and devious fingers rubbing against your sex.

You threw your head back as you moaned out Barou’s name. “That’s it baby... Say my name. Say it...” Barou rasped. “Ahhn.. Oh my god.. Cumming... I’m cumming...!” You shrilled loudly as you came inside Barou’s fingers. You couldn’t help but sob silently from embarrassment. “There it is,” Barou cooed, hugging you tightly. “There’s my adorable baby...” He peppered tiny kisses across your face to soothe you.

“If it makes you feel better, I ordered food for you too.” Your eyes lit up at his response. “Actually?” You hiccupped. “You think I let you starve?” Barou laughed. You planned to respond, but instead, you sighed.

“Thank you for the meal, Shoei.” You smiled.

#writing #anime smut #blue lock #blue lock fic #blue lock smut #bllk #bllk fic #bllk smut #blue lock barou #barou shouei #barou smut #barou shoei smut #barou x reader #barou x you #barou x y/n

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passivenovember · 11 months

Text

Billy knows he's pregnant because he has a double whopper with no cheese on the way home from Loch Nora.

Billy hates the Burger King. It tastes like cardboard and the cheese burns noxious holes in his stomach, probably, but things change when you're gonna be a mom.

A dad. Whatever.

Steve Harrington shoots his wad and, like magic, like Steve Harrington's spunk has turned everything inside him into stardust, Billy can't get enough of the shit. He'd buy cologne made of BK's burger fat, if he could, and spend all day sucking on his wrist like a dog.

So. Billy's pregnant. It's obvious. Among other things.

And no one ever said Steve Harrington was smart, not in any way that matters, and Billy can't learn his lesson. They fuck on Thursday night because apparently this is a middle-of-the-week kind of arrangement, now, and Harrington comes apart inside of Billy because you're on the pill, Malibu, it's okay.

Billy likes it. Lets him. Thinks, there's probably no harm in it now that he's no longer the Virgin Mary. It feels immaculate, anyhow, that this could happen.

Steve fucks into him sloppy, losing his rhythm until he spills, and tears swamp Billy's vision so he misses the whole fuckin' thing. The main show.

He wants to keep the baby. No one ever said Billy was smart, either.

But there are things in this life he'll keep to himself. He's allowed that. He shares so much with Max and Steve, and by association all the other fucking people that love Steve, and it gets old.

He can have this.

Billy thinks that this could be just for him.

"Fuck, Billy," Steve pulls out, but not before peppering Billy's face with soft butterfly kisses. His breath smells like them. Like blueberry seeds, underneath it all, "Goddamn, your pussy's magic."

Billy's hole runs sloppy. Too fucked out to hold anything in.

Billy almost laughs out loud, because. It's magic. It's a joke, right, his pussy swallowed and now there's--

"Love that thing you do with your hips. Love the sounds you make when my shaft rubs--"

"You're a fucking pervert."

"I was normal, before you let me hit," Steve trails damp, sticky fingers through Billy's chest hair. "You hungry?"

I'm pregnant. "No."

"Sure?" Steve rolls closer on the mattress, nosing Billy's damp, pillow-squashed curls out of the way, "You smell like you could eat a fucking village."

"I'm fine."

"Orphans and all, baby."

"So fucking weird."

Steve hums. Pulls on Billy's earring with his teeth and then licks a wet, fat stripe over his bonding patch. Teasing. "If you're hungry I could get us food."

"I'm fine."

"Really, I just need to put some shorts on and I'm outta here, fuckin'. Pedal to the metal--"

"Jesus Christ, I said I'm not hungry so fucking drop it, asshole," Billy shoves away, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He feels around on the carpet for his jeans, his t-shirt, his converse.

Steve runs out of him, gluing him to 500 count Egyptian Cotton. Pisses him off.

"Billy," Steve says.

Billy tugs his socks on. He was freezing, apparently. Never realized it. His teeth chatter so he stoops, reaching for the closest hoodie shaped thing in their heap of discarded clothes, and then.

"You don't have to go, baby," Steve pokes him between the shoulder blades, gentle as a falling leaf. "Please stay."

"You're pissing me off."

"What else is new."

"I'm gonna--"

Steve wraps around Billy like a blanket, cock soft and sticky against Billy's tailbone. His legs are lean and strong, all muscle and good intentions, just like the rest of him.

Billy hates it.

He melts back against Steve's chest, anyway, vision swamped again.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I gotta beg?"

"Little manners might be nice."

"Billy Hargrove. Please tell me what's got you smelling like a sugar factory caught fire." Steve pets through his hair. Knows how it turns Billy to putty. Has to. "Omega troubles?"

Billy bites down on the inside of his cheek. Tastes blood. "You wouldn't get it."

"I could try," Steve tells him. His lips are soft against he back of Billy's neck, at his ear lobe, on the tense knob of his shoulder. "Please. Tell me so I can fix it."

"You can't," Billy says, traitor voice cracking open, raw, "You can't fix it. It's mine."

My life. My baby.

"Okay," Steve says easily. Kind and good and sweeter than anything Billy could ever deserve, "Stay the night, so I can cook for you before you fall asleep, and again in the morning."

Billy swallows, throat clicking like a dead lighter. Can't breathe, can't--

"It's alright," Steve kisses his neck, "Everything will feel better in the morning."

"We never should've started this bullshit," Billy sits up, heart lurching at the soft, pained noise Steve lets out into the air between them. He can't handle this shit. He can't do this, he can't--

"Billy--

"I'm pregnant," Billy says to Steve's Duran-Duran poster. Can't believe how young he feels, in this moment. Can't begin to wrap his head around the fact that he's twenty years old, and he's in Hawkins, Indiana, and he's going to have a fucking baby with someone who's got such a shitty taste in music, and--

He wants it.

More than he's ever wanted anything. Billy opens his mouth to say it, to scream it at the popcorn stucco, watching like a trillion angel eyes overhead.

But Steve breathes, like an old car trying to start. "You're sure?" He asks.

Billy's shaking even though Steve is a warm, solid weight against his back, burning them up. "Yes."

"How?" Steve asks, full of wonder, and Billy has to get away.

The carpet is heaven under his feet. "I've been. Eating a lot of Burger King."

"Burger King."

"Yeah. Cravings for shit I never liked before. Double whoppers with no cheese," Billy wrings his hands, "And. I didn't have a heat this month, so Joyce took me to the clinic. They said I'm only a few weeks along, but everything is good with her."

Steve makes a wet, heavy sound.

"I dunno. It kinda. Feels like one," Billy rubs a palm over his belly, quick as lightning, "I think it's a girl."

"Billy, please look at me."

Billy does, horrified but swallowing it, one bitter mouthful at a time. He plants his feet and everything bubbles up inside him. This is his life, his body, his baby, and he's going to to this for himself. Steve doesn't have to worry or fork out any cash or put his life on hold just because he knocked up some desperate omega--

Steve's crying. "We're having a baby."

Billy didn't expect this. He falters, mouth working in shocked silence.

But then Steve moves.

He pulls Billy to him, chest heaving as he laughs, high and bright. "Holy, shit we're gonna be parents," Steve twirls them, hooping and hollering like they just won the NBA championship. "Goddamn, your pussy really is magic!"

Billy giggles, in spite of himself. All the other shit melts away, for now, shadows receding under the blinding light of Steve Harrington.

"I can't fucking believe this," Steve says, pulling back to hunt over Billy's face, full of wonder. "Do you think she's gonna have your eyes?"

"I. I don't--"

"I feel like in high school science class we learned something about the brown eyes gene kicking the blue eyes gene's ass? But I would fucking die if our baby comes out looking like you."

"You're not," Billy swallows, choking on tears. "You're not mad at me? Or disappointed?"

"Disappointed?" Steve repeats, his face falling. "Billy, are you serious? No. No, I've fucking. Ever since I met you I've been sitting in this room every night twirling my hair around one finger and kicking my feet because, I--"

Steve's thumb rubs soft, soothing circles against Billy's cheek.

"Billy, I love you," He says gently, "I love everything about you. You're smart and you're hilarious and you're so beautiful--"

"--Steve--"

"--You make my heart feel like it's gonna beat out of my chest. I can't believe you let a loser like me climb on top of you, much less--"

Billy kisses him, eating up Steve's next words.

They don't matter, when Steve leads them back to the mattress. He eats every soft, gooey whimper out of Billy's lungs, swallowing them down and tasting the damp running between Billy's legs.

Makes love to him, while they talk about the future.

Steve only makes one joke about his dick hurting the baby's head, and Billy thinks they should sign up for a class or two.

#harringrove #omegaverse #gave up near the end there #but i hope you enjoyed it #we love soft harringrove

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italoniponic · 7 months

Text

Burger (Short) King | Epel Felmier

Synopsis: It’s date night and the place you selected to go with Epel was this humble fast food restaurant that serves the best hamburger in the north part of the island. Well, even if you weren’t that curious about the truth in those rumors, you just wanted Epel to have fun at dinner for once.

Epel Felmier x gender neutral reader / fluff / appleboy's accent / established relationship / use of “you” pronouns / word count: 900 words / Masterlist

Notes: This idea came from one of my talks with @pandoa about Epel’s SR Cerimonial groovy and I just idealized this dinner night with Epel. What can I do? I love bacon and the smile of happiness shining on Epel's face. And, like always, I tried my best to write him with a southern accent... I really tried ;w;

Burger (Short) King

The burger had barely been brought to your table and you just sat there in wonder on how Epel got so quick to devour the meal. It was just a dinner date in the Sage Island village at a decent Saturday night time.

But there he was — your little lilac gremlin of a boyfriend — stuffing his mouth full of meat, bacon and lettuce with gravy as if it were the first and last meal of his life after centuries of starvation. Manners at the dinner table aside, the promotional burger was really that delicious.

When you saw the announcement promo on Magicam, you immediately remembered Epel.

It was a double steak burger, with bacon and thin onions fried in shoyu sauce, keeping company with lettuce and fresh tomatoes, tasty pickles and a special sauce “ala Chef’s mode”. Everything a delicious fast food meal could offer in carbs and a few extra nutrients.

Or it was what Epel tried to justify on the way there, which made you both ask for apple juice. But the juice alone wouldn’t nullify the bacon or the steak, you assumed with good humor.

It was then that the real reason for Epel’s enthusiasm occurred to you: most, if not all, of Pomefiore would not take your dinner so good-naturedly.

You knew that clogging up with fast-food wasn’t beneficial in many ways, but it was only for one day. Epel wouldn’t die if he ate enough meat for one night. In fact, with the addition of the potatoes and the pie he planned to buy for you both as a dessert at a nearby bakery, you wondered how much Epel usually ate for dinner.

You knew that before Epel met you, he sat alone in the cafeteria most of the time at the beginning of the year. Sometimes he was accompanied by Jack because they were the same class, other times his dorm leader and vice would personally supervise him — if there was time on their lunch schedule.

Epel even had a bag of onions in his blazer pocket to put for lunch if he needed it, which usually drove Jack’s sense of smell crazy. But he didn’t have to bring anything like that to your date, fortunately.

“Is it good?,” you asked after taking your first bite of the burger.

Epel had his mouth full of bacon and chips when you asked him for his opinion. He swallowed it all before answering you.

“Delicious, I tell ya what!,” he replied with a big smile.

It took a few minutes but Epel’s mouth was freer to talk — and let slip a little of the accent you loved so much.

“You know that no one is going to steal your sandwich, right? You can eat more calmly. You know, like really chew and enjoy the food,” you giggled, trying to reassure him.

“Have ya forgot who my dorm leader is? Well, I s’wanee I’ll be damned if not admit that, without Rook, I wouldn’t even be here. 'To thank lil’ someone don’t kill nor take a bite out of ya', meemaw say.”

You didn’t remember hearing anything similar before, but if it was advice from Marja Felmier, there was nothing to question.

Not to mention that it was a big truth — it took a lot of bribery and dramatizations of your wish to have dinner alone with your boyfriend to convince Rook to be your accomplice in this far from nutritional crime.

Just in case, you two were in the corner closest to the back exit of the diner, with no windows in sight and with a lot of things around to keep people from recognizing you.

You never know when you’re picking a poisoned apple from a seemingly well-meaning old lady, or even an extremely romantic hunter. Can’t never risk enough, you could only suppose. You would do anything to ensure the success of that date.

Epel took advantage of your thoughtful moment to eat some more. His eyes, when not closed with satisfaction, had a delightful shimmer to them that put the night stars to shame.

It was the best gift you could have given him. In fact, the boy could only think that apple carvings wouldn’t be enough to reward you.

He was actually going to try to plan something truly worthy of your kindness to him — and his countryside stomach that wouldn’t deny good meat in front of him.

But you didn’t feel like you needed any reward. Watching his joy was enough to make your heart happy. You took a sip of the apple juice, amazed at the way Epel smiled even while chewing. You held back a laughter as you watched him lick a sauce mustache that was forming above his lips.

Epel’s joy was your greatest and most precious treasure. It was enough.

“I’d do anything for you.”

“What didja say?,” the boy asked, distracted.

“C-can you pass me a napkin?,” you tried to disguise your words, not wanting to scare him with the intensity of your emotions.

Although confused, Epel shrugged and held out the small box of napkins to you.

While you were bothering to wipe non-existent crumbs from your mouth, the look of your boyfriend and his smile went unnoticed by you. Even if it took a long time before you could repeat that kind of date night, nothing would change within his heart.

Epel would still love you tons.

| Special notes: I wanted to make it a little longer but maybe another time. And I stand that I would fight all Pomefiore just to deliver the most crazy stuffed burger from McDonalds to Epel. They can't hold the power of sertanejo in my veins!! |

#twisted wonderland #epel felmier #epel felmier x reader #epel x reader #twst x reader #gender neutral reader #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twst fanfic #fluff #date night #i'll give epel all my love and burgers i can buy #cherry's writing #cherry's mumbling about twst

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chronically-ghosted · 7 months

Text

you got your claws in me honey, like a tiger in love

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: you arrive at your estranged uncle's door. what else is there to do but catch up over grilled cheese? well, if you have anything to say about it, you might end up doing a bit more.

warnings: dbf!dieter, grilled cheese as a way to guilt trip your dad's best friend/uncle into fucking you, drug use (weed), raising arizona that comes with its own warning, flirting with someone twice your age, no smut — that’s what part 2 is for, reminiscing, a cliffhanger? 👀

a/n: the original fic came out MONTHS before the mcu rumors, so either i have precognition, or the apocalypse is becoming predicable. happy valentine's day you filthy animals because nothing says romance like porking your dad's best friend

🤍AO3 Link

🤍Series Masterlist | Next

🤍Masterlist

From the voicemail of Mr. Paul Landeau, official Hollywood talent manager and agent to one Mr. Dieter Bravo . . .

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not.

There has to be something else out there. Look, I know Fire Monsters: A Cliff Beasts story didn’t do as well as we hoped, but Reddit says it could be a cult classic so why don’t you focus on making that happen, okay? Instead of giving me shit roles like this. I’m not doing it.

– the sound of a door opening and the phone being shuffled – – a zipper rips – – liquid pouring –

We fucking talked about this, man. I told you I needed something different, something new. Tiktok is just reels of me screaming and dying – it’s fucking bullshit –

– more liquid –

I’m done playing the fucking bad guy. I’m not signing any more headless action figures for those little snot-nosed, little fuckers in line. I’m not asking to sign their moms’ tits, either – okay, maybe – but Jesus Christ, Paul, what you sent over is, like, the opposite of where I need to be. It’s for little teeny boppers with one or two B horror movies under their belt to finally break out into the mainstream – or where actors over forty go to cash in an easy paycheck. And yes, I fucking know we need something, but fuck – is this really all there is?

– liquid stops pouring – – zipper rips – – the sound of a toilet flushing –

Don’t fucking call me back, Paul, unless you’ve got something. Something real.

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering –

Okay – fuck, that hurts – okay, Paul, what about this? It came to me in the bathroom. Remember Jack from the Christmas party at the studio’s place? So, he’s got those two Sundance films, right, but they’re in Spanish, so not appealing to an American audience. Nicki told me that he’s thinking about doing another project, one with a wider appeal, and I’m thinking I should totally give him a call. I think we could vibe. I really liked his stuff – reminded me of my old small town, fucking around with the neighbor kids, you know? Kinda hometown hero sort of thing.

– sharp inhale then a cough –

It’s not my usual thing, but I think we should give it a try. Gimme a call.

Oh, do you know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Been craving one but I think I might burn down my house if I try again and UberEats doesn’t reach the good places further south. Oh, fuck, wait –

Hey Google, how do you make a fucking excellent grilled cheese?

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking–

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn?

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

Don’t worry. I got an idea that’s going to make us a million dollars.

A shop that makes only grilled cheese. But like – fancy grilled cheese. What do the kids fucking call it, ah – boogie – yeah, boogie grilled cheese. Like gouda and white cheddar, and butter churned by blind nuns or some shit. Tomato soups that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama.

Big sign out front that says, Vegans Can Eat Shit.

They’ll eat it up.

Fuck yeah, they will.

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place.

And fuck this fucking cheese that keeps burning – goddamn it!

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

When I got started, we hung out all the time, man.

Hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier. Beer in the Pacific Ocean.

You showed me all the cool spots that no one else in LA knew about. You got me my first bump and my first stripper. God, that was fucking wild, man, you remember? I was so nervous I thought I was going to throw up. Did I ever tell you that before? Coke probably didn’t help a kid from a small town in South Cali, but – fuck, it made me feel better. Like I could get my shit together if I really tried.

What, are you too good for me now – is that it? Am I not good enough for you, huh?

Look, I’ve got Raising Arizona on right now, so why don’t you come over with a six pack –

Oh, shit, that’s right. You got a fucking family now.

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee.

Not a good –

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine.

I’ll play Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four reboot.

Dieter’s thumb brushes the red End Call button and tosses his phone onto the kitchen island with a growl. He can feel himself coming down from the bump earlier – a thing he absolutely did not want to happen – and he shoves his palms into his eye sockets.

There is more coke upstairs, but that would require him to walk through his very long hallways to get there. Very long, and dark, and empty hallways.

He should have asked Maria to stay once she was done with the laundry. He would have done it right too – big bowl of popcorn, fully dressed, with a sign around his neck that said, I promise I’m not trying to sleep with you.

He is becoming increasingly aware of how many erratic voicemails he just left for his agent, aware that behavior like that was libel to get him a sit down in Paul’s office with all the blinds and windows closed, Paul’s narrow face serious and using Concerned Emotion #5, as he asks, “do we need to go back to rehab, Dieter?”

We.

There once was a “we”, now there was just “he” – in a house with seven bedrooms and a pool that could fit a sixteen wheeler in it.

And TWO kitchens – why the fuck did he think he needed two kitchens –

Well, he knew he didn’t need two, but it would have been cool to show them off to someone – If there was anyone to show them off to . . .

Fuck this downer mood.

Dieter snatches up his phone again, and the movement brings up his latest apps. UberEats is the second one. He taps in a few keywords, blatantly ignoring his latest call list.

Goddamn Burger King . . .

The front doorbell rings.

Dieter frowns, pulling the screen closer under his big nose. Now, he knows he is high and he knows he should be wearing his glasses when reading but there’s no fucking way . . .

He goes out of the kitchen, the room still smelling of burnt cheese with the cast iron skillet in the sink and a black husk sticking to its bottom. He goes left, then right, his robe tightly wrapped around him as if he is some huffy housewife, then down a hall and across the marble entrance way – fuming – why is this house so goddamn huge – who thought this was a good idea?

And so he wrenches open the front door – to a girl, not holding a Burger King bag. No, she’s got a roller suitcase behind her, bright blue, and she and the case are dripping wet. Like, just sprayed with a hose kind of wet and her big bottom lip is trembling. Behind her, the sky pukes buckets of rain, groaning with thunder.

Now, he likes his call girls (he always thought it was classier to call them that) a little more . . . vampy than this, but hell, he had been turned on by much less than this— than her with her big eyes, fat droplets rolling off her lashes, flushed cheeks – and oh, shit, her shirt is totally see-through – is that purple, he feels the back of his mouth flush with spit – wow, is this Paul’s way of apology because –

“Uncle Dee?”

And he’s mentally shoving himself back into his pants because no one in years has called him that and that was a very different time in place, when he was a completely different person and if this girl is the person he thinks it is, then – Jesus Christ, he’s bound and gagged straight for hell –

He squeaks out your name and you smile, sort of grimace, at him and wave.

“Yep, it’s me. Been awhile, right?” You finally give into the mortification of your stupid plan and you scrunch up your face, your hand wrapped around your elbow. “Look, I’m so sorry, this is too weird. I don’t have your number, but I panicked when my flight got canceled and my phone’s dead and you’re the only person I know in LA and –,”

“No, no – you’re fine – sorry–,” Dieter blinks before stepping back and letting you through. You sigh in relief and yank your baby blue suitcase over the threshold as you walk in, dripping water everywhere. “Sorry, it’s been a weird night and for, like, two seconds, I thought . . . nevermind . . .”

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

You bite the corner of your lip, glancing at him, knowing it was probably unwise to piss off your one chance at not sleeping on the ground tonight — or if what you were about to say would piss him off in the first place.

“Yeah, well, it’s been eleven years since we last saw you, Uncle Dee.”

Early on in his career, he wanted to build up rep as not only an actor but a real tough guy, so he asked if he could do some stunts for an old cop show. For all his bravado, he ended up getting a real round-house kick to the face and it sent him reeling.

This feels a little bit like that.

“No way, it can’t have been that long. Besides, I know I left my number with your dad or your grandma before I left and —,”

His throat closes up when very old guilt washes over him. It’s intensified when you give him an uncomfortable look.

“So your dad didn’t give you my number then.”

It’s not a question. You shake your head. You don’t tell him that your dad tried to call years ago and got a busy tone for the first few, and then a few years after that, was brusquely informed the line had been disconnected.

He chews on his lip.

You try to smile at him again but then another shiver takes hold of you and Dieter grimaces. “Shit, sorry, one second. I think this closet down here has towels.”

He all but sprint-walks down one of the many halls branching off from the entrance, the ends of his robes flapping. You hear the creak of doors, several, as he digs around in the walls.

“Why do I have so many fucking linens?” You hear him grumble and you smile to yourself. You feel like you need to wring your hair out but wouldn’t dare move from the spot where he left you.

After a thump and more grumbling, he comes back, rubbing the back of his head, but holding out a giant lime green towel. In the light, you can see the dark circles under his eyes when you take the towel and immediately go to stop your hair from dripping on the marble.

His brain is waffling, ping ponging, between his memories and what is standing right in front of him. This? This is the little girl, not his literal blood relative, but she’s Enrico’s kid – Enrico, a slugger and one hell of a outfielder since he was eight years old, whose mom made enchiladas like nobody else in the goddamn world – Enrico, whose house became like a second home, Ricky's family a better family than his own – this is the same girl who hoarded Skittles like a fiend, the same one who he took to the pool on the weekends in the summer, and the zoo during Thanksgiving break? This little girl –

– is the same girl who is all legs under damp denim, eyes that could make Cleopatra fly into a jealous rage, and a fucking rockstar smile?

And, holy shit, those tits –

Dude, you cannot be checking her out. Dig deep and fight your fucking caveman brain. You’ve fucked up a lot in your life and you cannot do that right now. You cannot do that to Enrico.

You cannot do that to her.

You notice him grimace as he squints into the light of the chandelier above you both. “So, uh, not that I mind, but, uh, what are you doing here? I mean –,”

You laugh and it seems to echo in the empty house. “No, that’s a fair question. I was on a flight back from looking at colleges out east and my flight got grounded in LAX because of the storm. I absolutely don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel or rent a car and drive back home, so I needed a place to crash and call my sister to send me some money. And my stupid driver didn’t want to get flagged for harassing a celebrity, so he dropped me off at the corner, hence . . .”

You wave at yourself and inside his slippers, his toes curl, respectfully not looking at your damp legs and a definitely purple bra visible through your shirt.

Your mouth suddenly capsizes. “Shit, is that okay, if I stay here for a night? I didn’t even think - I - I’m not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”

Dieter chuckles, your expression undeniably cute, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe.

“Nah. Not unless you call making the worst grilled cheese imaginable a party.”

At that moment, your stomach chooses to make the most aggressive growl in your entire life and you flush deeper than the cold outside.

“Apparently someone thinks that’s a good idea,” you chuckle weakly, horrified that your body is actively trying to sabotage a normal conversation.

Did it matter that you had posters of him in your bedroom when you were thirteen? That you went to midnight releases of every one of his movies?

No. Not at all.

“I got some food, mostly leftovers.” He worries at his lip as he realizes the only thing by way of something green in his fridge is the jar of olives he got for martinis. Even then, he has a sneaking suspicion he replaced the olive juice with vodka, but the memory of that night is entirely butchered. “But, uh, I’m sure we can find something.”

You smile at him. “Actually, grilled cheese sounds great.”

“Only if you do it.” He smiles, honestly, when you laugh. “What? Don’t laugh — I’m serious. I can’t make a sandwich to save my fucking life.”

“Pretty sure I can manage two slices of bread and cheese.”

His eyebrows jump as his lips press themselves together and you watch the thumb-sized bare spot on his beard twitch.

“Yeah, that’s what you think and then your goddamn kitchen is on fire.”

“Lemme change, do some rocket surgery and brain science, and then I’ll attempt to crack this grilled cheese thing.”

“Okay, but remember we do have Chinese leftovers and I can definitely crush a microwave. This way.”

You follow him through the halls, his shoulders loosening underneath the off-green fuzz, and you try and not to stare at the immaculately beautiful walls and expansive, clean floors, so your eyes wander, and then you’re trying not to stare at the immaculately beautiful man in front of you.

You push away the thought that this house looks nothing like you’d expect someone like Dieter to have, as he leads you to the kitchen — all black and chrome and steel, like what a Norwegian serial killer would have — and nods to a door towards the opposite wall. He’s digging around for the last slices of white bread when he says,

“Bathroom’s down there. I’ll get it all ready, but I’m leaving it up to you. Can’t afford to lose another pan.”

Your eyes finally drift down from the bare walls, unsure if you should be offended that nothing of the family back home is here, or accept that there was just nothing personal anywhere. You smile gently at him and nod in thanks.

He watches you go, that bright blue suitcase flashing as loud as a tornado siren, and he shakes his head. God, he needs a drink but drinking also makes him horny and he needs every mental facility available to him if he wis going to make it through this night with his sanity still intact.

Had it really been eleven years? He always meant to call up Enrico and the old neighborhood gang. He probably forgot about that last fight anyway – even if Dieter hadn’t – even if it wasn’t more than a decade ago. Mama Gonzales always said there’d be a place for him, even after his own father said acting was for maricos and drag queens. It always hurt more when the postcards from the Gonzales family stopped coming than when Mom stopped calling. And he always meant to send back a proper return address when he moved out of that crappy loft after his first real movie premiere but that was the 90s, and much of the 90s was spent between working shit jobs and drooling on the floors of rave warehouses. It wasn’t them specifically he didn’t want to see him like that, but anyone. Anyone who knew him before Dieter Bravo.

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and he realizes he’s always fucking hated the fact that the a) the back of his house is just one big window and b) he never bothered to put in curtains. Because, the thing with windows is they reflect things — things like his pseudo-niece taking her top off in his guest bathroom. Reflected and in full color right across his kitchen island like the sexiest hologram that will haunt his fucking wet dreams until the day hell freezes over.

Yep, that’s definitely your hips, your ribs, and okay—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Dieter’s knees give out and he crouches (more like slumps) to the floor behind the island, his palms so far in his eye sockets he can only see stars.

Yeah, only stars. Focus on the stars, not the image of the curve of your gorgeous tits that’s running around his brain like a child with scissors and a Thanatos instinct off the fucking charts.

Fuck, and he just wanted to get high and watch Nicholas Cage in a mullet.

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

He stifles a groan and stands up. You smile at him, the wet jeans and agonizing white tank top gone, only to be replaced by a black Fleetwood Mac tshirt and — fuck, where are your pants?

You lower the handle to your suitcase and go to stow by the bathroom door. And that’s when he realizes you are actually wearing pants, black shorts that are practically hidden by the oversized t-shirt and are comically, hilariously, painfully small. He can’t actually see the curve of your ass as you walk around the side of the island but he is absolutely not going to let his gaze linger long enough to confirm.

He clears his throat as you come to stand beside him. He gestures to the four pieces of white bread and a stack of Crafts American cheese.

“H-h-have —,” he clears his throat again and his forebearers groan collectively in embarrassment. “Have at it.”

You smile and tuck your hair over your ear before picking up the knife.

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”

No amount of irredeemable hotness can distract him from that. “What? What do you need mayonnaise for? It’s grilled cheese.”

You cluck your tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Brain science and rocket surgery, remember? Don’t question the master.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he goes to his steel monolith of a fridge.

“Jeez, sorry, I asked,” he grumbles playfully.

He comes back with an (thankfully) unexpired jar and tub of butter and you get to work. Silence stretches a bit too long, something Dieter has never been good with, especially with beautiful women. He loves running his mouth and sometimes he's found that the women liked it too. He resigns himself to sit across from you at the island, watching you spread mayonnaise on both sides of the bread.

“So, uh, how are the folks? How’s your, uh, dad?”

You nod slowly and even though he hasn’t been around in eleven years to pick up on all your tells, he swears your hackles go up.

“Fine. All good. Dad’s still at the car repair shop — owns it now, actually. Makes decent money, I guess.”

“You guess?” He hadn’t made it his life’s work to mimic the human condition to not recognize cagey language.

You glance at him briefly before flipping over the last piece of bread and dropping a dollop of mayonnaise on top.

“Yeah. I — uh, we haven’t — I actually haven’t talked to them in a while. Though if I had, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” You sneak another glance, this one ladened with a smile that had a secret curled up in its corners. “Serves me right, probably.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He can’t help but return the smile, one of a familiarity he hasn’t earned yet. You were smiling at him as if you two had years of secrets together, memories and inside jokes that were for the pair of you alone. For the life of him and all the water in his ridiculous pool, he couldn’t fathom why you were being so nice to him. Letting him off the hook. It had been eleven fucking years after all. There are a lot of things he takes guilt free from the world. Your fucking star-eyed smile is not one of them.

So, he lets you off the hook. He doesn’t push it. If you don’t want to talk about your folks, he is happy to chatter aimlessly about something else. But, his brain winds up, what happened that caused you to fall out with your parents? Enrico, even back then, had been a hard ass, with you and your brothers. Always made sure to walk the straight and narrow. Detested drugs, always shined his shoes, thought tattoos were the devil, never kissed a girl on the first date —

And here you are, making fucking mooneyes at his daughter.

Well, one thing was for sure, he muses, something warm spreading in his gut, you are nothing like your daddy.

The hiss of the bread hitting the hot butter in a pan (you didn’t even need to ask where another pan was, you just helped yourself to his cabinets and he couldn’t have been more proud) jerks him out of his daze and he realizes that annoying silence has set in again.

“So, colleges, huh? Anything in particular spark interest?”

You nod excitedly as he found a topic that made you glow. Clearly, no one had asked about your interests in a long time.

“Yeah, actually. Emerson in Boston was amazing. I loved the city, but not sure I’d survive the winter. Swarthmore sounds good, Amherst too, but again, cold.” You grin sheepishly and flip the sandwiches, pressing the spatula (he didn’t even know he owned one of those) into the bread, making the butter sizzle and the air fill with a smell that can only be described as mouth-watering.

“It’ll be a nightmare, taking out loans for those places, but fuck, I think I’d be really happy there.”

He leans against the counter, facing you with crossed arms. He smiles a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, your folks wouldn’t pay for it? Or at least help out?”

Something sharp flashes in your eyes, like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator, before you shrug your shoulders flippantly. A well-worn deflection, he notes, right next to the place where he’s got all the places you mentioned are about as far away from California as possible. If you had mentioned somewhere in Europe, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Nah. I wouldn’t let them. Don’t want them thinking they get input into my life because they hold the purse strings over my head.” You turn off the stove and he moves to get the plates out from the cabinets – something to contribute as you made him a better meal than he’s had in ages.

“So, uh, we eat in there?” You glance down the hall to the eerily clean dining room, a place he’s pretty sure he’s never once set foot in after three years of living in this goddamn mansion.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “C’mon, I already have a movie picked out.”

You follow him, plates hot, down carpeted stairs to clearly the only room in the house that Dieter actually lives in. The lights down here are low, much more bearable than the white spotlights of the kitchen. Against one wall, there’s a fully stocked bar, with most of the alcohol halfway empty and costing a fortune. Across from the stairs is a massive record collection, going up to the ceiling, next to a gorgeous old record player — all wood and black vinyl — with big, plushy earphones curled up on a black leather recliner.

But the star of the show is the wall-to-ceiling television, with a brown, mouse-soft leather sofa that wraps like a giddy, up-turned grin in front of it.

And of course, in between the superstar television and the cozy couch, is a low glass table where he had snorted lines of coke more times he could count and where a virgin joint sits, unsmoked and tempting.

Dieter flushes as though he’d been caught by his parents with his pants down around his ankles.

“Fuck, sorry–,” he rushes over, the plate clattering with the glass, and he reaches for the joint, ready to squish it into his pocket when–

You laugh. “Relax, Dee, I know what a joint is. In fact, we are very well acquainted.”

You fold yourself into the couch, legs crossed, grinning at him as you bite into your sandwich.

He swallows, unclenching slightly as he sits down next to you. He watches you eat for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say.

“Sounds like I’ve missed my calling as the fun uncle, getting you high for the first time and all that.”

You snort and swallow your mouthful. “Yeah, by like two fucking years.”

“Oh, what a fucking lifetime. You poor thing,” he says, pouting dramatically and you giggle again, bumping into his shoulder. It sends his sanity knocking around in his brain.

You don’t notice, though, your eyes falling to the joint in the small ceramic bowl. The smile slides from your face.

“Well, you might have missed my first joint, but I’d be more than happy to take this one as my next.”

His eyebrows practically bounce off his forehead. “You’re serious?”

Your eyes slide away from the joint to his, something distractingly dark hiding there. “I mean, if the parties on your Instagram are anything to go by . . . And, well, when in Rome . . .”

You trail off, smirking, gesturing around you as if you had any idea the levels of debauchery that were obtained in this very room. Come to think of it, he halfway considers picking you up off the couch and putting a towel down underneath your perfect ass.

This is how it went sometimes, with the slower hook ups. No wet clothes, or grilled cheese, or bringing up family trauma — but initial touches, curling smiles, and then drugs. Always drugs. As if there needed to be another hand that tore off the cap of the pressurized, fizzy soda bottle. He’d play music then, for them, to show off his vinyl collection and have a plausible reason to rub his dick between their ass cheeks while dancing slowly to something croon-y from the seventies.

Not that any of that would be happening with you.

He wasn’t a complete monster after all.

With a playful grin that he had mastered over many press junkets, he snatches up the joint and lighter, and presents both to you in the flat of his hand.

“First hit goes to you, since you were so kind to make dinner for an old fuck like me.”

You snort and put your plate onto the table, wiping your hands free of crumbs on your black shirt.

“Such a gentleman.”

With deft and practiced hands, you take the joint between your index finger and your thumb, and sparking the lighter, brought the flame to your lips.

Just for one second, one goddamn second, he swears he saw The Look reflected in your eyes. He glances away, his cock fluttering awake like goddamn Lassy hearing the calls of another well-begotten child. He picks up his own plate.

“Hardly. It was all a ploy to get you to admit you follow me on Instagram.”

You burst out coughing, smoke chugging from your nose and mouth. “Dieter!”

He cackles, his tongue between his teeth, as you shove him away from you — do not think about her fingers clenched around your bicep — try to sit up and inhale again. You hang your head and groan.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.”

“Yeah, and for that, I get two puffs,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, the rest of it full of the most perfectly cooked grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Hand it over, princess.”

You hand over the lighter and the joint, the paper slightly greasy from your fingers, leaning back dramatically into one of the many plushy cup holder seats spread out along the very long couch.

He chuckles devilishly again, far too satisfied, as he lights up and leans back into the cushions.

“And, as gesture of goodwill, I’ll admit that’s a good fucking grilled cheese.”

Your eyes snap open and a wide grin splits your face. “Hell yes! Mayonnaise on both sides, butter on the side with cheese. Best family recipe. Mwah!”

“Fuck, even I know that’s too much cholesterol for me,” he grunts and digs into the cushions, feeling around for the remote.

“Well, that’s not enough cholesterol for me,” you wink as you take the joint from the hand on his thigh, eyes daring you to do something about it. Nowhere near high enough to take the bait, he just narrows his eyes at you as he clicks the button and the entertainment system comes to life with a primordial hum.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, eyes wide, as the speakers roar and the lights dim further and the screen glows, “it’s like I’m in a fucking movie theater . . . in space.”

“It’s great, right?” Dieter moans like a loving father over his first child. This thing is his pride and joy, the only thing he could stomach in this goddamn house.

The DVD buffer for Raising Arizona begins and you squeal quietly, sliding onto your back, the joint dangling between your lips.

“No fucking way, I love this movie.”

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?”

The few times he felt nostalgic for his old life — his old, old life when he was still a kid from nowhere, a nobody, you couldn’t pick him out of a line up of his sweaty, grubby cousins when they were all cobbled together like crooked teeth in front of Abuela Josefina’s television that still had knobs and bunny ears to watch movie after movie of Nicholas Cage reruns. Even with knees in his back, elbows in his ears, Dieter could quote every single line, his heart swelling.

That’s gonna be me some day.

“This movie is from, like, another century,” he mutters as he watches you settle in, something sickening like adoration clawing up in his chest.

“Yeah and it’s great,” you say eagerly, ignoring the way he plucks the joint out of your fingers. “Put it on!”

He resolutely ignores the pinch in his low stomach at your almost whine and presseS the play button with a little more force than necessary. Then, balancing the joint on the ceramic bowl, he sticks his fingers into his robe, pulls out his glasses, and puts them on without a second thought – just as he always did when watching movies.

It is only when he realizes he doesn’t hear you breathing that he realizes what he has done. Slowly he pulls the square glasses off his face and looks at them, feeling as disgusted as the day his doctor put them in his hands.

Near-sighted. Very common. Happens when people as they age.

“Got ‘em–,” his throat closes again, “got ‘em a few years ago. Only have to wear ‘em to see things up close and, uh . . . Well, I think they make me look old as shit.”

He can’t quite look at you, unsure what he’ll see on your face and knowing for sure that he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t the way you look at him before. If you just would tease him about it, then —

“No,” you say, your voice very soft and small. His heart nearly punches out his throat, his neck nearly snapping in half as his head whips up to look at you. You sit up on your elbows, the darkness of the room cushioning your soft cheeks and muting the glaze in your eyes as you watch him over the bend of your knees.

“Nah,” you say, your nose scrunching, the weight of the high clearly settling into your skin, “they make you look . . . Uh, they’re cute.”

Dieter sucks in the side of his cheek, nodding slowly and sliding the glasses back over his nose. Cute, he could work with that.

“Jeez, would you start the movie already?” You poke his side with your toe. He doesn’t need to look at you to hear the faint blush in your voice.

He turns the volume up and crosses his arms, smiling faintly. You’re warm next to him, he thinks vaguely, his own high finally starting to sink into his bones.

Cute. Definitely not a word he’s going to obsess over.

The movie goes on.

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

Your laugh is the clattering of bells in his ears and he can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard his sides hurt.

He’s coming up from bent over, knees almost to his chest, laughter nearly popping his ribs, when he realizes your feet are in his lap. The arches of your soles, the delicate bones of your ankles, the long smooth planes that run up to your gorgeous calves—

They are there, in his lap, and you don’t seem to mind. Head turned towards the screen, face bright from laughing, your arm arched back over your head, pressing your chest up — it’s like you meant for them to be there.

It’s just one hand, right? Two at the most. Just putting his hands down where he had them a moment ago. Up and — down.

You don't flinch. His palm is on the arched top of your foot, the other just above your other ankle.

You do smile, but that might have been because of Nicholas Cage raging again.

And then, during another bout of giggles, he clutches your shin bone, wraps his fingers around your heel, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

You wipe the tears away from your eyes, the end credits rolling.

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.”

He swallows, swiping quickly under his glasses before taking them off and chucking them onto the table in front.

“You’re fucking right it is,” he says hoarsely, leaning forward and plucking up the last of the joint. He inhales, letting the smoke ease stifle the tears in the corner of his eyes, gulping down a breath before offering it to you.

You take it, distracted, eyes on the credits, the light from the screen glowing on your cheeks.

He presses up under your ankle with his middle finger. “What? You knew what was gonna happen, you’d said you’d seen it before.”

You nodded, still not looking at him.

He goes for a more direct approach. He pinches your calf, and you scowl, the light back in your eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, a bit sharply. He’s not nearly done having fun with you, not nearly. You take another sip of smoke before setting the joint back on the table.

You huff, settling onto your back, pinching at your nails.

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

Dieter hums. He knows when to let him come to you. He taps the arch of your foot.

“How are you feeling?” His gaze nudges the joint on the table.

You grin. “Really good. Tingly. Warm. Like everything else is a million miles away.”

Just the two of us.

“Enough to tell ol’ Uncle Dee what’s on your mind?”

You roll your eyes and sit up a bit, yanking a pillow behind you.

“Just thinkin’ about the old days, I guess.” You glance up at him from under your eyes. “Not in a bad way. At all. I just . . .”

“What?” If you gave him hell for the last eleven years, then fuck it, he deserved it. He pulls at your ankle. “What?”

With a big sigh, you lean back, something finally breaking and, with it, comes a great big smile.

“Okay, remember when you’d put on those plays with the rest of us kids during those super lame family reunions o-o-or Christmas? Marissa would have everything written out, all the cousins cast and you’d beg her to let you play – fucking – Bear Number 5 or something ridiculous – and she’d fight you on it but she’d relent, always putting on a show of her own – as if a ten year old could be put out like that.” You giggled, biting on your thumb, a sparkling in your eyes that made something in his chest burn.

Yes, he remembers the incredibly stupid fuzzy ears and the bear claw mittens. The fake roaring. TMZ would have a fucking stroke if those pictures of him, baby-faced, were to ever surface online. He smiles at you and basks in the warmth of those memories, his high making them brighter.

“I think it would have crushed her little heart if you didn’t ask,” you said, heavy-lidded eyes on you again. “I know it broke her when you stopped showing up at all.”

His heart actually pinches at that. He knows you’re not scolding him but fuck, maybe he’d feel better if you did. What a fucking idiot he was, for leaving all of that for empty mansions and meals from UberEats and all this fucking gunked up shit in his veins that made him feel older and older every year. Like he was chasing something that was never real in the first place.

“Look, honey,” the pet name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He’s twisting towards you, both hands under your calves now. “I should have called. Should have made sure that at least you knew where to find me, even if things between your dad and I were fucked.”

“Oh, God, Dee, no. I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame my dad, sometimes. You just were very different people. He’s fine living his life in the same small ass town in the middle of nowhere. But you weren’t. And, fuck . . . I’m not either.”

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

“You know, I thought about following you out to Hollywood. Because of those plays. I had the best fucking time doing them and Hollywood didn’t seem so scary . . . with Uncle Dee out here. But, uh, I dunno. I grew up, I guess. Figured I was better at telling stories than performing them. I just knew I didn’t want to end up like my dad. Dying where I lived. Unremembered.”

His gut doubles in on itself. Please don’t say you gave up your dreams because I stopped calling.

“Do you still think about acting?” He asks quietly, trying to fight the faint ringing in his ears.

“Oh God, no,” you wave your hands, dusting away his near-panic that he’d somehow ruined your life. “I really do prefer writing stories, even if they exist only within the pages of a book. Or a really bad pamphlet, once or twice. I tried to continue the plays at home for a few years, after you left and Marissa took up cheerleading and thought she was too old to play with her little cousins anymore. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Or you.”

He realizes all too late that he can feel your pulse under your ankle. Strong. Pounding. Pounding, hard. Like you’re nervous. So struck by the notion that he can feel something so personal of yours, the smoke trapped in his brain lifts only slightly when he catches your eyes looking somewhere you absolutely should not be.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, he knows that look. You blink at him, then your gaze slowly slides down, down to his crotch, as smoothly you can beneath the weight of the smoke in your brain and he battles between the desire to throw your legs off him or pull you underneath him.

It’s The Look.

Men, women, it didn’t matter. The look was the same.

When the possibility of sex first enters their mind, when that first bloom of lust rushes down their spine and the memory of the physical exertion of fucking – all the panting and the heavy breathing, aching muscles and sweat – comes back, as real as a song stuck in your head. When that spark of imagination threatens to sway from the hypothetical to the actual, it’s a look he knows so fucking well, he might as well be able to carve it from clay, blind-folded.

And you’re giving it to him, right now.

You haven’t really thought about seducing him yet, no, that part hasn’t crossed your mind yet. But you definitely are imagining what his cock would feel like inside you, and you and your imagination and your wide-eyed gaze at his lap all whole-heartedly agreed: that would be a great fucking thing.

You, on your elbows, your heel dangerously close to his half-hard cock, the glaze in your eyes having something to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing, and your short breath having everything to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing.

He was quite sure you were completely unaware of the expression your face was making. Eyes hooded, mouth parted, breath short. Masking your emotions and filthy thoughts is a skill set mastered later in life and perhaps the last time you looked at someone like that, they simply bent you over the nearest surface and railed you till your knees buckled.

What a fucking excellent idea, his libido trilled. Now get off the couch and do something about it. I’m foaming at the fucking mouth here, man.

Dieter silences his inner horny monster, unintentionally squeezing his hand, the one that happens to be wrapped around your calf.

The movement seems to break you out of your dizzying spiral and you blink up at him.

He swallows. With a half smirk on the edge of your lips that you try to not let him see, you take your feet out of his lap, then reach forward, your palm alarmingly high on his thigh as you take the joint from his fingers. Your eyes flash like warning signs.

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“So, you gonna give me a tour of this place or what?”

End of Part 1 | Next

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