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thepencilnerd · 3 months ago

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Anatomy of Want

summary: Jack Abbot never thought he'd be this undone over a resident. But you were unlike anyone he'd met—brilliant under pressure, quick on your feet, and impossible to ignore. What begins as admiration quickly becomes something deeper, something that simmers beneath every shared shift, until it threatens to boil over. warnings/notes: 18+ MDNI, age gap, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, praise kink, shameless smut, oral sex (f&m receiving), body worship, depictions of war scars, literally just an excuse to write jack abbot smut & you kissing his scars bc that man lives in my head rent free wc: 5.4k a/n: forgot i posted this on ao3 but not here :}

You joined the night shift in a flurry of quiet confidence and dazzling competence, and Jack noticed you immediately. It wasn’t just the way you handled patient load like clockwork, or how you navigated the trauma bay with a calm assurance usually reserved for seasoned attendings. It was the way you asked questions, the way you looked at problems sideways, the way you never folded, even when things got messy.

He told himself he was just impressed. That it was his responsibility, as your mentor, to push you. And he did—assigned you the trickiest cases, brought you into every complicated intubation, every crashing patient. You rose to each occasion like you'd been waiting for it, and Jack couldn't stop himself from watching.

"Nice call on that bleed in bay three," he said one night, as you stripped off your gloves, blood spattered on your gown. "You didn’t hesitate."

You shrugged, a wry smile on your lips. "Wasn't much time to, I could've acted faster."

He looked at you a beat longer than necessary. "Take the win, Dr. L/N."

That was how it went for months. Shifts passed in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. He trusted you. Relied on you. Admired you, yes, but more than that. There were moments—lingering looks across trauma bays, soft laughs shared over half-spilled coffee at 3 a.m., casual brushes of your hands when passing charts that lingered a beat too long.

Once, when you struggled with a stubborn intubation, he’d leaned in close, murmuring, "You've got this," low enough that it was meant just for you. His hand steadied your elbow, brief but grounding. You’d nailed the tube placement. He’d smiled the whole rest of the shift.

After the harder nights, he started climbing to the roof again. The first time he found you there—legs dangling off the ledge, coffee in hand, still in scrubs—he thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you'd said without looking at him, voice soft with exhaustion.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

You didn’t say much after that. Neither did he. Just silence, and the hum of the city below, and a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Some nights, you’d pass a bag of vending machine pretzels back and forth in companionable quiet. Other nights, you'd trade war stories—the worst consults, the craziest saves—your voices low, private, confessions to the stars.

It was easy. Natural. Dangerous.

Jack tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just friendship. Just exhaustion.

But then there were the nights he caught himself watching you laugh at something small, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

The tension built slowly, like pressure behind a dam.

Then came the morning you were signing out charts at the nurse’s station, still in your scrubs and rubbing at a bruise forming on your shoulder. Samira Mohan breezed in, bright-eyed, coffee in hand.

"Don’t forget," she said, pulling up beside you. "8pm tonight. David from anesthesia."

"Shit." You'd totally blanked. "I almost forgot, I'm sorry."

"You’re gonna be great," she assured. "He’s nice. And hot. Like... surgery hot."

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you. "What do I even wear? It’s been so long. I bought that one thing..."

Samira's eyes lit up. "Oh, the black lace set?"

"Samira!" Your hands flew up to cover her mouth, cheeks pink and lips pressed tight. "Keep your voice down!" The words came out tight.

"It’s classy!" she laughed, prying your hands off her mouth. "I stand by it. Black is always a good call."

Neither of you noticed Jack at the far end of the nurses' station, flipping through charts but not actually reading them.

He stood there longer than he needed to. Long enough to hear about the date. Long enough to hear about the lingerie. Long enough for his mind to start betraying him—already picturing you in it, delicate black lace against your skin, curves he'd only admired from a respectful distance until now. He wasn't sure whether he'd be more desperate to tear it off you with his hands or his teeth.

And something in him shifted. Just a little. But enough to curl his fingers tighter around the chart in his hands, to clench his jaw until it ached. You sounded hesitant, unsure, nervous in a way that didn’t track with the woman who could crack a diagnosis under pressure without breaking a sweat.

He heard the waver in your voice when you said, "I’m just… worried," and it rang in his head like bolded text. Jack knew you too well not to read between the lines. You weren’t worried about the guy—you were worried because someone else already occupied your mind.

And damn it, he wanted nothing more than for it to be him.

He didn’t want anyone else to be close to you like that. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he’d never met someone whose mind, whose hands, whose presence made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he could let someone in again.

Samira nudged you with her elbow, oblivious to the ripple effect her words had left in their wake. "Go home, take a nap, put on something that makes you feel good, and just... have fun, okay? It's your first night off in weeks—you deserve to enjoy it."

You hesitated, biting your lip. "I don't know... it's been a while. What if it's awkward? What if I forgot how to do this?"

She grinned like the devil herself. "You don't forget. It's like muscle memory. Besides, you’re hot. And smart. And wearing black lace. You'll be fine."

You laughed weakly, dropping your voice. "It's just... first date sex? After a dry spell? I feel like I'll crash and burn."

Samira waggled her eyebrows. "Best way to crash. Trust me."

A snap echoed through the room—the sharp, unmistakable crack of plastic breaking.

You and Samira both glanced up.

Jack bent calmly, retrieved the shattered halves of a pen from the floor, and tucked them into his pocket like nothing had happened.

You blinked. Samira blinked. Then shrugged and kept talking.

"Go have fun," she repeated, nudging you again. "Tonight's about you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... have a good time."

You nodded, though your heart wasn't in it. The twist in your stomach wasn't nerves about the date.

It was the thought of someone else entirely.

You smiled weakly and nodded, though your stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with someone else entirely.

On your way out, you passed Jack by the charting station, offered him a quiet, "See you on Monday, Dr. Abbot." He gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eight o’clock rolled around faster than you expected.

You stood outside the restaurant, already regretting your decision. The lace set beneath your outfit felt less like a confidence boost and more like a secret that didn’t belong to this version of the night. Still, you squared your shoulders and walked in, searching the tables until you saw a man wave—clean cut, kind smile, textbook charming.

David was, by all accounts, exactly what Samira had described. Funny, intelligent, a bit pretentious, but typical for your average resident. He complimented your dress. Asked about your shift schedule. Talked about scuba diving in Belize, his past summer at his parent's beach house.

But your smile stopped at your cheeks. You laughed at the right moments. You answered questions politely. And every so often, your mind wandered back to a different voice—rougher, lower, more familiar.

You thought of Jack’s dry wit. The way he tucked his hands into his scrub pockets when he was thinking. The sound of his laugh, more of a chuckle, rare but always sincere. The heat in his gaze when he really looked at you, like he was trying to hear what colors tinted your thoughts.

You forced yourself back to the conversation with rapid blinks, nodding at whatever David was saying about residency rotations and placements. He was nice. He really was.

So why did you feel like you were somewhere you didn’t belong?

Maybe it was the way David's hand reached for yours across the table, smooth and tentative, and how you instinctively pulled back before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t rude—just reflex. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel familiar.

Not like Jack’s hands—callused and warm—when they’d guided your wrist during your first real incision, steadying your nerves with his quiet presence. His grip had been firm, reassuring. You could still remember the way his fingers curled gently but purposefully around yours, the scent of antiseptic and adrenaline in the air.

David’s hand was too small. Too soft. Too unsure. There was no strength in it. No certainty. No experience.

God you were going insane.

"Sorry," you exhaled, offering him a polite smile. But your attention was already drifting, your eyes drawn to a familiar silhouette across the room.

Salt and pepper curls caught the neon light just right. Jack Abbot stood at the far end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other resting on the wood tabletop, eyes cast toward the floor—until he looked up.

And found you.

Your breath caught. The background noise dulled to static. For a suspended moment, the two of you just stared. Time slowed. Jack didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

He didn’t have to.

You felt it in your gut—the electric pull of something intangible.

David started talking again, but it was white noise. The clink of a glass, the hum of conversation, all drowned out by the weight of that look, of Jack watching you like you were the only person in the room.

And suddenly, you were.

You raised your wine glass slowly, holding his gaze as you took a sip. Jack mirrored you, bringing his beer to his lips with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten. The silence stretched between you like a live wire.

Fingers tightening around the stem, you set your glass down with a little too much force, feigning a glance at your phone as if a sudden messaged had triggered a vibration. "Shit, it's an emergency," you lied, offering a rushed, apologetic smile. "Something came up at the hospital. I have to go. I'm so sorry."

David looked disappointed, but nodded, ever the gentleman. "Of course! Rain check?"

A small, apologetic smile tugged at your lips as you rose, shrugging into your coat. Pulse pounding in your ears, you threaded your way through the maze of tables, slipping out the door with a tight exhale.

Behind you, the scrape of a barstool echoed a second later—quick, deliberate.

Out in the cool night air, you rounded the corner into the alley beside the building, your breath misting as you leaned against the brick wall. The adrenaline had only just begun to settle in your bloodstream when you heard the trailing of familiar footsteps.

Jack Abbot appeared a moment later, turning the corner with his hands outstretched, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there until his eyes found yours.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low. He shifted closer to you, arms now crossed.

You nodded. "Yeah. I just... needed air."

A pause. Eyes dipped, then lifted again, something unspoken skating between you.

You cleared your throat. "How was your evening?"

Jack blinked at the pivot, letting it settle between you. "Uneventful."

"What were you doing at that bar?" you asked, an arch to your brow that softened the tension.

He allowed himself a grin, shoulders relaxing just slightly. "It’s my usual spot. Popular with the old folks."

"Samira did say it had a vintage charm to it when she picked it out," you replied with a smirk.

Jack scoffed at the poke at his age, making both of you laugh.

"Alright then," he countered, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. "What were you doing there?"

You hesitated, then exhaled a slow breath. "Ruining my chances of settling down."

His expression flickered.

"What?" You gave a half-laugh, smile twisted with self-deprecation. "Isn't that the whole point of dating as a doctor? Just a long game of figuring out how emotionally unavailable I still am and forever will be?"

Abbot sighed, long and quiet, like it came from somewhere deeper than just the moment.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him, curiosity tugging at your features. "Were you… waiting on someone?"

That gave him pause.

Jack stilled. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. His gaze didn’t meet yours at first. He looked past you, to the mouth of the alley, like the answer might be written in the shadows or the neon lights beyond. Like if he stalled long enough, you might forget you asked.

"Not exactly," he started, voice rougher than usual.

You lifted a brow.

He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I didn’t come here for that. But when I saw you…" He trailed off, eyes finally locking onto yours. "Guess I started waiting."

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled in your chest—slow and warm and heavy. Something about the way he said it made it feel less like a confession and more like an inevitability.

He’d been waiting. Watching. Wanting. The same way you’d been tiptoeing around the truth since you'd stepped foot into that ER—since the very first time your fingers brushed as he passed you a chart, since the first time your eyes met across the trauma bay, since that first quiet moment together on the roof.

With the dim alley light casting soft gold between you, something gave. Tension melted into gravity, and gravity into pull, pull into a quiet explosion. You stepped forward just as he did, meeting in the middle, neither of you saying a word. The kiss hit like floodgates bursting—urgent, aching, years of held-back desire finally snapping loose.

His mouth was warm, tasting of beer and something deeply Jack. His cologne clung to the collar of his coat, smoky and crisp, and you inhaled it like oxygen. Hands found your waist, large and steady, trailing down to your hips and cupping your curves like he'd memorized them long before ever touching. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, needing more.

It felt like one of those messy makeouts from college—reckless, hungry, impossibly heady. But this wasn't some clumsy hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every moment spent not saying the thing that burned between you.

You were both sober enough to know what this was—what it meant. When Jack pulled away, just slightly, his breath brushing your lips, his voice dropped into something gravel-soft. "You're not drunk?"

You shook your head, words catching in your throat. "One glass of wine. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

That was all he needed.

You surged forward, capturing his mouth again with a need that bordered on desperate. Jack backed into the wall with a soft grunt, pulling you in like the space between you had always belonged to him. His hands roamed—one sliding up to cup your jaw, the other finding your lower back, anchoring you like he was terrified you'd disappear.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours, tasting of mint and longing and everything unspoken between you. You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver at the contact. He devoured you like a man starved, and when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, lips swollen and voice rough, he rasped, "Let me take you home."

You nodded, breathless, pulse thundering in your throat. The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the tension between you humming like electricity under your skin. Jack simply held your hand the entire way. The air crackled, your hand brushing his once, twice, before he finally laced your fingers together.

Arriving at your front door, your hands trembled slightly as you unlocked it. The weight of what was about to happen anchored itself deep in your stomach. You stepped inside, the warm light of your living room spilling over the hardwood floors. Jack hovered in the doorway, hesitant, until you reached for his hand again.

"Come in," you said softly.

He followed.

You led him to the couch, asking quietly if he wanted anything to drink. Jack shook his head, stepping closer until your bodies were barely apart.

"I don’t need anything," he murmured. "Except you."

You inhaled sharply, but before you could speak, his lips were on yours again—slower this time, reverent, like he was memorizing every contour of your mouth. His hands cupped your face as he pulled you closer, until you felt the full heat of him against you.

You reached for the hem of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, then your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly. Jack took over, shrugging out of it with ease. Beneath, his skin was warm and firm beneath your wandering hands, the light dusting of chest hair catching the soft glow of your floor lamp.

Jack’s hands slid under the hem of your top, brushing up your sides, warm palms skating over bare skin. When he pulled it over your head and saw the black lace lingerie beneath—filigree against your skin, delicate and dark—his breath caught in his throat.

"That kid," he spat, "wouldn’t know how to take care you."

You managed a breathless laugh, the tension and heat between you turning reckless. "And what exactly does taking care of me imply, Dr. Abbot?" you teased, voice low and daring.

Jack's eyes darkened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly where they gripped your waist. "Everything you need," he rasped. "And more."

You smiled, bold with adrenaline, tipping your chin up toward him. "And you think you can handle me?"

He leaned in, mouth grazing your ear, voice wrecked and certain. "Sweetheart," Jack said, "I'm counting on it."

He unclasped your bra with one hand, letting it fall away before sliding his palms across your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes. "You’re perfect."

You arched into him with a quiet gasp, his touch both soothing and incendiary. He kissed your neck, down your collarbone, until he was lowering you gently onto the couch.

"Let me take care of you," he said, voice hoarse with restraint.

Your only answer was a nod, a whispered, "Please."

Jack kneeled between your thighs, kissing his way down your stomach, murmuring soft nothings against your skin. He slipped your underwear down slowly, eyes locked with yours. He paused only briefly, kissing the inside of your thigh before taking two fingers and teasing them along your entrance.

You gasped, hips bucking as he gently eased a finger inside, curling it expertly. "So wet for me," he murmured, awed. "God, you’re dripping."

And then he was lowering his mouth to you, tongue parting you gently. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched and your fingers dove into his hair, holding tight.

Jack groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "I could live here," he muttered. "Die happy between your thighs."

You whimpered, tugging harder at his hair. "Jack—please—"

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, guided by your every gasp and shudder. The sound of him—soft groans muffled against your slick, the wet sounds of his mouth working you over—had your skin tingling. The taste of you seemed to drive him wild, his chin slick with your arousal as he murmured, "Fucking incredible," into your core.

His fingers curled just right, finding that perfect spot with unerring precision. Your moans spilled out freely, hands clutching at his hair, holding him there. He groaned again, a sound of pure pleasure. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me."

When it broke—when you shattered with a breathless, keening cry—Jack held you through it, grounding you with his strong hands bracketing your hips. His lips never left you, drawing out every tremble, every ripple of your climax until it became too much. Your thighs twitched, pleasure tipping toward the edge of pain, and with trembling fingers, you tapped gently at his shoulder. A silent plea for mercy.

He stilled instantly, pulling back with his mouth slick and eyes dark, but gentle.

You could only scoff, breath shaky and a smile of bliss coloring your face. Jack leaned forward to press a kiss to your thigh, tender and unhurried. "You’re unbelievable," he whispered, voice rough with awe and restraint.

He pulled back slowly, face glistening, licking his fingers clean before sucking them into his mouth, savoring every bit of your taste. Then he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed. Like he'd just touched heaven.

As he kissed up your body, his breath fanned across your damp skin—each kiss a pause, a confession. His facial hair scraped lightly in contrast to the softness of his lips, leaving trails of heat along your ribs, then your collarbone. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, nuzzling the hollow beneath your jaw before pressing a kiss to it, like he couldn't get enough of the way you tasted, the way you felt, the way you breathed beneath him.

"Can I undress you?" you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you like the morning sky, warmth, admiration, and affection—but there's hesitation there too.

He swallows, jaw flexing slightly, before nodding. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Just... heads up."

You pause, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. "Jack?"

His voice is rough. "You’ll see scars. From before. It’s not a big deal, just... some of them are pretty bad." He tries to laugh it off, but his eyes flicker away and his shoulders tense. Your heart cracks open at the vulnerability he rarely lets anyone see.

"Hey," you murmur, tilting his face back toward yours. "Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you carry—I want to see all of you. Every piece."

Jack's throat bobbed with a swallow, eyes glassy as he searched your face for doubt—and found none. His fingers brushed lightly along your jaw.

You undressed him slowly, fingers trembling as you tugged his belt open, then popped the button of his slacks. His cock strained against the fabric, an eager outline that made your mouth water. When you pushed his pants down, the sight made you pause—he was perfect. Not too much, not too little—cut, well-groomed, thick and just the right length. A light trail of hair led up to a stomach carved with muscle, the kind earned by years of hard work, not vanity.

You wrapped your fingers around him, gave him a few slow pumps, marveling at the weight of him in your hand. When you ducked your head and pressed a kiss to the flushed tip, he hissed softly, hand threading into your hair. You licked him experimentally, kitten licks at first, savoring the velvet softness of his skin, the way he twitched at every flick of your tongue.

You took him into your mouth, slowly, a few shallow bobs that had him groaning low in his throat. His other hand gripped the back of the couch behind you as his hips twitched forward, but just when you began to settle into a rhythm, he gently but firmly pulled you back.

Jack crushed his mouth to yours, desperate and breathless, his hands cradling your face. "Not like that," he murmured, voice trembling against your lips. "I’m not coming anywhere but inside you. I want to feel you, every inch, every heartbeat." He drew back just enough to look at you, something raw and uncertain flickering in his eyes.

"If you're sure," he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek, "I want to take care of you. Let you shut everything else out—just feel me."

You nodded, breath catching. "I need you."

His breath shuddered out, the last thread of restraint snapping in his chest. With worship and heat in his eyes, Jack kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the very shape of your mouth. Reaching over to the end table, you pulled out a condom wrapper and tore it open, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

With a breathless murmur of his name, you rolled it onto his length—slowly, deliberately—giving him a few teasing strokes first. His cock twitched in your hand, heavy and perfect, and your thumb brushed over the slick tip, spreading the pre-cum like a promise. Jack's breath caught, eyes dark as he watched you, jaw clenched with restraint, like you’d just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.

He guided you down gently, his body pressing into yours, firm and certain, a grounding weight that promised not just desire, but devotion.

You moved first, hips sliding up and down in slow, deliberate strokes, and Jack almost exploded at how good you felt. Every part of him molded to you, surrounding you like safety and fire all at once. His hands cradled your face like something sacred, and the press of his chest against yours ignited sparks beneath your skin. You couldn't remember sex ever feeling like this—like your very soul was unraveling. It was almost a religious experience, divine and consuming, the way he fit with you, moved with you. It felt like surrender.

"Fuck." It punched out of Jack Abbot like a confession, like he’d been holding it in for months. You felt like pure velvet around him—tight, warm, impossibly soft, dragging him to the edge with every glide of your hips. His head tipped back for a moment, jaw clenched, trying to hold on. The sounds spilling from your lips—soft gasps, high whimpers, breathy moans—were branded into his memory already. God, he thought, if he could bottle them, he’d keep them forever. Hoard them. Pray to them for forgiveness.

Your hands were grasping onto whatever they could—his shoulders, the cushions, the curve of his neck—anything to anchor yourself. When your nails dug into his back, Jack groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating against your skin like a warning and a reward. He definitely had a thing for rough, and that knowledge thrilled you.

You leaned in, breathless, and whispered praises against his ear—how good he felt, how perfect he was, how he filled you like no one else ever had.

"Please," you begged, voice shaking.

Jack groaned, the sound catching in his throat. "You’re everything I've ever dreamed of," he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "You feel like heaven."

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed through clenched teeth, clearly loving it. "You take me so well," he murmured, lips brushing your temple, his hand smoothing along your spine. "So fucking good—perfect, you’re made for me."

"Jack—God, please—don’t stop," you whimpered, arching into him. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat at your words, his grip on your waist tightening like a man barely holding on.

"Never," he whispered. "Gonna keep you like this. You're mine."

Each word wrapped around you like silk, the praise as intoxicating as the rhythm of his hips. You drank him in like water in a desert, letting it fill every hollow part of you until you were burning with it—consumed, adored, alive.

Jack shifted, pulling you with him, guiding you until your hands were braced against the couch and your body arched for him. The air thickened as he pressed behind you, one hand splaying over your lower back, the other skimming down to grip your hip firmly.

He slid back inside slowly, a groan torn from his throat at the new angle. "Fuck, look at you—" he breathed, eyes roaming over the arch of your spine, the way your skin glowed beneath the dim lights.

Your breath caught at the intensity. He moved with purpose now, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the dim light. His grip bruised in the best way, grounding you, guiding you, adoring you with every thrust.

Every movement lit you up, sending shocks through your body until you were keening, meeting him stroke for stroke. Jack leaned over you, one hand splaying across your lower back while the other slipped beneath to rub tight, teasing circles over your clit. The added pressure was too much, the timing of his thrusts too perfect. You were a whining mess, trembling and begging for release, the pleasure cresting like a tidal wave.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "Let go for me. Give it to me."

You clawed at the cushions, barely able to hold yourself upright, your body burning at every point of contact. And when his teeth sank gently into your shoulder, scraping over sensitive skin and biting down with a growled praise, everything inside you shattered.

You came with a strangled cry, ears ringing, vision going white around the edges, the force of your orgasm crashing over you like fire and light. Jack held you steady, worshipful even now, as you pulsed around him—his voice in your ear, a low whisper of your name like a prayer he’d never stop saying. He pressed kisses down your shoulder blades, pausing to give you a break, his breath shaky with restraint.

Then, without a word, he gathered you into his arms, shifting you with care. He carried you up effortlessly, propping your legs over the edge of the couch so you were just hanging off, perfectly open for him. Nestled into the crook of your neck, Jack rocked into you with purpose, his thrusts slow but relentless, chasing his own release. Your hands wrapped protectively around his head, fingers stroking through his hair, grounding him.

"Are you going to fill me up?" you edged, voice breathless, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Have me dripping for days so everyone knows who I belong to?"

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he gasped.

That was it.

Jack shuddered, a low, desperate groan escaping him as he pressed himself deeper into you. He trembled, a broken moan tearing from his throat. His fingers clutched your thighs as he buried himself to the hilt, the sound of your voice—the permission, the trust—pushing him over the edge. His release surged through him, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, heart hammering as he held you close, breathless and undone. He collapsed gently against you, all tension melting as he pressed a kiss into your neck, lost in the aftershocks of something that felt like more than just pleasure.

A long moment passed before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the edges of his eyes glistening with overwhelmed want, cheeks flushed with effort and awe.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he murmured, cracking with disbelief. His gaze searched yours—earnest, sincere, undone.

He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, as if he couldn't stop reassuring himself you were real. "You okay?" he asked softly, still breathing hard. "Was that too much?"

You smiled through the afterglow, brushing your fingertips over his jaw. "I've never felt anything like that. It was perfect."

Jack exhaled a shuddering breath of relief, then smiled too—soft and disbelieving, like he’d just found something sacred.

Later, after the two of you had cleaned up and slipped beneath the covers, the world slowed to a hush. Jack lay beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other lazily tracing shapes across your skin. Hearts, spirals, question marks—he wasn’t thinking, just moving, touching, grounding himself in your presence.

The silence between you was full—not empty—with comfort and understanding, the kind only found in someone who sees every scar and stays anyway.

Your body ached in the sweetest way, muscles languid and sated. You felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths against your back, the heat of his body a constant balm. You turned slightly to glance at him, catching the way his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to meet yours.

"Stay with me?" you whispered, though it wasn’t really a question.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple. "Always."

Every quiet morning after that was a sort of miracle—waking tangled in his warmth, with the sun filtering through the curtains and the scent of coffee already brewing. Even the hardest days felt lighter, the sharp edges dulled by his steady presence, by the simple truth that he was yours, and you were his.

And in that stillness, that shared understanding, you knew: this was only the beginning.

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 1 month ago

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Honey

Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: "Golden honey glistens on his sun-kissed skin, tempting you to take a taste, and when you bend forward, licking up the syrup. Joel tastes sweet and salty. Sweat and honey." Warnings: smut, honey, unprotected p in v sex, honey dripping, clavicle and neck worship, sweaty joel miller, writer is ovulating and has a pulled back muscle so she can't fix it physically so she has to fix it mentally Words: 2,000

A/N: @forspringcleaning and I have talked about it A LOT and her petition worked. I know Joel just bought pretzels, but now he's getting covered in honey because when you're in your 30's you write porn for your fellow 🪿. Also, honey is said 30 times... deal with it.

Masterlist

🍯🍯🍯

You read Pollinators Of The Rocky Mountains from cover to cover, practically memorizing every single flower that would grow in Jackson. All that time, patience, and TLC have paid off. You’ve turned Joel’s backyard into a wildflower garden. The bee boxes he built you now house a colony of bees who have just given you your first jar of honey.

Real, sweet, golden honey. Thick and sugary. The perfect flavor, tasting of sunshine and growth.

You’re at the kitchen table, savoring the first bite of honey on bread, when you hear Joel’s boot steps against the worn, wooden floor of his home.

“Hey, honey,” he greets you with a tired grin on his face.

“Speaking of,” you say, holding up your delicacy. “Hot out?” you ask, noticing the sheen of sweat covering his body, the slight dampness to his wavy tendrils, the way his navy blue shirt clings to his body.

“Damn near ninety degrees 'n I was working outside all day helpin’ with the gate,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off.

“You know I don’t like your boots clomping in all that mud and dirt,” you say, taking a bite of your sweet bread.

“Forgive me,” he responds, lifting his shirt off and tossing it onto the back of a chair. “It’s too damn hot.”

He plops in his chair with a loud sigh and slumps back, his broad chest and soft belly on full display for you. You ogle him, his bronze skin freckled with sun spots across his shoulders. The plush of his stomach, softer in age and from a comfortable life in Jackson, rises and falls with each deep breath he takes. The light smattering of hair across his chest that runs down to sit just above his jeans. Between the taste of the sweet nectar of honey on your freshly baked bread and the sight of Joel Miller sitting next to you with his golden skin shining, you’re pretty sure you’re in heaven.

He watches you, his thick brows furrowed, his focus flicking from your eyes to your mouth.

“Gonna give me a bite?” he asks lowly.

“Here,” you say, mindlessly reaching the bread out to him.

“Nuh uh,” he says. “C’mere.”

You arch an eyebrow as he pats his thigh with his calloused hand.

“You’re all sweaty,” you protest, but you’re already standing.

“You never seem to mind.”

You settle on his lap, the heat radiating off his body instantly overheats you when he wraps his arms around you, his hands splaying against your back.

You hold the bread up to his lips. He takes a bite, his dark brown eyes never leaving yours as he chews, his jaw working slowly as he hums a low sound of appreciation. He swallows, and you follow the movement of his throat, the divots of his collarbones that you love so much still slick with sweat.

“Good?” you ask.

“Real good,” he answers, his eyes darkening as he watches you take a bite.

A drop of honey trickles from the corner of your mouth. Joel’s hungry eyes lock on it. He leans in, his tongue catching the golden syrup.

“Mm,” he groans. His tongue trails along the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. His tongue licks into your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, deliberately, tasting every inch of your honeyed mouth.

He pulls back. “You taste like honey,” he whispers. “Sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted.”

You chuckle temptingly. “Do I?”

You reach over to the jar on the table, dipping your index finger into the honey, bringing it to your mouth. You drag your honey-coated finger across your lips, covering them in the sticky sweet.

Joel’s hand comes up to grip your chin, tilting your face so he can examine your lips.

“Look at you,” he whispers.

He seals his mouth over yours, his kiss messy, his wide tongue cleaning your lips, gathering every drop of honey. Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the solid strength of him still under a hot and slick luster of sweat. Your hands slide farther up his damp chest until you reach the hollows of his collarbone.

An idea lights in your mind. You pull away from Joel and reach for the honey jar again. You dip your finger in, gathering even more honey than before, and carefully move your honeyed finger over his collarbone. The amber syrup drips down, pooling into the divots of his collarbone.

Golden honey glistens on his sun-kissed skin, tempting you to take a taste, and when you bend forward, licking up the syrup. Joel tastes sweet and salty. Sweat and honey.

Your tongue laps against the saccharine puddle collected at the dip of his collarbone, pulling a deep groan from Joel that vibrates against your lips.

“You’re killing me,” he grunts, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass when he grabs it, and pulls you closer. His hips shift underneath you, you can feel the poke of his hardening cock against you.

Your smile at the feel of him responding to you. You trail your tongue up his neck, nipping against his pulse point before following the strong angle of his jaw up to his mouth. Your mouth seals over his, his hands bunching your dress up before you separate from him to take it off, earning a deep growl from Joel when your bare chest is revealed to him.

He reaches for the honey jar, picking it up and turning it in his hand. “My turn,” he says.

Carefully, he tilts the jar above your chest. Honey cascades down in a thick ribbon onto your breast. You gasp at the sensation of the thick syrup pouring down across your nipple.

“Perfect,” Joel whispers before he leans forward and swirls his tongue around your hard, honeyed nipple. He collects every drip of sweetness with his tongue while his teeth gently graze against your nipple.

Your pussy craves friction with each swipe of his broad tongue against your sensitive skin. Your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down against Joel’s bulge. The soft, soaked cotton of your panties meets the rough denim of his jeans.

“Joel,” you keen, threading your fingers through the wavy locks of his hair, still slightly damp from his long day of work.

He begins bucking his hips up against you, and you can’t resist it any longer. Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle as you desperately pull at it. Your clumsy fingers—made even clumsier from Joel’s mouth savoring your breasts—unbutton his button and zip his zipper down.

Joel’s hips rise off the chair, lifting you with him as he grunts, one arm around your waist, the other tugging his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free.

You’re so needy for his cock to spear you, you don’t take your panties off, you just slide them to the side and brush your slick folds across Joel’s thick cock, rocking against him, coating his shaft in your wet arousal. A whine of Joel’s name escapes your throat when the head of of his cock presses against your needy clit.

“Fuck darlin’,” he gravels. “You’re so goddamn wet f’me.”

He captures your lips, your tongue licks against his honey, plush lips when he reaches down and grips your hips, lifting you to hover over his hard cock already leaking and ready to feel your cunt wrap around him.

You reach down, grasping his cock and giving him a couple strokes before you line him up against your channel. Slowly, you sit on him, taking him inch by inch. Your pussy accepts him greedily, his cock stretching you as he bottoms out, your ass meeting his lap as his cock pumps and moves against your walls.

“That’s it, honey,” he breathes against your lips. “Take all of me.”

You hold still, your quick breaths panting out against Joel’s lips as you settle with his big cock inside you, twitching with need for you before you begin to slowly rise and lower yourself.

Joel watches you bloom under his touch. Your love for him blossoms as you slowly move along his length.

The kitchen chair creaks beneath your bodies as Joel thrusts up into you, his hands tightening against your hips to guide you. His cock sits hot and heavy inside you, your knees bracketing both sides of his hips begin to shake under the feel of all of Joel thrusting in and out of you.

You crave more of the delicious feel of him, your cunt throbbing as you pick up your pace.

“Easy,” he rasps. “Greedy girl. Let me feel you.”

You don’t have words to respond, you nod frantically, slowing your movements.

His head falls back against the chair, his neck strained as he fights to control himself. The grip against your hips is so tight, you welcome the bruising sear of his touch.

You dip your finger into the jar again, painting honey into the divots of his neck again. Your tongue tastes Joel again, licking and sucking at his skin. Nothing feels better than the taste of honey on your tongue and the feel of Joel Miller’s big, wide cock fucking you senseless.

He slides his palms down your back to your ass, grabbing your ass to guide you up his cock before easing you back down.

“So tight f’me,” he marvels.

Your head lolls back as Joel’s cock drags against the velvet of your walls, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the kitchen. Joel’s breathing grows even more ragged, his jaw clenching as sweat beads across his forehead.

You nuzzle against the sharp rasp of his stubble, savoring the slight bite against your sensitive skin. Before you can even realize what you’re doing, you’re reaching into the honey jar again. A dollop of honey is collected on your fingertip, and you bring it to your mouth, smearing it against Joel’s lips.

Joel watches you, his pupils blown wide, making his brown eyes look black with desire. You surge forward, your tongue tracing the outline of his mouth before you lick across his soft lips. You devour every drop of honey from his skin, moaning and groaning desperate noises for him as he fucks you harder.

“Mine,” you growl against his mouth. He groans, a long, low sound that you love to hear.

Joel’s hips snap up into you faster and harder, your walls clench and unclench around his hard cock. He can sense you’re close, and when he moves a hand to between your legs, his thick finger softly brushing against your clit, you gasp into his mouth, your orgasm buzzing through your body, pleasure and release swarming through you, making you feel like the queen you are. Your nectar gushes around his cock, coating him in your wetness, the sticky sound of his cock pumping in and out of your soaked pussy echoes through the kitchen.

“That’s my girl,” Joel grunts as your pussy flutters and squeezes around him. “Cummin’ all over my cock, give me all your honey.”

You tremble on top of Joel, your body pulsing with aftershocks as he desperately fucks into you, chasing his own release.

“Fuck honey,” he groans, his hips stuttering against yours. “I’m cummin’ baby.”

His cock throbs inside you, filling you with his thick, hot cum his face nuzzling against your neck, his nose pressing into your skin, before he bites down on your sensitive skin there, stinging you with the feel of his teeth. He shudders beneath you, his big arms wrapping around you tighter, locking you against him as he holds you still, plugging his cum into your accepting cunt.

Both of you catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms, parts of your bodies still sticky with honey and sweat.

Joel raises his head, his brown eyes meeting yours. He leans in, his lips just a breath away from yours. “I love you,” he whispers, before giving you a kiss sweeter than honey.

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

Note

I had a funny thought

What if the Blue Lock boys had a gf who was super into chiropractics, and every time they complained about a sore neck or something, she just activated like a sleeper agent ready to crack some bones into place?

Maybe Bachira, Sae, Rin, Barou, and anyone else you wanted to add (or remove)

Feel free to ignore if you're not interested! (Or you closed your requests and I didn't notice)

“𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 🙏”

a/n: NO THIS IS GENIUS

ft. bachira meguru, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, barou shoei, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei

bachira meguru

“babe, my shoulder hurts.”

five seconds later, he’s lying facedown on the carpet with your knee on his spine and your hands twisted like you’re about to do a fatality move from mortal kombat.

“okay, but don’t make it worse–” CRACKKK

“i saw god,” he whispers.

starts intentionally walking into walls and sleeping in the worst positions possible just to “accidentally” need your services.

"what do you mean you dislocated your knee dancing to baby shark?"

“you’ll fix it, right? 🥺”

you have to stop practicing on his toes because he got too into it and now thinks he can crack other people's joints too.

"meguru, no. that’s a stranger. that’s a grandma."

once asked you to do a couple’s adjustment video with him for his tiktok. he titled it: “my chiropractor gf cracked me so good 😳💦”

you are banned from the comments section.

itoshi sae

mentions his neck hurts just once. once.

now you follow him around the apartment like a chiropractor on a stakeout.

he sits down, and suddenly your hands are on his shoulders like “you rang?” “i didn’t.” “but you thought it.”

he's always giving you the most deadpan “i’m tolerating this” expression as you twist him up like a pretzel and drop him on your knee like WWE.

meanwhile, his spine is out here singing the hallelujah chorus.

one time you adjusted his shoulder mid-conversation and he flinched so hard he almost roundhouse kicked you by accident.

“warn me next time, chiropractor gremlin.”

but lowkey? starts calling you “doc” under his breath. even sends you anatomy memes.

his love language is letting you fix him, but pretending he’s not enjoying it.

itoshi rin

acts like he doesn’t need you.

“i stretch. i don’t slouch. i’m fine.”

oh? then why did you hear his spine scream when he picked up a dropped sock.

rin freezes when you approach. like a cat being stalked.

“i’m not doing this right now.”

“your pelvis says otherwise.”

he finally lets you do it. and when his back cracks so loud it echoes through the apartment, he lets out this shameful little whimper.

and you catch him… smiling?

“did you just smile?”

“no. that was pain. deep pain.”

now you keep finding him in suspicious poses. like doing yoga near doorways. twisting his neck near you on purpose.

“need help?”

“… no.” (yes.)

he tries to resist, but his spine is in shambles and your chiropractic powers are like a siren song.

next thing you know, he's asking you to come over. “bring your little elbow move or whatever.”

barou shoei

"i don't need your weird crack therapy. i'm built like a god."

okay hercules. but your shoulder literally snapped when you opened a jar of peanut butter.

he tries to tough it out, but the noises his back makes sound like a car wreck in slow motion.

finally caves when you threaten to record him walking around like a malfunctioning robot.

he lies down and braces for death.

the first crack sends him to heaven and back. the second one? full body exorcism.

“i feel… reborn.”

“you’re welcome, broken toy.”

you’d think that’s the end, right? nope.

next morning he’s like “so when’s my next session” like it’s a scheduled business transaction.

turns into your #1 hater if you offer to crack someone else. “i’m your only client. don’t touch anyone else’s bones.”

insanely possessive about it.

one time you adjusted bachira and barou refused to speak to you for 24 hours. spine jealousy is real.

isagi yoichi

the first time you cracked his neck, he thought he was dying.

“OH MY GOSH, was that my soul???”

you had to calm him down like a panicked toddler. “yoichi, you’re fine.” “i saw my grandma.”

BUT THEN… the pain was gone. and the look he gave you was pure worship.

“what else can you crack?”

now this boy pulls out a list. like a shopping list. “right shoulder, left ankle, spine quadrant 3…”

always makes you do it right before a game for “luck.”

once had you crack his fingers and then blew a kiss to the sky like a k-drama character.

you caught him trying to adjust his own back by hanging upside down from the couch.

“yoichi, no–”

“yoichi, YES.”

0 self-preservation. 10/10 chiropractic enthusiasm. 100/10 in love with you and your magical bone-snapping hands.

nagi seishiro

he didn’t even ask. you just bent him over and heard the spine snap.

“sei.”

“yeah?”

“you’re gonna die before 25.”

he shrugs. which makes it worse. his shoulder popped. again.

the first time you cracked his back, he fell asleep mid-session.

“bro, you are SO lucky i’m licensed in fake chiropractor energy.”

now it’s a routine. he lies down, you sit on him like a couch, crack his entire skeleton, and then tuck him into bed like a 6'4 baby.

never complains. in fact, he starts calling it his “daily maintenance.”

“hey babe, oil me up and break me in like ikea furniture.”

refuses to stretch himself. “that’s what i have you for.”

gets so spoiled he doesn’t even get up anymore. just lifts a hand and goes, “crack, please.”

accidentally calls you “chiro-bae” and now you refuse to let it go.

kaiser michael

“ugh. my neck hurts.”

he says it like a prince awaiting servants. not knowing you just heard the bat signal.

you turn around in full chiropractor mode.

he flinches. “no. you’re doing the eyes again.”

“you complained. that’s a cry for help.”

“it’s not! i was being sexy about it!”

too late. he’s already lying flat on the bed like a human pretzel while you prep your hands like you're about to summon a demon.

“this won’t kill me, right?” CRACK. michael.exe has stopped responding.

he genuinely short-circuits. lays there, blinking. lips parted. hair a mess.

“… holy shit i think i saw jesus in a ferrari.”

immediately becomes obsessed. starts calling you “mein kleiner bonebreaker.”

now he fakes injuries during arguments.

“you’re mad at me? fine. crack me. punish me with alignment.”

sir, this is a medical service.

jealous when you offer to crack anyone else. he literally pouts. “you can’t go around giving your healing hands to the peasants.”

shidou ryusei

oh he loves this. too much.

“ryu, your posture’s awful.”

“wanna bend me? ;)”

he lies down too fast. no hesitation. he’s already shirtless and probably screaming “HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT.”

you try adjusting his back once and he moans.

“ryusei, WHAT–”

“sorry! reflex! wanna do it again? louder this time?”

you’re 90% sure he’s weaponizing the chiropractor roleplay.

starts calling you “my little spinal sorceress.”

at some point you have to start locking your door because he’ll barge in at 2 AM like “my kneecap popped funny. quick, do the thing!”

starts cracking your joints and insists it’s foreplay. you nearly deck him.

100% would fake an injury in the middle of a date just to get adjusted in public.

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sweetstrawberryys · 3 months ago

Text

"Cuddle Logistics: A König Dilemma”

Summary: All you want is to cuddle your giant boyfriend. All König wants is to hold you properly. Too bad he’s built like a tank and your bed is definitely not regulation size.

Rating: Fluff, Humor, Tenderness, Giant Man Softness.

Masterlist

---

You tried. Really, you tried.

You tucked yourself against König’s chest like you always imagined you would—warm, safe, and surrounded by massive arms that could probably crush a car but instead held you like you were made of glass.

Except...

“I can’t feel my arm,” you muttered.

“I can’t move any of mine,” König replied glumly.

You peeked up. He looked like a folded pretzel of sorrow.

Your poor, giant Austrian boyfriend had curled himself like a shrimp on your double bed—his legs dangling off the edge, one arm pinned under you, the other flailing uselessly in search of a place to rest.

“Maybe we just—switch positions?” you suggested.

He looked at you like you’d told him Santa wasn’t real. “I want to hold you, Schatz (darling). Not be your weighted blanket.”

“I like you as my weighted blanket.”

“You keep sliding off me like a sock on tile.”

“…Okay, fair.”

You sat up, brushing hair out of your face. König groaned softly, stretching his legs with a loud pop.

“You’re too big,” you sighed dramatically.

“You’re too small,” he huffed back, folding his arms with a pout under the mask.

You blinked. “Was that a pout?”

“Nein.”

“It was!”

“I am not pouting.”

“You totally are, König. Mein Grummelriese.” (My grumpy giant.)

“…I like it when you call me that,” he mumbled.

You laughed and crawled back to him. “Okay, compromise.”

He looked up hopefully.

You climbed into his lap, facing him, legs straddling his hips and arms wrapped around his broad chest. “You sit up. I sit on you. Now I’m the blanket.”

He blinked under the mask.

Then—arms wrapping slowly around your waist—he pulled you in and let out a soft, satisfied sound from deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Mein Herz (my heart).”

You nuzzled under his chin. “Told you. Problem solved. Logistics mastered. Cuddle physics defied.”

He chuckled.

And then neither of you moved for the next two hours.

Well—except for you adjusting slightly when his leg twitched in his sleep and knocked your water bottle off the nightstand.

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #cod x you #cod fanfic #könig x reader #konig call of duty #konig mw2 #könig cod #könig call of duty #konig cod #konig x you #konig x reader #könig mw2 #könig

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hoshifighting · 8 months ago

Note

It appeared on my twitter, that tiktok of the 95 line and hoshi and I swear I can't get out of my mind the way Hoshi mouthed "fuck like a p*rnstar". I feel dizzy 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

this video rents free in my mind, with that...

part 1 | part 2 (coming soon)

pornstar!hoshi who’s built a reputation as the guy who’s charming AND talented. he’s fully committed to—not just for the cameras, but because he’s having the time of his life.

pornstar!hoshi who’s playful but knows how to be professional on set. he cracks jokes while the lighting gets adjusted, his smile disarming everyone around him. “does this angle make my abs look good, or should I flex a little more?” he teases, winking at the camera crew. but the second they call action, he’s on. his expressions, his movements—it’s all so natural that you can’t help but admire him, even when you’re the one underneath him.

pornstar!hoshi who’s supposed to be acting, but the moment he’s buried inside you, all of that goes out the window. the cameras are rolling, the director is calling soft cues, but he doesn’t hear any of it. all he can focus on is you. the way your back arches, the way your lips part on a gasp that sounds so real it makes his head spin. he’s moving, sure, but it’s not for the cameras—he NEEDS to see you cumming for real.

pornstar!hoshi who treats his co-stars with the utmost respect, always checking in between takes. “you good?” he’d whisper in your ear, his hand resting lightly on your thigh as he made sure you were comfortable. “need water? a break?”

pornstar!hoshi who has this uncanny ability to make everything look so effortless. the way he moves on camera, the way he adjusts to your rhythm, the way he looks at you as if no one else is even there—even though there are six people holding boom mics and lights around you.

“fuck, y/n,” he groans during a particularly heated scene, his voice low and rough enough to make you moan louder. it’s not just for show—it’s genuine.

pornstar!hoshi who’s known for his hips—not just how he moves them, but how he controls them. he’ll start slow, teasing, just to make his partner wetter, and then speed up in a way that has you clutching at his shoulders, your mind going blank. “there it is,” he’d murmur, only you could hear it. “does it feels good huh? such a perfect pussy.”

pornstar!hoshi who isn’t afraid to improvise, pulling off moves that make directors and crew stop and whisper, “how the fuck does he do that?” he’s the guy who can make a simple grind look like art and who knows exactly how to make you arch, moan, forget that youre supposed to be acting—both on and off-camera.

pornstar!hoshi behind the scenes is somehow even more dangerous. why? he’s soft, attentive, and domestic in a way that takes you by surprise. he’ll sit beside you during breaks, sharing snacks and laughing about how awkward some angles feel.

“did you see how they wanted me to hold you earlier?” he says, mock pouting as he mimics an exaggerated pose. “i looked like a pretzel.”

“You always look like a pretzel,” you tease, stealing one of his chips.

when the other take starts, no difference, real fuck to real eyes. the makeup artist is standing off to the side, brush frozen in her hand, glances at the lighting tech, watching hoshi fully sweat, who’s wide-eyed and whispering, “uh… is this still part of the scene?”

it’s not, and everyone knows it. hoshi’s thrusts is too personal, the way his fingers circle your clit with too much enthusiasm, care even, like he’s memorized every little thing that makes you squeak or roll your hips harder against him. the room is quiet except for the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you and the soft, desperate noises spilling from your lips.

pornstar!hoshi who’s dizzy from the sight of you. your face is flushed, your chest rising and falling with every poor breath, and the way you gasp his name—so full of need—has him gone.

“come on, baby,” he murmurs urgently, his fingers speeding up on your clit as his cock angles just right, brushing that spot inside you that makes you roll your eyes. “you gonna cum for me? huh? let me feel it. let everyone fucking see it.”

your hand shoots out, grasping his wrist as you sob, “hoshi, I—fuck, I can’t—” but the words die on your lips, replaced by a moan so loud and needy that his hips stutter. he leans down, his forehead pressing against yours, his forehead and hair starting to get wet.

“you can,” he whispers, his voice breaking like he’s barely holding himself together. “you’re gonna. i need you to. please, y/n.” his body working overtime to bring you just to see you cumming because he needs to see it, needs to feel it.

“look at me,” he says, his voice cracking as his free hand tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. “look at me when you cum. let me see you.”

and when you finally do, your body tightening around him, his vision blurs. “that’s it, good girl, good girl—hm—fuckkk!” he groans.

the camera focuses tightly on where pornstar!hoshi is buried inside you, each thrust making you twitch as overstimulation sets in. you’re trembling now, gasping out broken noises that makes everyone confused its pleasure or exhaustion, your body convulsing around him. his hips falter for just a second before he hisses sharply, his head tipping back, a pained frown creasing his face.

he’s cumming, pumping into you like he’s helpless against the feeling of your wet cunt wrapping his tightly. even he looks surprised, glancing down at where you’re wrapped around him like he can’t believe it. when he finally slows, he pulls out just enough for the camera to capture the cum spilling from you, thick and unreal.

the director calls for a close-up, but hoshi’s already moving, his hand brushing against your thigh in a subtle, tender caress that’s out of sight from the cameras. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin, grounding you as the scene comes to a close.

“cut!” the director calls out. “that’s a wrap!”

hoshi doesn’t react immediately. he leans down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that catches you off guard. his tongue slides against yours, wet and warm, moving with a craving that feels almost private.

your eyes widen for a moment, but you give in, your fingers clutching weakly at his arm. when the director announces again that the shoot is officially over, hoshi pulls back, his lips brushing yours one last time before he closes his eyes. he plants a quick peck on your lips before shifting back to help you sit up.

as you adjust yourself on the edge of the bed, his assistant rushes over with a robe, but hoshi waves them off and takes it himself. instead of covering his own body, he wraps it around you, his hands careful not to disturb you too much.

“there,” he murmurs, tying the sash loosely around your waist. “better?”

you nod, sipping on the juice box that someone from the crew had handed you, looking strangely unbothered by the fact that you’d been riding him like your life depended on it just minutes ago.

hoshi, now half-dressed, stands nearby talking to his assistant, his hand absently twirling a strand of your hair. the motion is lazy, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

you can’t quite make out what they’re discussing—something about scheduling and timing—but when his assistant walks off, you glance up at him curiously.

“what was that about?” you ask, your voice hoarse from all the moaning earlier.

hoshi smirks, running a hand through his messy hair. “nothing big. just checking my schedule.” he pauses, leaning down a little closer to you. “i heard it’s your first time in town, though.”

“yeah?” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “so… i was wondering if i could take you out. show you the town... like… on a date.”

you blink at him, caught off guard. “a date?”

“yeah,” he repeats, his grin softening into something almost shy. “off-camera. no scripts, no director yelling cut. just you and me.”

you sip your juice, feigning nonchalance even though your heart’s doing cartwheels. “i guess i could fit you into my schedule,” you tease.

hoshi chuckles, his hand brushing against your cheek before he straightens up. “good. because I wasn’t gonna take no for an answer.”

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hedwig221b · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! May I ask for stereo fic recs? I am looking for same, where derek doesn't know stiles knows about werewolfs and supernatural world (can be magical or not) and starts dateing him anyway. Thanks a lot!

Hello! Okay, full transparency: I read the ask wrong and found you the reverse trope, where Stiles doesn't know about werewolves, but Derek dates him anyway... Only after the fact did I realize my mistake, then went to search for the fics, and didn't find any... So, if anyone knows any of them, please, rec them in the replies or reblogs!

I'll post these ones anyway, maybe you'll forgive me 😭

This I Can Handle by stileskolpath

"Stiles had to admit, there was something off about his boyfriend. Derek was quiet, brooding, and built like a greek god. Seriously, Stiles questioned every dating choice he had ever made just by simply watching his shirt ride up his back, revealing a tract of flawless skin, pulled taut over ridges of muscle. It made Stiles want." aka that time when Stiles didn't know that Derek was a werewolf and was angsty about it.

I Was Enchanted (To Meet You) by linksofmemories_archive

Stiles turned around, grabbing a tiny pretzel sandwich before looking back to the floor, and locking eyes with someone across the room. This was fine. Things like this happened. You locked eyes and then you quickly looked away and pretended that the other person didn’t exist. Except Stubble McDreamy with the gorgeous green eyes wasn’t looking away and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to look away either.

Did I mention (that I'm in love with you) by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)

Stiles is pretty sure that Derek Hale hates him, judging by the way he disappears from the room the second Stiles enters. Derek is pretty sure that the entire world knows about his crush on Stiles Stilinski, and that’s why he has to avoid him. For once the werewolf thing isn’t even his biggest secret.

Returning the Favor by aurevell

When Derek peers down into the dark, he finds the worst thing imaginable: his boyfriend, scaling the side of the house like some deranged cat burglar. "What are you doing here?" Derek hisses. Stiles pays a nighttime visit to his boyfriend in secret, or so he thinks. Unfortunately, the Hale family has keener ears than he realizes.

(Mates Are) Magical Bullshit by TheRealDanniX

Derek hasn’t felt his wolf in years. Stiles doesn’t know werewolves are real. Mates are a thing and the Hales are super protective of their Stiles.

Hide by dr_girlfriend

Stiles has been rejected so many times that it doesn't really surprise him when it happens again. Hurts, yeah, because dammit — he'd thought Derek was the one. Heartbreak sucks, and he's not so sure he's going to get over it this time.

Dress code violation by Marishna

Derek wanted to let his head fall back, close his eyes, and drift off into an easy, brain-meltingly amazing orgasm. But Stiles was knelt between his spread legs and was slurping on his cock, making the most indecent noises with his mouth as he sucked and rolled the head of Derek's dick like a lollipop. Derek couldn't look away even if he wanted to.

Bait by CelestialVoid

Stiles is kidnapped as bait for Derek, but when Derek comes to save his boyfriend, he reveals something—something big.

A Treatise on the Importance of Not Ignoring Your Date by LadySlytherin

A tumblr-post-based fic, wherein Stiles and Derek have a meet-cute at a baseball game. Involves a kiss-cam, Stiles' date being an ass, and a hot stranger. Basically, Peter doesn't survive the fire so Laura and Derek never go back to Beacon Hills, Scott's never bitten, Stiles doesn't know about the supernatural, and he goes to NY for college. Go, Mets!

and one of mine,

Wait For Me

"Stiles, we know about your Spark,” Scott looked at Stiles with desperate eyes, trying to convey something. “He is the Werewolf who's been chasing you. You must run. We’ll help you…” Stiles stared at his friend, genuinely concerned for his sanity, because the nonsense he was sputtering was really fucking confusing.

[masterlist link]

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fic #stiles x derek #sterek fanfic #hedwig221b replies #sterek fic rec #sterek fanfiction #sterek ao3 #eternal sterek #teen wolf sterek #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf derek #teen wolf au

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purplemoon7 · 4 months ago

Text

Cinnamon

Masterlist

written in honor of my favorite scented candle.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Min Yoongi is softest when he's with his girls.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — dad!Yoongi x black!reader (married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.4k

Warnings! FLUFF! nothing but pure fluff here, domestic husband!Yoongi, girl dad!Yoongi, soft dad energy (he's such as sap), cinnamon sugar chaos, established relationship, soft suggestive scene, married intimacy, lots of affection, cozy parenthood vibes, and a whole lot of love

The first thing that hits you the moment you open the front door is the smell of cinnamon.

Not the artificial, cloying kind you get from a candle.

No, this is the real deal—rich and warm and a little sweet, like toasted sugar swirling in the air. It clings to your coat, your hair, the fibers of your scarf, wrapping around you like a hug you didn’t know you needed. And it’s sticky too—thick enough that your mouth waters a little before your eyes have even adjusted to the dim, golden light of the penthouse.

You drop your keys into the little ceramic dish by the door—hand-painted by tiny fingers, initials scrawled messily at the bottom—and pause to unbuckle your boots, already smiling.

There's soft music playing somewhere in the background, something lo-fi and jazzy, and the hum of conversation between child and father is quiet but steady.

Then you hear it.

"Appa, I need more pwetzel dough!"

Her little voice, full of unfiltered urgency and zero patience, rings out loud and clear, followed by a loud splat!—the unmistakable sound of something wet and doughy hitting the counter.

You glance up, already grinning, and spot the top of a curly little head barely visible over the kitchen island. A mess of black coils bounces as she moves, half of them held back in a crooked little puff, the other half determined to escape any kind of order. She's standing on that wooden step stool Yoongi built himself when she first started wanting to “help” in the kitchen.

“I leave the house for two hours and suddenly you’re a baker now?” you call, amused, as you make your way further in.

Yoongi looks up at the sound of your voice, a crooked grin stretching across his face. There’s flour on his cheek, smudged near the corner of his mouth like he tried to scratch an itch and forgot he was covered in ingredients. His black sweater sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted in flour and sugar. But the look in his eyes tells you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“She said she wanted cinnamon pretzels,” he replies, like that explains everything. And with Yoongi, it kind of does. “And you know I’m weak.”

You snort, padding into the kitchen. “You could've said no.”

“How can I?” he mutters, eyes focused on the tiny whirlwind in front of him, face softened entirely—eyes half-lidded, watching her with a kind of wonder that hasn't left his eyes since the day she came into the world.

Haeri, on the other hand, is completely in her element—elbows deep in a lump of dough, kneading it like it owes her money.

Her little fingers are coated in flour and sugar, her face pink with effort, her tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. Yoongi has one steady hand on her back, keeping her balanced as she works, instinctively protective even in moments like this. Always there. Always watching.

“Hi, baby,” you say, leaning around Yoongi to kiss her plump cheek.

She looks up at you, finally acknowledging your presence, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “Mama!” she squeals, holding up her dough-covered hands like she’s just struck gold. “I make this!” And she looks so much like him in the moment that you feel your heart skip a beat in your chest. A carbon copy.

“Mhm,” you agree, running your hands over her baby curls. “Is it yummy?”

“Not yet,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Need more suga.” And then she turns back to Yoongi. “Appa, where suga?”

“Right here, aegi.” He gestures to the little glass bowl beside her, smiling down at her.

“Thank you!” she chirps, and you watch as he helps her scoop out the sugar, guiding her little hand in pouring it into the dough.

You can’t help the warmth that floods your chest at the sight.

“Appa, we add cinnanon now?” she asks.

“In a minute,” Yoongi replies, steadying her when she almost overpours the sugar. “You gotta make sure the dough is ready first. It needs to be warm and soft. If it's too cold, the cinnamon won’t stick.”

She nods like she understands, even though you know she probably doesn’t. But that’s just the way Yoongi is—patient and methodical, always willing to explain things to his little angel. Even when the process is slow and repetitive.

They knead the dough together, Yoongi’s large hands wrapped around her little ones, and you can’t help but smile at the sight of his big hands pressed against her little ones.

“Okay,” Yoongi says. “Now it's time for the cinnamon.”

“Yay!” she cheers.

Her little fingers work to knead the mixture of sugar and cinnamon into the dough, and she doesn't complain at all, even as it sticks to her skin. She keeps working diligently, humming to herself, the occasional squeal of excitement escaping her lips.

You watch, grinning at the little crease in her brow, at her little mouth, whispering under her breath as she concentrates. And your heart is so full in the moment, so full that you think it might burst. You feel it in your fingertips, in your chest, in every inch of you.

Your little family.

They make pretzels together—twisting and folding the dough until they have a row of perfect golden twists. And you watch, warm and content, as your two favorite people in the world work together, Haeri chattering the whole time. Talking to Yoongi about everything on her mind; something she saw on TV, something her friend at daycare said, and how she wants to make pink pretzels next time, her little lisp making every word sound cuter. And he listens, of course, like he always does. Like she’s the most interesting person in the world.

“Appa say pink food taste weird,” she tells you very seriously. “But I think he just scawed.”

“You might be right,” you reply with a wink.

She practically preens, lips stretching into a smile identical to her father's, puffing out her chest a little before diving right back into the dough with the intense focus of a Michelin chef. Yoongi finally lifts his attention from her, and when he looks at you, it’s like the world slows down just a little.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and full of that quiet affection that always makes your heart stutter.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, stepping into his space. His arms slips around your waist naturally, being mindful of his flour-covered hands.

You melt into him, resting your forehead against his chest, and breathe him in. He smells like cinnamon and flour and something warm that you can’t quite name. There’s flour in his eyelashes, and his hair is just a little too fluffy—like he's run his hands through it too much. The way he does when he's frustrated. And knowing your daughter, he probably was. You smile, brushing your nose against his.

“You been okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “She’s got me on a schedule,” he whispers like it’s a secret. “We made dough. Then we let it rise. Then she told me it was ‘too sleepy’ and punched it.”

You snort. “Sounds about right.”

He leans in again, lips grazing your ear. “You smell like outside. And coffee.”

“That’s because I stopped by that bookstore you like,” you murmur. “Picked up that vinyl you were eyeing, too.”

Yoongi pulls back slightly, eyes going wide with the kind of wonder you never get tired of seeing on his face. “Seriously?”

“First press,” you say, unable to stop the smug smile tugging at your lips. “Packaging’s gorgeous.”

He exhales like you just handed him a ticket to another planet. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You deserve it. Why don't you go wash up so you can play it? We'll listen to it together.”

His smile softens as he nods, and he presses one more kiss to your cheek before you gently shoo him toward the hallway.

“Hurry,” you say. “I’ll wrangle our junior baker into a proper apron and figure out how to clean up this war zone.”

He chuckles, giving your cheek a playful nip before stepping away. Your daughter looks up just then, cheeks flushed, nose dusted with flour, curls wild and sticking to her forehead.

You glance at the clock. Nearly five.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you say, crouching down so you’re eye level with her. “What if we turn the rest of the dough into cinnamon bites instead? That way, we can pop them in the oven now and they’ll be ready before bedtime.”

She tilts her head, considering. “Can I bring some to school for my fwiends?”

“Of course.”

She flashes a grin that melts your whole heart. “Then yes.”

By the time the dishes are washed and the sticky bits of flour are scrubbed off the counters, the kitchen smells like heaven. Brown sugar, cinnamon, a hint of butter melting into the air like a love letter written in scent.

The oven hums softly, casting a glow that flickers like candlelight, and you feel it—the shift in the atmosphere. The way the house settles into itself in the evening, slower, quieter.

The living room is bathed in soft golden light now, a pale amber stretching across the rug and walls. Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent behind the rooftops. Inside, athe vintage vinyl crackles on the record player, making everything taste better. He hums along, low and steady, purring in the back of his throat.

Haeri is curled up on the couch, half-buried beneath a Hermes blanket. Her little legs are tucked under her, feet sticking out in mismatched socks, a sippy cup cradled in her tiny hands, looking like the most precious thing in the world. Her lashes flutter, heavy with sleep, and her thumb strokes absent circles on the side of the cup.

She’s fading, slow and soft like a candle burning low.

You and Yoongi move around each other in a rhythm of practiced intimacy. You don’t speak much—you don’t need to. He passes you the remote without asking. You hand him the plate of cinnamon bites, still warm from the oven and still soft in the center. He sets it down and, without a word, places a glass of wine in your hand.

Your fingers brush. Your eyes meet. And something passes between you in that glance—tired, yes. But also grateful.

You sit beside each other on the couch, close but not quite touching, like two magnets hovering just before the pull. There's a brief silence, the kind that only comes when the world is finally quiet enough to let you breathe. The record spins. Your daughter sighs softly in her sleep.

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder—soft, slow.

His hand finds your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth over the fabric of your sweats, and when you glance over, his eyes are already on you. Warm. Dark. Intense in that quiet, Yoongi way that always makes your breath catch.

Eyes locked on yours, not breaking contact, he whispers, “So fucking gorgeous.”

You snort, lowering your glass. “Is that so? Pretty sure I’ve got flour in my bra right now.”

His hand moves from your thigh to brush a stray coil behind your ear, his touch featherlight. There’s always something disarming about the way he touches you—like he’s memorizing, not just feeling. Not taking a single second of you for granted.

“Always,” he says, voice low.

You shake your head, trying not to grin as you bite your bottom lip. The smile wins anyway, tugging its way free, a sweet secret between the two of you. You lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side, and his arm slips around your shoulder.

You exhale against him, warm and safe. His sweater smells like cinnamon and something distinctly him—maybe cologne, maybe studio dust, maybe just love.

His other arm stretches out along the back of the couch, hand resting lightly over your daughter’s blanket-covered frame. She stirs slightly, then quiets again, her tiny hand curling a fist into his sweater.

It’s moments like this, you think—these quiet, stitched-together seconds—where you thank God for the little paradise He’s blessed you with.

Then you feel it—his lips, brushing the side of your neck. Not quite a kiss. More like a thought spoken into your skin.

“When’s the last time we had a night to ourselves?” he murmurs.

Your body stills, muscles tightening just a little in surprise, but not rejection. Just… it's been a while. Weeks, maybe more.

Between your daughter's growing independence (and even more intense clinginess), Yoongi’s late-night studio sessions, your own long days—you’ve both slipped into survival mode. Teamwork mode. Love still there, but mostly quiet, steady, habitual.

But now? Now the house is warm and dim, the weight of the day is finally off your shoulders, and his hand is drawing slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

Your skin begins to hum beneath it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums again, this time a little closer to your ear. His lips drift down to your shoulder, his nose nudging aside the strap of your tank top, and it sends a slow burn up your spine.

“I’m thinking,” he starts, “that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I wanna make you feel that.”

You shiver, not from cold.

Your pulse jumps beneath your skin.

“We could sneak away,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing the line of your jaw now. “Just for a little while. Set up the monitor. Thirty minutes, maybe an hour, if the universe is kind.”

You glance toward your daughter’s sleeping form. She’s still, the slow rise and fall of her chest telling you that she's in deep sleep. You hesitate for half a beat.

“And if she wakes up?”

“Then we stop,” he replies without missing a beat. “But maybe we get lucky.”

You look back at him—at those familiar eyes, soft but intense. There’s heat in them now, yes. But also tenderness. Patience. Love that never asks too much.

You reach out and run your hand through his hair, fluffing the strands at his nape, letting your fingers tangle there.

“You better make it worth it, Min Yoongi,” you whisper, lips close enough to brush his.

He smirks, slow and confident, his mind already conjuring up every which way he's going to make you fall apart.

“You know I always do.”

— Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

#bts x black reader #bts x reader #bts #moon #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi #yoongi x black reader #yoongi x reader #yoongi

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milkloafy · 1 year ago

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wait..... this is hella cute!!! <3<3<3<3<3<3<3 if ur free to do reqs could you do hsr boys summer headcanons? im not sure if theyre open so it's fine if u dont thx!!! 🩷🩷

SUMMER SUN; SUMMER FUN — AVENTURINE, DAN HENG, JING YUAN

⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: ty anon for the request!! :> yes they are open so request awayyy ! i love summer sm best season fr so this was such a fun vibe to write :3 i hope u enjoy! i wasn’t sure which hsr guys u wanted so i just picked my current favs AHDKSLDK

𝜗𝜚 — AVENTURINE

aventurine would love going to the beach with you

building sand castles, picking seashells, jumping over the shallow waves along the shore

it all feels fun and refreshing to him. something he did not have the luxury to feel when he was younger

at your encouragement, he signs the two of you up for surf lessons one day

aventurine is…not a natural

you’re both falling off the boards and needing the instructor to come and fish you out of the waves

after a few too many close calls, aventurine decides he never wants to go surfing again

when the sun sets and golden hour hits, you take one million photos of aventurine, at minimum

he models and poses for you, enjoying your excitement whenever you get a good shot

once you’d had your fill, aventurine sneaks a few photos of you as well

he shows you his favorite beach pic of you with a smile

“you’re prettier than the sunset”

aventurine ends the day off by buying ice cream for the two of you as you head home <3

𝜗𝜚 — DAN HENG

while dan heng likes the warmth, he is not a fan of the summer heat

he prefers staying indoors during the summer, at the library or in museum with minimal walking around outside during the day

however, he does like sitting underneath the shade of a tree and reading a book

some days, he’ll set up a hammock between two trees and ask you to join him

when the heat cools down and the darkness graces the earth, dan heng likes to walk around and go stargazing

the temperature is perfect at night—not too hot but also not cold enough to need anything other than a long sleeve shirt or a light jacket

dan heng has read about all the constellations you can see in the summer

he’s disappointed there’s too much light pollution in most places, but for the stars he can see, he points it out to you and explains the story behind it

what constellation it’s part of, what planet is next to it, is that a space vehicle or a cosmo?

he would definitely go on one of those websites that sell you a star lmao and “buy” one for you

even though he’s aware it’s a scam, he know you’d find it cute. dan heng shows you the certificate of your new star ownership and the two of you look for the coordinates in the night sky together <3

“you deserve the universe, but for now i got you a star”

𝜗𝜚 — JING YUAN

jing yuan thinks going to an amusement park is the peak summertime activity

doesn’t matter if you are sweating buckets waiting in the long lines surround by body heat. jing yuan comes prepared. he has a hat, a battery-powered fan with a built-in mist spray, and water bottles with ice

of course, he shares all that with you once you get tired of using your foldable fan

jing yuan is an amusement park snack afficionado. a salty pretzel? yes. a sweet treat? yes. a whole ass turkey leg? also yes.

you are never hungry during your outing since jing yuan has you covered

when you want photos taken of you, you show jing yuan exactly how you want it—angle and zoom and everything

yet when he takes the photo, it comes out off

crooked. blurry. you’re half cut off…

the only good photo he took of you is one where you weren’t prepared and have a horrendously silly look on your face

“jing yuan… delete that right now.”

“why? i believe it is called a ‘candid’ by the young folks. very popular.”

you may not have come out with good photos of yourself, but at least you and jing yuan had fun and will treasure these memories forever. no matter how bad the photo to capture it is.

#why do i headcanon summer jing yuan as 100% dad vibes? idk i just see it ok #hsr x reader #dan heng x reader #aventurine x reader #jing yuan x reader #hsr headcanons #hsr fluff #hsr imagines #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader

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mannequinreligi0n · 8 months ago

Text

Kinda I Want To

vergil gets pegged, that’s it

pairing: vergil x reader

wc: 2k

warnings: nsfw! - pegging, male receiving

author’s note: it’s my birthday today :D as a present, pls accept vergil riding the strap - enjoy !

It took Vergil almost two weeks to muster up the courage to ask you for what he wanted. Every single day, he’d open your shared closet to fish out clothes, only to have the bag at the bottom of the closet taunt him. He knew it was silly to be nervous - you were his partner of two years, who had seen him in every imaginable way. But the thought of physically voicing his wants, especially something so selfish, made Vergil’s heart rate abnormally spike.

He found you in the bathroom, freshly showered and getting dressed to leave for work. All thought momentarily slipped his mind as soon as he walked in, stormy blues hyper-focued on your hands tugging at the button to your jeans.

“Vergil? Did you need something, honey?”

Your voice snaps his attention back and he centers it on your face instead, his own fingers clenching around the sides of his pajama bottoms. It was too much - his chest felt tighter and his sweaty palms shook at his side. Why was he so scared? What if you said no? He wouldn’t be able to live with the embarrassment. He would have to move out, fly to a new state. Maybe change his name. Sell his car, close his bank account, start a new-

“Helloooo? Earth to Vergil?” You tilted your head with a short chuckle, stepping up to him and pinching his cheek. Vergil blinked hard at you and jolted slightly from the physical contact, his anxious train of thought halting.

“I-, sorry…..I…I….have a re-request…for when you get home,” he finally mumbles out, clearing his throat after and fixing his posture to seem more sure of himself.

“Okay,” you shrug gently and drop your hand from his face, nodding softly. “Ask away.”

“The…I want…I wish to-…eereuuggh! Dammit, woman!” Vergil turns away his head from you, face firetruck red as he mutters frustratedly to himself. He takes a harsh deep breath before squeezing his eyes shut, the words jumbled together. “Iwantthestrapagain. There, I said it.”

There was a moment of silence before you shrugged again and stepped away from him, collecting some things from the bathroom counter. “Yeah, alright,” you finally reply, making a face of indifference. “I’ll be home after 6.”

“That’s it?” Vergil scowls down at you, a look of offense plastered on his features. He just voiced his deepest desire, and you’re treating it like he asked you to pick up bread on the way home. It was both insulting and baffling to him.

“Yes, that’s it. Now, excuse me, I’m gonna be late,” you chirp out, hopping up to peck a kiss on his lips before sliding past him to leave. Vergil remained frozen in place, looking around the bathroom in confusion. He couldn’t believe you agreed so easily, no convincing needed. He had built up a whole case in defense of his claim, and you agreed without even questioning him, as if it was a given.

God, he loved you so much.

——————

Vergil paced around the house for hours, occupying himself with cleaning or mindless tv as the time drone by. How could he be normal when as soon as you got home, you were gonna have him bent over into the duvet? He found himself looming over the bag in the closet, hands reaching down for it with anxious fingers. The strap was disassembled, the leather harness detached from the 8 incher. Just feeling the leather against his skin brought back memories of the first time - his large hands digging into your hips as you fucked into him, legs pretzel folded to his chest. He couldn’t wait - he needed to feel it, to be reminded of that full feeling he craved.

Fuck it.

Vergil tossed the bag into the queen sized bed and waltzed into the bathroom to prep.

———————

When you got home, Vergil was passed out on your shared bed, snoring faintly as a blanket haphazardly covered his bare form. You thought nothing of it til you caught a glimpse of your harness discarded on the floor and its attachment on the other side of the bed. Walking over and picking it up, you stifle a laugh as you swat Vergil’s arm with it, the silicone bouncing off his arm with a comical ‘slap’. With a groan, Vergil sits up groggily and rubs at his eyes.

“What is this?” You hold up the slicked dildo at Vergil with an accusatory glare, fighting back a smile.

“I, um-,” Vergil stared at your hand with guilt, hair sticking up and pillow lines on his face from his nap. He knew he shouldn’t have been so hasty, so greedy, but the strap had personally mocked him. How was he supposed to wait til you got home? “……I couldn’t wait,” he finally murmurs out sheepishly, pulling the covers better over himself as if preparing to be scolded.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?”

Vergil watches you like a hawk as you set down the dildo and walk around the bed to collect the harness from the ground to reattach the two pieces. You slip off your clothing, kicking them away, and fasten the harness to your hips, the leather straps making snug impressions against your skin.

“You wanna show me what you did while I was gone?” You ask, tilting your head at him with an endeared smile, not a hint of anger on your face. Vergil blinked at you dumbly, expecting to have been punished for his selfish act, but remembered himself and scrambled off the bed, nearly taking a dive to the ground as his lanky legs tangled in the duvet. He stands upright and gestures to the bed with a goofy smile, chest huffing with excited breaths. His eyes follow you as you climb onto the bed, heading up to lean against the headboard. He waited until you patted your lap to crawl up to you, exposed cock half-hard and leaning to the side as he hovers over you. Swallowing back the nervous pool of saliva in his mouth, he leans down and kisses you tenderly, puffs of air brushing your face as your noses collide. You’re the first to break the kiss, pressing a few chaste pecks around his mouth before speaking.

“Ready? Or do you need time?”

“Ready,” Vergil murmurs against your cheek, strands of silver hair tickling your forehead as he nods. He wiggles his large form above you, getting into position but also keeping most of his weight off of you to not crush you into the mattress. One hand curls around the headboard whilst the other clings to your shoulder, fingers flexing against your skin.

“Go ahead, honey,” you whisper, looking up at him with what Vergil could only discern as pride, “take what you want.”

Vergil lets out a shaky chuckle and nods again before positioning the tip of the strap to his hole. He slides down halfway with a muffled grunt, brow knit together and teeth biting down on his puffy lower lip. His eyes flutter shut for a few beats as he adjusts to the stretch before reopening them, blue irises searching your own eyes for reassurance. A steady hand wraps around his twitching length, pumping him slowly with an affirming nod of your head. Vergil gasps at the contact, blunt fingernails digging into your shoulder as he juts toward hand, making the strap glide into him. The strap is fully sheathes into him and Vergil’s jaw goes slack as he ruts against your palm, the combination of your slicked hand and the fullness of the strap making every coherent thought leave him completely.

With several concentrated breaths, Vergil gathers himself and lifts his hips slightly to start riding you, thighs tight around your sides. He grabs your hand from his sensitive cock, choosing to entwine your fingers together and keep your hand away from him so he doesn’t come prematurely. His hand squeezes yours tightly as he rolls his pelvis up and down, the head of the dildo rubbing into his g-spot repeatedly every time he takes it all the way back in.

“Look at you…so pretty for me,” you coo in a hushed tone, eyes focused on the blissful expression on his usually stern face. Vergil smiles bashfully, sharp canines flashing you before a moan twists his face, making his head lull back with heavy breaths.

“I’m-…I’m doing good?” Vergil peeks his eyes open to you as he musters the strength to lift his head, a faint pout on his mouth. He kind of hated how pathetic he looked right now, vulnerable and seeking validation, but you never judged him, never made him feel ashamed or unsafe. As much as he loved being stuffed by you (even if artificially), he loved the connection it brought immensely more. As long as you were there, it made all of it enjoyable and worth it.

“You’re doing wonderfully, my sweet boy,” you murmur back to him, reaching up with your free hand to cup his face. Vergil sighs out a whimper and leans further into your hand, nuzzling the smooth, warm fingers against his skin. That’s all the permission he needs to keep going, eyelids slipping back down as he quickens his pace. Vergil shifts his weight to his knees and rides up and down, up and down again, every pass drawing out a weak groan or choked whimper. You watch in awe as your lover fucks himself into elysium, his face dusted red from effort. Vergil starts to slow slightly as his breathing picks up, thighs trembling around you, and you decide to help him out a bit, matching his steady bounces with thrusts of your own. The headboard rattles as he keeps his grip firm around the metal frame, head slumped forward and drool forming on his lip as he halts above you to let your hips do the work. His eyelids flutter and he drops your hand to return it to your shoulder for stability.

“There, there..” he whines to you lamely, the saliva sputtering on his lip and forming a string down to your cheek. In any other scenario, you’d wipe it away with mock disgust or tease him for it, but holy hell, he looks like an angel right now - cheeks cherub pink, lips swollen from biting them, eyes rolled back into his head. It was a vision of heaven, and you refused to sour it. Your hand now free, you reach back over to his leaking cock, slicking your hand with precum and stroking it in time to your thrusts into him. Vergil mewls at the contact, pout deepening as incoherent whispers escape him. It only takes a few more passes of your hand before he whimpers out a limp, late warning, white and sticky seed spurting out of his tip. He sits back onto the strap, pelvis pathetically twitching into your hand as cum drips down your fingers and his abdomen. Slowing your hips to a stop, you brush your hand on his face through his hair and lick your other hand clean, watching him catch his breath.

Vergil’s eyes slowly creak open and he catches sight of you sucking your digits free of his seed, making his tired cock twitch in his lap. He growls out a faint ‘mine’ and swipes your hand your mouth, suctioning his mouth to three of your fingers, moaning at the heady taste. You only chuckle in return, a fond smile gracing your face as you watch in delight.

��Satisfied?” You ask cheekily, pulling your hand from his mouth.

Vergil frowns as you pull away from him, opting to hold your hand again instead to maintain contact. “I want more,” he pouts, shifting his weight on your lap.

“More? You’re so spoiled,” you laugh warmly, pinching his side with your free hand. “Alright, you devil, hands and knees for me.”

He perks up at the command, crouching over to kiss you briefly before emptying himself of the strap with a groan, crawling to the center of the bed to position himself for you.

#vergil sparda #devil may cry #dmc #fanfic #writing #oneshot #smut #dmc vergil #vergil sparda x reader #devil may cry smut #vergil x reader #vergil smut #dmc smut #vergil devil may cry

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gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

Text

Stranger danger (slasher!Konig x fem!Reader)

You never wanted to go to this stupid party. Turns out, you were right all along - it doesn't save you from this weird guy in a Ghostface mask though. Warnings and tags: Non-con, size difference, knives, slasher-y, slight degradation, obsessive Konig, yandere Konig, praise kink Word count: 3069 AO3

You told your friends you didn’t want to go to this stupid party. No one cared. You asked them for at least a funny group costume, and everyone agreed – only to bail at the fucking party, so you were the only one who went as a freaking ant from that one extremely sad meme. With a little handkerchief on a stick and everything. No one got it.

You told your friends that you wouldn’t want to get drunk unless they would be with you because, honestly, college parties are the worst, and you don’t want anyone to get roofied. They left you by the snack table, making you eat smarties and occasional chips like salt counts don’t exist.

You were munching on a particularly tough pretzel – the packaging was saying something in German, as exotic as this college could fucking get without being too scared of spices – when The Guy dropped himself on the couch next to you.

Yes, The Guy – because you were in no right to call him just a guy, a dude, a lil’ bro, or anything like that. He was way over 6 feet, probably creeping on being the new form of a fancy light post, and built like a bear that was eating nothing but protein and particularly tasty American tourists. Dressed in all black, very original, he must love spending time in various shops and choosing between 50 shadows of the same dark attire.

At this point, you were not surprised that he was wearing a Ghostface mask. At this point, you lost all of your capabilities to be surprised – only slightly intrigued, perhaps, and a little bit aroused when he manspreaded his legs and pushed his knee right against your leg, not stopping until he crammed you to the corner of a sofa. How the one man could take so much space, you had no idea. What he was eating to grow up this big – also.

He looked like at least three frat boys from a sports team crammed together in one body. Tight muscles that could be seen even through the bagginess of his clothes – you aren’t sure if you could survive looking at his pecks without wanting to give up all of your life earnings for a gym membership.

— Hey.

A master of flirting, you just needed someone to talk to.

The Guy didn’t respond.

You frowned – a typical college boy would already try to flirt with you, probably getting you drunk to get an easy lay for the next 10 seconds of pure physical exercise. If he wasn’t interested in a conversation, he probably shouldn’t have sat in your corner – unless he wanted to steal snacks, of course. Something in his figure told you that he would be a freaking hurricane in the snack aisle.

He smells like metal – weird, you think. Not like you wanted to smell him, of course not. You were just crammed in a really tight place against his shoulders, your nose forced to press into his shirt and inhale the deep scent of some generic perfume, a surprising hint at laundry detergent and cleaning supplies – and, of course, said metal.

You expected sweat and cheap booze – but this means it smells like a butcher and a cleaning lady at the same time.

To closer observation, he looked…nervous, almost. Hands fidgeting with a fake knife that he probably snatched from some Halloween supply shop – it’s surprisingly heavy looking, without that cheap shine that a lot of Ghostface costume knives have, and you feel almost endeared by the way he fidgets and spins the knife in his hands. Still, somehow, he looked anxious.

— Are you alright?

He continues to sit here silently. You fight the savior instinct inside of you, reminding yourself that you do not need to nurse and mother a grown-up college boy who is probably too high to talk right now or simply dozed off in his mask with no one to notice this – but still, something in his hunched posture made you feel…soft. Tender. This, or you’re too drunk to not be a doting mommy, since all of your friends ditched you and your sad ant cosplay to be slutty fish sticks.

— Ja, I’m fine.

German accent. This is a surprise for a college boy at this party. Guys who are usually visiting those places can barely speak English, so knowing German with that perfect weird accent of his makes you feel…things. Never too much for accents, you still sat a bit closer, your face pressed against his shoulder. Cheek smashed on his skin – he doesn’t say anything about extreme physical contact. You’re surprised at your own confidence.

— From which program are you?

— What?

— Like…which school. What do you study?

He paused. Flicks the knife in his hands – from this angle, it looks way too sharp for a simple plastic knife. Guy must be a crazy cosplayer who spends hours on trying to make foam and metallic paint look this realistic – you admire this level of nerdiness a little bit. With this skill, he could be more than a generic Ghostface.

He shrugs, leaving you without an answer. Alright, not much of a talker. Probably from computing, STEM boys always act like contact with females would make them pregnant.

— Are you enjoying the party?

— Ja.

— You came alone?

— Ja.

— What do you…alright, just tell me if I’m annoying. I’ll stop bothering you.

He chuckles – your cheeks are immediately heated when he presses his hand closer to your thigh. The actions is suggestive, and you don’t quite…don’t quite mind it. You always had a thing for masks, and his body resembles the one of a greek statue – you wouldn’t want to pass on this opportunity. Definitely not for sex, not the type to hook up with a random boy on Halloween, but maybe a sloppy makeout and some number exchange would take place.

König had different plans.

Honestly, you made it too fucking easy for him. Good girl, polite girl, nice girl who actually fucking asked him if he was alright because his hands were shaking from the adrenaline he got from killing some weird asshole trying to get a drunk girl in his bed. He was shaking because he knew he’d get away with it – there were so many drugs on the venue, police wouldn’t even want to open this rathole and try to search for a killer in that random ass city he got on a break after the latest contract.

You made it too easy – your weird costume, your sad face, and your attempts at caring for him actually made his blood boil from excitement, and his nerves(and his dick, throbbing in that baggy black pants) stir. You tucked in the corner, all by yourself, surrounded by loud noises and intoxicated people who couldn’t give less shit about your safety. He can slit your throat, and everyone would think it’s a costume.

He can…and he can also take a little treat for having such a good last mission. Might even take you with him if you’d promise to be a good girl and don’t fight him in the trunk of his car.

You can’t even scream when he pushes his hands on your throat, squeezing. You wanted to, he knew by the look in your eyes that there was a fire inside of you – so he extinguished it as fast as he possibly could, laughing at your pathetic attempts at fighting him off. Just like your friends, you are weirdly easy for him to handle. Just a bunch of drunk college mates, nothing compared to his experience. He’d say that he stood too low, so crazy on his leave, that he decided to search for the easiest prey imaginable, but sometimes you need to choose yourself and find some easy hobbies that you can partake in without taking too much from your psychological sources.

Sometimes, you just need to kill a bunch of drugged students and take home one of them – for mental health reasons. Konis is sure that KorTac would allow him to take you to the base if he’d prove that you are his psychological support pet. Maybe he could even share you with some of his officers as a treat. You’d be so sweet for Krueger, he can tell just from that terrified look on your face when he pushes his hands further, blocking your windpipe.

König is strong – stronger than anyone you know, probably. He knows how to use this strength for the better and for worse, and he isn’t afraid of pushing a bit too far, not enough to break you, but just freaking perfect to make you dazed and turn your brain into mush. So sweet for him, such tasty little noises and scratches of your nails on his gloved hands. He must leave some marks on you later since you’re so sweet to him now.

— Not so talkative now, Schatzi?

You squirm, trying to punch him right in his dick, and he only moans when your knees are jerking in a poor attempt at kicking his balls. If anything, it feels like a really nice massage. So fucking obedient for him, he can’t even imagine how cute you’ll look chained to his bed, forced to play his little girlfriend while he is searching for your friends to finish them off.

Taking off your clothes is ridiculously easy. Even while you decided not to wear a slutty costume for Halloween, the cheap fabric isn’t a good barrier between him and his desire to freaking crush you – he exposes your breasts, covering them with one of his hands right about now, keeping his other hand firmly seated on your throat. You whimper and cry as he plays with your soft buds, making them harden, undoubtedly creating a pool in your shorts. God, you’re beautiful like this.

He actually grieves wearing a mask that can’t be moved this easily – he’d love to munch on your breasts, to try your nipples with his tongue, and roll his teeth over your soft mounds. He can’t, not right now, at least – you’re not nearly broken enough not to tell the police about his face, and he doesn’t want you to close your eyes. Need to make sure you’ll see every inch of his dick.

His rough gloves are creating a weird but pleasurable pressure on your buds – you whine and sob as he pushes his hands to stimulate you more, not caring that you don’t want it. Tugging and teasing with his fingertips, you actually feel like you’re going crazy just from the way he is playing with your breasts. Pushing from side to side, touching soft flesh, not even allowing you to moan as every time you try to open your mouth, he grips your throat tighter.

When he is finally done playing with your boobs, you can almost feel bruises forming from his rough touches. You whine when he goes to rip your shorts – his touches feel like lava spreading between your legs, no matter how much you wanted him to stop, your tongue never came to actually beg him for it.

To his delight, you are soaking.

Your pretty pussy on full display for him – twitching and squeezing for nothing, poor thing, he might as well just push the finger already, stretching you out just enough to let you feel the burn without breaking you. König would love to just push his dick inside without all of these dancing around nothing, but he is aware of his size – and very, very aware of yours. Little things might not be as small as he likes to think you are, but you’re freaking tiny compared to him. Weak and fragile, you have no fucking excuse to just parade yourself like men around you aren’t a bunch of wolves that would love to rip you apart and fuck what remains.

You can barely breathe while he pushes his fingers inside, just one digit is enough to make you squirm under him. You’re wet, pussy damp from all of the juices – lack of oxygen makes you dumber, pliable, make you his best little thing in the world. A girl like you has no business going to parties and whoring yourself to a bunch of early alcoholics – you should stay at home, his home, cooking him dinner and warming his dick. Cleaning his knife after he’d gut some dumb fuck, making sure to get your tongue into all the sharp edges.

Scheisse, just the thought makes him harder than ever. Perhaps he needs to stop playing the nice guy and finally give you the pounding you deserve.

Tired of just holding his hand on your throat, he forces the blade of his knife to take its place. Not nearly enough to cut your skin, but a constant reminder – if you’re a bad girl and would try to escape, he might slit your fucking throat as easily as butter. If you’re a good girl, unlike your friends, he might just take you with him. What a beautiful option.

One finger turns to two very quickly – and, since he doesn’t stop you from moaning and talking, you finally gain your voice back. Poor girl, too dumb to understand that all of your little threats and cries and everything is just a fucking delight to his ears. Might as well record it for his alarm clock.

— Get…get off me!

Such a strong words for such a weak girl. He’d spank you right away, but his fingers are too busy playing with your folds, smearing your juices all over your clit and trembling pussy. You’re dripping like a slut, and it busts his ego – a fancy college girl like you, so wet and needy for a nasty criminal. He knows how to treat you right and has all the resources for it – but somehow, it feels like you’d enjoy being treated like his doll.

He can be sweet after he has fucked you raw.

— Please, you can’t…I won’t tell anyone if you just stop, I promise!

— Shatzi, why do you think I’d let you go after this?

— I…I will scream.

— Ja, you can scream. Do this for me, please.

He laughs as he plunges in, giving you sweet seconds to become accustomed to the feeling of his dick impaling you. Bulging in the outline of your soft tummy, another boost to his ego – just to think, he was so anxious about crashing this party, knowing it would be filled with prissy students who all get to live the life he dreamed of, but you made it all worth it. You’re sweet and fiery, and you grip him like a glove. No matter how wet you were and how much pre-cum he had leaked, you’re still tight for him. Too tight.

You scream when he plunges it, and you continue to scream when he pushes deeper, further, when he moves back a little bit, only to push forward again. His hand finds your clit, never stopping until you’re squirming and crying full-on under him. Such a shame he can’t kiss you, not with this stupid mask – he can only play with your slit and push a knife against your throat over and over again, never allowing the adrenaline in your system to run dry.

Over and over, pushing you further and further until he plunged inside fully – you’re so puffy around him, your pussy lips swollen and spread for him, your clit is throbbing from the pleasure he gives you. Getting you off like that is easy for him – but he has to make sure he isn’t taking it too far, not with how warm and tight you are. He hates being in a position of weakness, but you’re just so perfect, he can’t help but push further and further until you are a sobbing mess and he is on the edge of orgasm.

He forces himself to be slower, his pushes are more and more deliberate – he doesn’t want to cum so fast, even though the mix of your sobs and his adrenaline high from the killing almost makes it impossible. He doesn’t want to stop like this, so fucking easy, but you’re so welcoming and cute and…

— Please, please, don’t…don’t come inside, I’m not on the pill, I’m…

God, you’re so sweet for him. Did the devil finally give him his gift for Halloween?

He laughs as you sob softly, pushes you more and more, and your poor pussy is getting stretched far beyond its limits. He steals this orgasm from your decency, robs you of any accountability – you just lay here, under him, receiving his dick like a good girl you are. Couldn’t have it any other way, just wanted to have you pinned under his body forever.

Your orgasm is crushing, painful in a way – you're all too sensitive for a dick this large to impale you, you sob, and you cry, begging for him to stop before he’d cum inside. Your biggest nightmare is alive when he pushes the knife away from your throat, squeezing it again just so he can cum in the tightness of your hole.

He stays like this, connected to your deepest parts, for a good few minutes, dumb out after the orgasm. You try to squirm from under him, but he only laughs, slowly pushing away from your body. Just one load is enough to make your pussy all messy and even more wet. You’re so dirty for him, it’s actually impossible not to love you even more when you’re like this, dumb and sensitive and so, so fucking cute.

His cum drips from your overflown pussy, pearly white liquid stuffs you ever so perfectly, König laughs, putting his clothes back together and getting one last look at your ruined hole, clenching around nothing. You can’t even talk at this point, poor thing – just how can he leave you here to be found by your perverted friends who would only take advantage of you?

It’s only natural that he sneaks your limp body through the window, holding you like a beloved possession while he is getting in his car.

It’s only natural that you fall asleep in his arms, your pussy stuffed so full, he just knows that he’ll add to the mess once he’d get rid of the body of a dumb college guy he killed moments ago.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #cod x you #yandere cod #call of duty #slashers #slasher

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vingtetunmars · 1 month ago

Text

Baby, Come To Me

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Summary: Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson weren’t supposed to be friends, but after a few shared joints and one too many lingering touches, Steve finds himself looking at Eddie differently. It shocked him to the core when he starts feeling something. So he does what any ex-jock in denial would do—he tries to set Eddie up with girls. Repeatedly. Desperately.

Part 1 / Part 3

Tags: fluff, humor, teasing, slow burn, friends to lovers, developing relationship, Steve bisexual awakening, and it's Eddie Munson, a bit of internalized homophobia, Steve is severely touch starved, Steve is also stubborn, Eddie is a sweetheart, and a romantic.

A/N: Steve is figuring things out guys, give him some space. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 5.6k

masterlist

It didn’t happen every night.

They’d probably both be dead if it did.

But often enough—maybe once, sometimes twice a week—Steve would find himself pulling into the gravel patch outside Eddie’s trailer just after sundown, the headlights catching on the crooked porch steps and the porch light Eddie always left on when he was expecting him.

It started casual. Quiet knocks, hushed “hey”s, Steve handing over a crumpled twenty and sitting through the same instructions every time like he hadn’t already memorized them.

But somewhere between the third and fifth visit, things shifted.

He stopped knocking.

Eddie started calling him a Frequent Flyer.

They started sitting a little closer. Sharing snacks. Swapping tapes.

And without either of them really planning it, they… became friends.

Weird friends. Unlikely ones. But real.

They didn’t talk about school. Or Hawkins. Or anything that felt too much like real life. But they talked—about music, movies, stupid conspiracy theories, the best flavor of Pop-Tart (Steve was wrong, apparently), and which teachers smelled like cigarettes versus actual weed.

And Steve started noticing things.

Like how Eddie always lit the joint and took the first drag—not because he wanted to be first, but because he was checking the roll, making sure it burned even before passing it over.

How Eddie always had a glass of water already on the table, slid toward Steve without a word after the first cough.

How he played the same low-volume mixtape every time—guitar-heavy instrumentals and mellow rock, nothing that’d overload their already drifting minds.

How he watched Steve, sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Just like he was… paying attention.

Steve wasn’t used to that.

People usually looked at him. Not after him.

“You always this careful?” Steve asked once, watching Eddie neatly ash the joint into an old mug with a faded KISS logo.

Eddie shrugged. “Only with rookies.”

Steve gave him a look.

Eddie smirked. “And people I like.”

Steve pretended not to hear that part.

But it echoed anyway.

They were halfway through the joint, sprawled on Eddie’s floor again, backs against the couch and the ashtray dangerously close to a leaning stack of tapes.

Until Eddie glanced over and asked, too casually, “You ever talk to Wheeler anymore?”

Steve’s face faltered just a little. He didn’t look over.

“Nah,” he said after a beat. “She’s, uh... she’s with Jonathan now.”

Eddie nodded like he already knew. He probably did. Hawkins wasn’t exactly teeming with secrets, not ones that stayed hidden long.

“You cool with that?” Eddie asked.

Steve shrugged, too quickly. “Yeah. I mean. I guess.”

Another beat of silence.

Steve reached for the pretzel bag to have something to do with his hands. “Wasn’t exactly built to last, y’know? We were both trying to be people we weren’t. Or maybe I was just trying harder.”

Eddie looked at him for a second, eyes softer than Steve expected.

“You’re not really who I thought you were,” he said quietly.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That a good thing?”

Eddie grinned. “It’s confusing.”

Steve barked a laugh at that, tension cracking just enough to let the haze roll back in.

He leaned over, elbow nudging Eddie’s arm. “Alright, your turn. You seeing anyone?”

Eddie rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh yeah. Just beating girls off with a stick.”

Steve raised both brows. “Seriously?”

Eddie gave him a look.

“Steve, do I look like someone Hawkins High girls are lining up for?”

Steve blinked at him. “Yeah, actually. You’re, like, objectively good looking.”

Eddie froze.

Steve didn’t seem to notice the slight shift, the way Eddie’s fingers tensed around the pretzel bag.

“You’ve got the whole thing going,” Steve continued, gesturing lazily. “Hair, cheekbones, weird metalhead charisma. You’d clean up if you just showered and maybe talked like, ten percent less.”

Eddie stared.

Then barked a laugh. “Wow. Thank you. From the depths of my smelly, overtalkative heart.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, nudging him again. “I could set you up. I know some girls who might actually be into, y’know, the vampire dungeon aesthetic.”

Eddie snorted. “Tempting. But I think I’ll pass.”

“Why? You too cool for blind dates?”

“Something like that.”

Steve looked at him then. Really looked.

There was something in Eddie’s tone. Not defensive. Just… final. Like the conversation wasn’t going further than that.

So Steve nodded, leaned his head back again.

“Alright. No blind dates.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you ever change your mind…”

“Steve.”

“Fine, fine.” Steve held up his hands. “No matchmaking. But I’m still right about the cheekbones.”

Eddie chuckled and shook his head, but didn’t argue.

Outside, cicadas buzzed. Inside, smoke lingered in soft curls above their heads.

And somewhere between deflection and laughter, something settled between them—unspoken but present.

Waiting.

Despite what he said, Steve didn’t keep his promise.

Maybe he thought it was harmless. Maybe he thought he was helping.

But every time they hung out—whether they were passing a joint or just killing time with a stack of tapes and a bowl of popcorn—Steve would find a way to point someone out.

“What about the girl behind the counter? She looked at you twice.”

“Record store girl with the nose ring? Totally your type.”

“Pretty sure that senior in drama class has a thing for you.”

Eddie never took the bait.

He always brushed it off with a joke or a shrug. And Steve would laugh, but it never quite reached his eyes.

“Alright, we’re not getting The Thing again,” Steve said as he scanned the horror shelf for something Eddie hadn’t already made him sit through.

Eddie, trailing a step behind, held up a copy of Return of the Living Dead. “Counterpoint: punk zombies.”

Steve snatched it from him and stuffed it back on the shelf. “You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from movie picks entirely.”

Eddie scoffed. “Excuse me for trying to broaden your cultural horizons.”

They rounded the corner into the drama section, their voices echoing low under the flickering fluorescents. Family Video wasn’t exactly bustling on a weekday afternoon, but a few customers lingered between shelves.

Steve glanced sideways, then nudged Eddie’s arm. “Okay, but—real talk—girl at the counter? Kinda your type, right?”

Eddie groaned. “Steve.”

“No, seriously,” Steve leaned in, voice dropping. “Tall, curly hair, kinda artsy? Looks like she listens to Joni Mitchell and drinks black coffee. Total Munson material.”

Eddie turned his head just enough to glance toward the counter, then back at Steve with a deadpan expression. “You’re obsessed.”

Steve held up his hands. “I’m just saying! You could totally go up to her, ask for a movie recommendation, and boom—you’re halfway to first base.”

“You’re relentless.”

“I have taste,” Steve corrected.

And then it happened.

Steve had reached for a tape—some forgettable drama with a crumbling spine—when Eddie stepped a little closer, scanning the shelves beside him. Without thinking, Eddie’s hand drifted casually to Steve’s waist, resting there lightly, his fingers pressing just at the curve above his hip as he leaned in to peer at a title.

It wasn’t anything, really.

Just a touch.

Like it was second nature.

But Steve froze.

It wasn’t the kind of touch that screamed attention. It wasn’t teasing or performative. It was just… there. Familiar. Like they did this all the time.

And Steve couldn’t focus on anything else.

He didn’t hear whatever Eddie said next—something about how Footloose was propaganda. His brain was too busy looping what the hell was that? over and over.

The hand stayed there for maybe two seconds longer before Eddie moved again, stepping forward to grab a copy of Rumble Fish. The contact broke. The air shifted.

Steve blinked. His skin still buzzed.

“Earth to Harrington?” Eddie was waving a tape in front of his face. “You spacing out or are you just finally accepting my superior movie taste?”

Steve cleared his throat, a little too loud. “Yeah. No. Uh—yeah. That one’s good.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“Totally did,” Steve lied, grabbing the tape from him and heading toward the counter like it might erase whatever just short-circuited his brain.

Eddie followed, thankfully not pressing.

But as the girl at the counter rang them up, Steve realized something weird:

For the first time, he didn’t care whether she was Eddie’s type.

Steve barely had time to shut his locker before he felt a hand grab the back of his jacket and tug.

Not hard—just enough to make him turn.

“Jesus,” he muttered, heart skipping a beat. “You ever walk up to someone like a normal person?”

Eddie grinned, completely unbothered. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He was bouncing on his heels, hair loose today, black rings on all ten fingers, and that usual glint in his eye that made it impossible to tell if he was about to start a fight or tell a joke.

“You got plans Thursday night?” he asked, adjusting the strap on his guitar case slung over one shoulder.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Is this one of your D&D nights or your ‘wander into a crime scene’ nights?”

Eddie snorted and lightly smacked the side of Steve’s head with the back of his hand. “It’s Corroded Coffin at the Hideout, jackass. Our set starts at eight.”

Steve blinked. “You want me to come?”

Eddie shrugged, but it was too casual. “Yeah. Thought maybe you could use some culture that doesn’t involve pastel polos and Top 40.”

“Wow. An insult and an invitation.”

“I multitask.” Eddie reached out and tugged Steve’s jacket straight on his shoulders, an unconscious gesture, like he did it all the time. His hand lingered a second too long near Steve’s neck before he turned to walk backward in front of him.

“We’re trying out a new track. I think you’ll like it.”

Steve watched him bounce backward down the hallway, making finger guns at no one in particular, before vanishing around the corner.

He exhaled.

Then rubbed the spot on his shoulder where Eddie’s hand had just been.

The Hideout was dim, all buzzing neon signs and sticky floors. The kind of place that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something fried that probably wasn’t food anymore.

Steve paused just inside the door, blinking against the low light. The hum of amps warming up filled the room, and people were packed tight around worn wooden tables. It wasn’t a big crowd, but it was a loud one—leather jackets, combat boots, and black eyeliner for days.

Not exactly his scene.

Steve shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and scanned the room. Maybe this was a mistake.

Then he saw him.

Eddie, near the edge of the stage, guitar already strapped on but not plugged in yet. He was halfway through laughing at something one of his bandmates said when he looked up—and immediately spotted Steve.

His entire face lit up.

He hopped down off the stage in two strides, dodging a drunk guy holding two beers and weaving through the crowd until he reached him.

“You came,” Eddie said, a little breathless, eyes flicking quickly across Steve’s face like he was trying to read something there.

“You invited me,” Steve replied, trying for casual, but something in his chest settled at the way Eddie looked at him—like he was both surprised and relieved to see him standing there.

Eddie leaned in a little, close enough for Steve to hear him over the music. “You okay? It’s kind of a zoo in here. I forget not everyone’s into the dive bar vibe.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. He didn’t expect that. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Eddie’s hand found his arm—light, grounding. “We go hard sometimes. Volume, crowd, bad jokes between songs. Don’t want you feeling like you walked into the wrong movie.”

Steve glanced at the band tuning behind him, then at Eddie again. “I’m good. Go melt some faces.”

Eddie grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and gave his arm a brief squeeze before turning. “Alright, Pretty Boy. Stick around—I’m dedicating the third song to someone who thinks Bon Jovi is real rock.”

Steve scoffed. “You wish you had their hair.”

Eddie threw a middle finger over his shoulder as he climbed back onto the stage, guitar slung low. The crowd shifted, murmurs rising as he adjusted his mic.

And Steve stood there, in this loud, grungy dive bar full of people he didn’t know, and realized…

He didn’t feel out of place at all.

Not with Eddie looking at him like that.

Eddie was electric on stage.

Steve didn’t have a better word for it.

He’d seen him loud before, sure—ranting about music or monsters or whatever had pissed him off that day—but this was different. Eddie commanded the stage. The way his fingers moved over the guitar strings, sharp and fast, like the instrument was just an extension of him. The raw rasp in his voice when he shouted into the mic. The way his hair whipped in time with the beat, wild and untamed and completely himself.

And the crowd loved it.

Steve watched from a back booth, drink in hand, half-hypnotized. People were cheering, headbanging, raising their glasses, and yet Eddie’s eyes kept flicking toward him. Every few seconds. Like he was checking in. Like he wanted to know if Steve was still watching.

He was.

God, he was.

When the set ended, Eddie let the final note ring out, feedback buzzing through the amps. He flashed a crooked grin at the crowd and shouted a thanks before slinging off his guitar and jumping off the stage. The moment his feet hit the ground, a few people tried to crowd around him—slaps on the back, compliments, someone offering a cigarette—but Eddie ducked past them.

He headed straight for Steve.

“Still got your face, huh?” Eddie said as he reached the booth, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Steve gave him a mock salute. “Barely. But I’ll allow it.”

Eddie plopped down beside him, close enough that their knees knocked. “Skipped post-show beers with the guys. You better feel honored.”

Steve smirked. “I’m touched.”

Eddie leaned his head back against the booth, chest still rising fast. His rings clicked softly as he drummed his fingers on the table, still riding the adrenaline high.

Steve let the moment settle before nudging him with his shoulder. “Okay, now you’ve earned it.”

Eddie blinked. “Earned what?”

Steve nodded discreetly toward a girl at the bar—leather jacket, dyed red streak in her hair, nursing a bottle of Coke. “Stage presence. You’ve got, like, dangerously hot frontman energy. You could totally go talk to her.”

Eddie’s expression didn’t shift.

He didn’t even look.

Steve frowned. “Dude. She’s literally checking you out.”

Eddie exhaled slowly. “I’m good.”

Steve tilted his head. “Seriously? Why not?”

Eddie looked at him then, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Just not interested.”

It wasn’t said harshly. No edge to it. But there was finality in the words. Like a quiet door being closed.

Steve sat back, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Eddie didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his drink and gave Steve a tired smile.

“So,” he said, voice light again, “you sticking around, or am I driving the starstruck jock home?”

Steve tried to match his tone, tried to pretend he hadn’t felt the subtle sting of rejection—not for himself, but for the idea that he didn’t get it. That maybe… he really didn’t get it.

He smiled, too, and clinked his glass lightly against Eddie’s.

“Let’s get outta here, Rockstar.”

The diner smelled like fried everything and syrup. The kind of place that never updated its menu, or its linoleum floors, since 1963.

Steve and Eddie sat across from each other in a corner booth, a shared plate of cheese fries between them, the cheese halfway to congealed, but neither of them cared.

Steve licked salt from his thumb, slouched with his arm draped along the back of the booth. “Okay, serious question.”

Eddie raised a brow mid-chew. “Oh no.”

Steve smirked. “What is your type, anyway?”

Eddie paused, fry halfway to his mouth. “We’re still doing this?”

“Come on,” Steve said, nudging his foot under the table. “You shoot down every girl I point out. It’s not even subtle anymore. Just humor me.”

Eddie leaned back and exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Fine.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the tabletop, like he was thinking it through. “I guess… someone who doesn’t scare easy. Bit of an edge. Smarter than me, but won’t make me feel like an idiot about it. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who… listens.”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly, caught off guard by how serious Eddie sounded. “That’s not a type. That’s a personality quiz.”

Eddie shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You asked.”

“Okay, fine, fine. But looks? Give me something to go off.”

Eddie hesitated for a second too long.

Then he said, casually, “Brown eyes. Nice hair, really nice hair. Kind of a dumb smile.”

Steve blinked.

Eddie didn’t meet his eyes, just plucked another fry from the plate and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn’t just dropped a quiet bomb.

Steve snorted. “That narrows it down. You just described half the girls at Hawkins High.”

“Did I?” Eddie said, chewing.

Steve leaned back, staring at him for a second. “You’re a weird dude, Munson.”

Eddie finally met his eyes, something unreadable there. “You have no idea.”

And Steve… laughed. Because he thought they were still talking about girls.

Because his heart hadn’t caught up with his gut yet.

Because Eddie made it sound like a joke.

But under the yellow glow of the diner light, Eddie couldn’t help glancing at the way Steve’s lashes curled when he looked down, the way his fingers drummed distractedly against the edge of the Formica table.

The way Steve didn’t know he’d just been described.

Steve turned into the driveway and immediately spotted the Mercedes in the carport.

He sighed, forehead hitting the steering wheel for a second before he killed the ignition.

His dad was home early.

School was hard on him today. And now this.

The house looked the same as always—perfect hedges, clean walkway, some catalog-looking wreath hanging on the door even though Christmas was ages behind them now. But something about the car being there made the air feel heavier.

He stepped inside and kicked off his sneakers by the door.

“Steve?” his mother called from the kitchen. “There’s casserole if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good,” he said, tossing his keys in the bowl by the stairs.

His dad was already in the living room, blazer still on, drink in hand, and a finance magazine open on his lap like he hadn’t moved since getting home.

“You get that math grade back yet?” he asked without looking up.

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

“Because your midterm report said you were sitting at a C-minus. That’s not gonna get you anywhere.”

Steve stared at the back of the chair for a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

His dad finally glanced at him over the rim of his glass. “Do you?”

Steve clenched his jaw. “Yeah. I’m working on it.”

His father snorted lightly, like that answer was beneath him, and looked back at his magazine.

Steve lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. A question. A “how are you?” Anything.

But the only sound was the flipping of a page and the faint hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen.

His mom stepped out with a glass of wine, smiling. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay at school?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, eyes darting toward the floor. “It’s fine.”

She patted his shoulder as she passed. “That’s good.”

And that was it.

No more questions. No follow-up. No real conversation.

Just polite fragments in a house that always looked perfect in pictures.

Steve headed upstairs a minute later, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

Only when he sat on his bed and stared at the wall did he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

And for some reason, his mind drifted to Eddie. The way Eddie looked at him when he asked questions. Like he actually wanted to know the answers.

Steve rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

The sky was already bruising with dusk when Steve pulled up to the trailer park.

His headlights cut across the gravel, catching the familiar crooked mailbox with “Munson” painted in black sharpie and a fading metal lawn chair left out all winter.

He didn’t call first. Didn’t need to.

Eddie opened the front door before Steve even made it to the porch, barefoot in a ripped tank top, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, not even a hello.

Steve shrugged one shoulder, eyes tired. “Yeah.”

Eddie squinted at him. “You don’t look okay.”

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “My dad’s home.”

Something shifted in Eddie’s expression—just a flicker, but enough.

His grip on the door tightened. “Did he… do something?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“I mean—shit, Harrington, if you need a place because—” He gestured vaguely, like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “If he put his hands on you or something—”

“No,” Steve cut in quickly, holding up a hand. “No, no. It’s not like that.”

Eddie looked at him, still skeptical.

Steve sighed, stepping up onto the porch. “It’s not… anything dramatic. He’s not a monster. He just—he doesn’t care unless it’s about grades. Doesn’t ask how I am. Doesn’t even pretend to give a shit about anything real. And when he’s home, it’s like the air in that house just—freezes.”

Eddie opened the door wider. “C’mon. You don’t need to explain it.”

Steve stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and old wood paneling already easing something in his chest.

Eddie closed the door behind him and leaned his shoulder against it, eyes soft. “You can crash here. Obviously.”

Steve gave a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Eddie tossed the cigarette onto the kitchen counter, unlit and forgotten. “You want a drink? Or food? I think I’ve got leftover mac and cheese that hasn’t developed sentience yet.”

Steve chuckled under his breath. “Nah. Just… Can I sit for a sec?”

Eddie nodded toward the couch. “You can do whatever you want, man. You know that.”

Steve dropped onto the couch with a sigh, head falling back against the cushions.

And Eddie stood there for a second longer, watching him.

The quiet kind of watching. The worried kind.

He walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that their knees bumped.

The movie Eddie put had been over for a while now.

The TV screen was dark, casting only a faint blue glow across the living room. Somewhere between the halfway point and the credits, Steve had drifted off—head tilted back on the couch, mouth slightly open, one arm slung over his stomach like he’d just melted into the cushions.

Eddie hadn’t moved.

He sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch, watching the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, then glancing—just once or twice—at the way Steve’s lashes fluttered when he breathed, how soft his features looked when he wasn’t trying to be anything for anyone.

It was stupid how pretty he looked.

Eddie blinked hard and reached out, fingers hovering just above Steve’s shoulder before he made contact.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low. “C’mon, Harrington. Time to relocate.”

Steve stirred, brow scrunching like he was trying to stay asleep.

Eddie chuckled quietly. “Don’t make me carry you, man. I’m delicate.”

That got a faint, groggy grunt. Steve blinked blearily, lifting his head just enough to meet Eddie’s gaze. “What time is it?”

“Late. Too late for both of us to be ruining our spines out here.” Eddie stood and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon. Bed’s yours.”

Steve took the hand without thinking, let Eddie pull him to his feet with more care than force. Their palms touched a second too long before Eddie stepped back and nodded toward the hallway.

Steve padded down it slowly, still half-asleep, while Eddie lingered behind to shut off the lights.

When he finally caught up, Steve was standing in the doorway of Eddie’s room, looking around like he hadn’t quite realized before now how personal it was. Posters, books, half-done sketches pinned to the wall. A warm kind of chaos.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Sheets are clean, I swear. You, uh… you can take the bed.”

Steve turned, confused. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“Couch.”

Steve frowned. “Why?”

Eddie looked down, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just figured—I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would I be?”

Eddie paused.

There were so many ways to answer that question. Too many truths packed in a single sentence.

So he just shrugged. “Some people don’t like sharing. That’s all.”

Steve studied him for a second, then looked at the bed, then back again.

“I’m not some people,” he said simply.

And for once, Eddie didn’t know what to say.

So he nodded.

They settled in with their backs to each other at first—blanket tugged up to their shoulders, silence thick between them. But neither of them fell asleep right away.

And when Steve shifted an hour later, rolling onto his side and unconsciously inching closer, Eddie stayed perfectly still.

But his heart was loud in his chest.

And it felt like something had just changed—quietly, irrevocably.

Morning crept in slowly through the gaps in Eddie’s threadbare curtains, the kind of golden light that made everything look softer than it really was.

Eddie stirred first.

It took him a second to realize where he was—and more importantly, how he was.

His arm was slung around Steve’s waist, their legs tangled under the blanket, Steve’s back flush against his chest. The warmth between them was too perfect to be accidental. Steve's hair tickled his chin, and Eddie had the insane, fleeting thought that he could fall asleep again just like this.

Then panic whispered at the edge of his thoughts.

Shit. Shit, shit—what are you doing?

He held his breath and started to pull away, slow and careful, hoping not to wake him.

But the moment he shifted back, Steve let out a quiet sound—half-asleep and almost needy—and reached behind to grab his arm.

“No,” Steve mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

Eddie froze.

Steve didn’t let go.

Instead, he tugged Eddie’s arm tighter around him, fingers brushing against the skin just beneath Eddie’s shirt where it had ridden up in the night.

Eddie’s heart nearly exploded.

“…You sure?” he asked quietly, unsure if Steve was even awake enough to realize what he was doing.

Steve made a small sound, something between a hum and a sigh. “Mm-hmm. Warm.”

And that was it.

Eddie exhaled softly through his nose and gave in, letting his hand settle over Steve’s stomach again. His chest pressed to Steve’s back, fitting like a secret.

He chuckled under his breath, barely audible. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Harrington.”

Steve smiled—small, lazy, and unseen in the light.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just held Eddie’s arm in place, like it belonged there.

And maybe, for the first time… it did.

The smell of toast and eggs filled the trailer, hazy with early morning light and the quiet clinking of utensils.

Steve stood at the tiny stove, barefoot, still in the hoodie from the night before. His hair was a little wild—slept-on and unstyled—but he looked content, humming faintly as he nudged scrambled eggs around the pan with the focus of a man trying to pretend nothing deeply intimate had happened just a few hours ago.

Eddie sat at the tiny kitchen table, chin in hand, watching.

Not saying much.

Not because it was awkward—but because it wasn’t. And that scared him a little more.

Steve Harrington, golden boy of Hawkins High, casually cooking him breakfast after curling into his chest like a human furnace. And now he was talking about toast ratios like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Are you… one of those monsters that butters before toasting?” Steve asked, side-eyeing him.

Eddie grinned sleepily. “I live in a trailer, not a cave.”

Steve chuckled, grabbing two mismatched plates. “Okay. Just checking.”

That’s when the front door opened with the soft metallic click of a key in the lock.

Wayne Munson stepped inside, boots heavy on the floor, smelling faintly of tobacco and diesel and long hours under fluorescent lights.

He looked tired. He always looked tired.

And then he saw them.

Steve by the stove, hair a mess, flipping toast onto plates like he’d done it a hundred times before. Eddie in a wrinkled t-shirt, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Wayne’s gaze flicked from one boy to the other.

Then settled on Eddie.

Just for a beat.

A long, quiet beat.

And in that look—eyebrows raised just slightly, face unreadable—was the unspoken question.

This one?

Eddie felt the air shift, throat suddenly dry.

He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes lowered, a silent not like that… not yet.

Wayne nodded once. Barely.

Then he walked toward the back of the trailer without a word, stopping only to mutter, “Gonna shower. Tell your little friend he’s got good hand with eggs.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Steve blinked. “Is he always that—?”

“Yep,” Eddie said quickly, stabbing his fork into his toast.

Steve slid into the seat across from him, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just happened.

“Shirt?” Steve asked, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp from the quickest shower Eddie’s water heater could manage.

Eddie, already half-dressed and digging through the mountain of laundry on his bedroom floor, nodded. “Yeah, yeah—give me a sec, I got something.”

He pulled out a faded Metallica tee from the cleaner pile —which, by Munson standards, meant “not visibly crusty”— and tossed it over.

Steve caught it one-handed, barely looking at it before pulling it over his head.

And Eddie—

Eddie paused.

Because the shirt was loose on Steve—hung a little low at the neck, sleeves brushing the edges of his biceps, hem sitting just at the waistband of his jeans. It was his shirt, unmistakably, but on Steve it looked—

Wrong.

Or maybe too right.

Like something out of a daydream he was never brave enough to admit to having.

Steve ruffled his hair in the mirror, smoothing the fabric over his stomach. “Thanks. Smells like smoke.”

“Yeah, that’s my brand,” Eddie muttered, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring. “Glamorous trailer musk.”

Steve smiled, easy and oblivious, and looked down at himself again. “I kinda like it.”

Don’t say anything stupid, Eddie told himself. Don’t be a creep. Don’t—

Steve turned toward him, still adjusting the hem, unaware of the way Eddie’s jaw tensed.

“You okay?”

Eddie cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yep. Totally fine. You just, uh—look good. In black. That’s all.”

Steve smirked. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket, slinging it on with more force than necessary. “C’mon, Harrington. If we’re gonna pretend we care about education, we should at least pretend to show up before second period.”

Steve followed him out the door, still wearing Eddie’s shirt like it meant nothing.

And Eddie followed behind, trying not to think about how badly he wanted it to mean something.

The house was quiet when Steve got home.

Too quiet.

He tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl near the door and made his way up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the polished hallway. No sign of his mom. No sound from his dad’s office. Just the low hum of the AC and the faint creak of wood under his feet.

He shut his bedroom door behind him and shrugged off his bag, tossing it on the bed. Kicked off his shoes next. Then reached for the hem of his borrowed shirt.

Eddie’s shirt.

It slipped over his head with ease, soft from too many washes, the collar stretched just enough to fall a little too wide on his collarbone. Steve caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—tousled hair, pink at the cheeks from the heat, Eddie’s faded Metallica tee hanging off him like it belonged there.

He froze.

Fingers tightening slightly around the fabric.

His brows furrowed as he held the shirt up in front of him, inspecting it like it had betrayed him.

And then—slowly, almost without thinking—he brought it closer to his face.

The scent was unmistakable.

Smoke. Faint clove. A hint of something sharp and warm—like old wood and citrus and… Eddie.

Steve blinked.

And blushed. Hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, suddenly yanking the shirt away like it had burned him. “Get a grip.”

He tossed it toward the bed, turned around to grab something else from the drawer, but his hand hovered, frozen, heart thudding a little faster than he wanted to admit.

Then—after a beat—he reached back, picked up the shirt again.

Stared at it.

And, this time, pressed it slowly to his nose, letting his eyes slip shut.

It was stupid.

He knew it was stupid.

Eddie was a guy. His friend. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a borrowed shirt. Just a smell.

Just a warm ache in his chest that he was afraid to name .

Steve exhaled shakily and sat down on the edge of his bed, the shirt still crumpled in his hands.

And for this time, he didn’t shove the thought away.

Not completely.

Part 3

—comment if you wanna be added to this fic taglist

taglist: @steddiethrowaway1 @mangoinacan13 @420-hun @sofadofax @stripey82 @hairdryerducks @lunaraquaenby @wheneverfeasible

#kar's fics ☆#steddie #steddie fluff #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things 4 #stranger things

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luvdwkki · 3 months ago

Text

Jeongin - Just Us

Jeongin x Gn!reader

Word count: 3,657

Synopsys: When Jeongin comes home from a long day, he doesn’t expect to find a rooftop transformed into a glowing nest of fairy lights, pizza, and love. With nothing but the stars above and each other below, the night becomes one you’ll never forget

The rooftop was magic.

It wasn’t extravagant or Pinterest-perfect, but it felt like something out of a dream. A quiet little world you’d built just for the two of you.

You’d spent the last hour fussing over every single detail, more than once rearranging the same blanket pile before undoing and redoing it again. The fairy lights you’d strung up twinkled softly now, their warm yellow glow casting gentle shadows against the makeshift canopy of cushions and throws. A few strands blinked a little too enthusiastically, no matter how many times you tried to adjust them, but somehow… It worked.

There were mismatched bowls filled with snacks like popcorn, chocolate-covered almonds, sour gummies, and those honey-dipped pretzels Jeongin always devoured like a squirrel hoarding food for winter. Two paper plates sat on a wooden tray beside a large pizza box, still warm. And next to that, two oversized mugs of hot chocolate that were practically overflowing with mini marshmallows, the kind that slowly melted into sweet clouds.

A single candle flickered beside it all, not for light but for vibe. Low, golden, and soft enough to make your heart flutter.

It was casual, but not. Chill, but not. This was something you'd imagined a dozen times. Lying under the stars with him, no real plan except being close. You’d just never thought you'd actually do it. But tonight, something inside you had whispered, why not?

And now it was real.

You checked everything one last time, brushing invisible lint from the blanket, turning the candle a few degrees, fluffing one last pillow. Then you gave yourself a tiny, ridiculous fist pump and padded downstairs to wait for him.

You sat on the couch and tried to act normal with your phone in hand, scrolling through nonsense, but not reading a word. Your fingers were jittery, your heartbeat quick. Every sound outside made you perk up. And when the door finally opened, your head snapped up so fast you almost dropped your phone.

“Jeongin!” you called out, a little too fast, jumping to your feet before he could even step inside fully.

He stepped in with a gust of autumn air behind him, cheeks rosy from the cold, wind-tousled hair falling into his eyes, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder in that loose, careless way he always wore it. He froze in the entryway for a beat, blinking at you, and then broke into a wide grin.

That grin. The one that took over his whole face, made his eyes crinkle and his dimples show. The kind of smile that made your knees feel like they forgot how to work.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pull a rabbit out of a hat?” he teased, cocking an eyebrow and kicking off his shoes.

You didn’t answer. You just crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his neck, rising up on your toes as you kissed him. His hair smelled faintly like baby powder. A soft and familiar smell as it tickled your cheek when he leaned down.

He kissed you back slowly, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease, drawing you in as if you hadn’t seen each other in days instead of hours. His touch was warm, anchoring. Steady in a way your nerves weren’t.

When you pulled away, just enough to meet his eyes, his smile lingered. “Not that I’m complaining,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “but what’s going on? Did I miss an anniversary or something?”

Your stomach flipped… again. “Nope,” you said, trying to keep your voice light despite the flutter in your chest. “But... I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” His brows lifted, lips twitching.

You nodded, reaching down to take his hand. “You just have to trust me.”

He let you pull him toward the stairs, his fingers sliding easily into yours, warm and familiar and just the right amount of grounding.

“Wait…is it food?” he asked, squeezing your hand playfully. “Because I can smell pizza and now I’m emotionally invested.”

You didn’t answer, just kept walking. You could feel his smile behind you even without turning around.

“…WAIT, are we eloping?” he added dramatically. “Because I really think I should’ve worn something nicer if we’re going to get married on the roof.”

You turned and shot him a look over your shoulder. “Shut up and go with it.”

He laughed. That hearty gaspy laugh he always did when he knew he was getting under your skin on purpose. But his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he tugged you a little closer, his thumb brushing across your knuckles like he couldn’t help it.

As you reached the rooftop door, you paused for a moment, the nerves fluttering back in your chest. But when you looked back at him, he was already watching you. His eyes warm, smile wide, like you’d just given him the world and he didn’t even know what was coming next.

“You’re smiling like an idiot,” you muttered.

He shrugged. “Can’t help it. You look like a rom-com lead about to change my life.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stupid.”

“You like it.”

You did.

You really, really did.

And as you opened the door, your heart skipped again, though not because you were nervous about what he’d think, but because you already knew this was going to be one of those nights. The kind you’d replay over and over again for years.

The rooftop door creaked open as you pushed it gently, the cold air brushing against your skin in a hush of anticipation. You stepped aside, heart fluttering in your chest like it hadn’t quite decided whether to be excited or terrified, and nodded for him to go first.

Jeongin gave your hand one last curious squeeze before stepping out into the quiet night.

He didn’t say anything at first.

His footsteps slowed the second he crossed the threshold. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, like he needed that anchor as his gaze swept across the space.

The fairy lights glowed softly, casting warm golden halos over everything they touched. Their reflections danced faintly in his dark eyes as he took in the blanket nest you had made, layered and crumpled like something out of a sleepy daydream. The pillows you had fluffed and re-fluffed now looked perfectly, effortlessly undone. The flickering candlelight spilled across the snacks and pizza, the steam still rising faintly from the mugs of hot chocolate nearby. Over all of it, the night sky stretched wide and impossibly deep, stars scattered across the navy expanse like glitter someone had thrown from heaven.

The music you had queued up drifted in softly from your speaker, humming just beneath the stillness. It was mellow and slow, the kind of sound that tugged at the heart even when no one was speaking.

You stood a little behind him, watching his face more than the scene. Noticing the way his eyebrows twitched just slightly as his eyes moved from the lights to the food to the soft, glowy mess of everything. How his lips parted, like he meant to say something but forgot how words worked.

His grip on your hand tightened slightly.

And then he turned to look at you, really look at you, and his whole expression softened like something inside him had melted.

“Wait…” he said quietly, his voice just above a whisper. “Did you… did you do all this yourself?”

You ducked your head a little, suddenly aware of every breath, every sound. You felt his eyes on you like sunlight through a window, warm, gentle, and a little overwhelming.

“Yeah…” you murmured, glancing toward the lights, then back at him. “Do you… like it?”

There was a beat where he didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on you, unreadable at first. You wondered if you’d done too much, or not enough, or if it was weird, or if you should have gone with your original idea of just baking cookies and calling it a night.

But then that look appeared.

That look that only he gave you.

His smile bloomed slowly, tugging at one corner of his mouth before spreading into something wide and dazzling, all dimples and crinkled eyes and a kind of quiet wonder.

“I don’t like it,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “I love it.”

And just like that, your heart turned into soft butter. Everything in you let go at once. The nerves, the overthinking, the little panicked voices that had whispered maybe this was too much was now gone.

Because now he was smiling like you’d hung the stars yourself.

Without hesitation, he dropped his bag beside the pillow pile and turned back to you, eyes still bright. “You’re kind of unbelievable, you know that?”

You tried to shrug casually, but your smile gave you away. “It only took me, like… five Pinterest boards.”

He laughed, the sound low and boyish, and pulled you in by the hand, wrapping his arms around your waist with easy affection. “Worth every pin.”

You felt yourself exhale, and not because you were tired, but because there was something so indescribably peaceful about this moment. Like you had done something bold and brave and he had met it with nothing but love.

Just the two of you. Under the stars. No plan but each other.

“Come here,” Jeongin said, already flopping back into the blanket nest with a dramatic sigh like he was starring in his own indie film. “I need warmth. And snacks. And love. In that exact order.”

You laughed, the sound carried off a little by the breeze as you carefully stepped over a bowl of chips and dropped down beside him.

“You’re so needy.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, eyes closed like he was absolutely spent from the trials of his day. Then, without warning, he reached out and tugged you closer by the arm, until you were tucked firmly against his side, your head brushing against his shoulder. “You built a literal fairyland on a rooftop. You can’t just not cuddle me. That’s emotional sabotage.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“And yet,” he said with a smug grin, reaching into the snack bowl and dramatically selecting a gummy bear, “you’re still very clearly obsessed with me.” Then, with the confidence of someone who had done this before, he pressed the gummy bear to your lips.

You took the gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly, trying not to smile (and failing). Jeongin turned his attention to the snack spread like it was a battlefield to conquer, eyes scanning over the selection like a seasoned professional.

“Okay, let’s see. Popcorn. Cookies. Chips. Gummy bears. Are those honey pretzels? You are spoiling me.” Then his eyes caught something behind the candlelight. He gasped. Actually gasped. “Wait. Is that pizza?”

You smirked. “Obviously. I know where your loyalty lies.”

He turned toward you with mock awe, hands clasped together like he was about to cry. “You really do love me.”

“I literally built you a rooftop picnic under the stars. The pizza is just bonus points.”

He reached for the box with the reverence of someone unearthing ancient treasure. His face lit up as he opened it. “Oh my god, it’s the good kind. The cheesy one with the weird crust I love.”

“Of course it is,” you said, your voice soft but smug.

He pulled out a slice and held it up like a prized possession. “You know I could eat this entire slice in one bite.”

You blinked. “That’s not something to brag about.”

“Don’t believe me?” He raised an eyebrow, mischief radiating off him like heat from the pizza itself.

“Jeongin.”

“Watch me,” he said, folding the slice slightly in his hands like he was preparing a sacred ritual.

“Jeongin, no.”

“Yes.”

“Jeongin, seriously, no-”

But it was too late. With a devilish grin, he shoved the entire slice into his mouth in one go, somehow managing to bite it down with zero hesitation and maximum confidence. He chewed slowly and dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’d just won a gold medal in Olympic pizza consumption.

You smacked his arm, still breathless from laughing. “You are so gross.”

“Gross?” he gasped, feigning genuine offense like you’d just insulted his entire lineage. “Excuse me, that was a survival technique. I grew up with two brothers, remember? If you didn’t eat fast, you didn’t eat at all. It was war.”

“Oh no,” you said, hand flying to your chest in exaggerated concern. “Pizza trauma. The worst kind.”

He nodded solemnly. “I once reached for my last dumpling, my last dumpling, and it was already gone.”

You blinked. “No...”

He held up a hand, eyes dramatic and haunted. “Swear. My older brother didn’t even blink. Just stared me dead in the eyes while he chewed it. Didn’t break eye contact. That moment changed me.”

You gasped like he’d just revealed a deep, painful family secret. “A dumpling thief in your own home?”

“Gone,” he whispered, looking to the heavens like he was still grieving it. “Just vanished. I can still feel the betrayal.”

You giggled, resting your chin on his shoulder, the material of his hoodie soft under your skin. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to fight for food anymore. I made you a literal rooftop buffet. All for you.”

“And yet,” he said, turning to you with the gleam of mischief in his eye, “the only thing I want to devour is-”

“Jeongin,” you warned.

“...your heart,” he finished innocently, pressing a hand to his chest like a knight pledging his love.

You gave him a sharp look before grabbing a gummy bear and flicking it at his face.

Without missing a beat, he caught it in his mouth like some kind of pet, then threw his hands in the air in victory. “Talent.”

You rolled your eyes but flopped beside him, letting your shoulder press against his, your knee brushing his. The laughter faded into a soft, comfortable quiet, the kind that only happens when the silence feels safe.

It was warm under the blankets, but it was a different kind of warmth. It was one that came from being next to him. From feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. From the slight weight of his pinky hooking around yours. The lights of the city glittered far below, distant and dreamy, while the stars above looked close enough to touch.

You tilted your head and watched him for a moment, the way the fairy lights caught in the soft strands of his hair, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips were parted just slightly like he was still catching his breath from laughing.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, a little slower, “this is gonna be one of those core memory nights.”

You turned your head toward him, still smiling. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, eyes on the sky like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of it. “It’s just… you. And this. It’s honestly perfect.”

Your heart flipped in your chest, soft and full. You didn’t say anything right away though, you just let yourself take all of him in. The curve of his nose. The line of his jaw. The way his thumb gently stroked over your hand without even thinking.

“I’ve had a lot of loud days lately,” he said after a pause, his voice thoughtful now. “Schedules. Noise. Rehearsals. Managers yelling. Hyunjin hyung eating all the snacks before anyone else even sees them…”

You let out a quiet snort.

He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But this? Just being up here with you? It’s like… I don’t know. Everything stops for a second.”

You turned fully to face him now, your cheek brushing against his shoulder. “You’re being soft.”

“I know,” he groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I’m gonna sound so cheesy.”

“You literally unhinged your jaw for a slice of pizza ten minutes ago. I think the line’s already been crossed.”

He peeked at you through his fingers and laughed, his voice low and warm. “Okay, okay. Then I’m saying it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Saying what?”

“I love you,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no cheeky tone, just softness and certainty. “Like… a lot.”

Your breath caught, but in the best way. Like the world had narrowed to just this moment. The lights, the sky, the boy beside you.

“Yeah?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied, tugging gently at the sleeve of your sweater, eyes locking with yours. “You’re the best part of my day. Even when you bully me for eating pizza like a menace.”

You leaned in, your noses brushing, lips close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. “I love you too, Pizza Goblin.”

He made a wounded noise. “Wow. So romantic.”

But he was smiling so big now, so bright and beautiful, and a little shy around the edges. His cheeks were pink from the cold or maybe from your words. And in that moment, you were absolutely sure, this was the happiest you’d ever seen him.

And maybe the happiest you’d ever been too.

As he looked at you, his hands came up to cup your face. His fingers were warm as they brushed against your cheek, gentle and steady, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His touch didn’t rush or demand, it simply asked, quietly, if this was okay. His eyes flicked between yours, wide and searching, like he was trying to read your mind or make sure this wasn’t some dream he’d accidentally wandered into.

There was a beat, a breath, where everything paused.

And then, slowly, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, he leaned in.

His lips ghosted over yours, a whisper of contact, so soft it almost didn’t count, almost. It was a question more than a kiss, a quiet, are you with me? spoken without words. His breath mingled with yours, warm and a little shaky, and you could feel the way his fingertips curled slightly at your jaw, like he was grounding himself.

You didn’t hesitate.

You leaned into him, your lips pressing back, answering that silent question with a yes that bloomed between you like light. And just like that, the world faded, it all blurred into background noise. All you felt was him.

His kiss deepened, slow and purposeful, like he wanted to make this moment last forever. His hand cradled your face with such care it made your heart ache, while his other arm slid around your waist and tugged you flush against him. Your body curved instinctively toward his, fitting together like puzzle pieces that had always belonged.

And when he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, the tips of your noses brushing, breaths coming in tandem like you’d synced without even trying. His chest rose and fell quickly, and you could feel the beat of his heart through his clothes. It was fast and wild, but steady.

You stayed there in the hush between heartbeats, in the quiet intimacy of knowing someone down to their soul. His hand slid up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, while his thumb grazed your cheekbone in slow, tender strokes. His gaze was fixed on you, soft and reverent, like he was still trying to believe you were real.

“I love you,” he said, barely more than a breath, but it was the kind of sentence that hit like a wave. There was no teasing in it. No playful undertone. Just truth. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he kept going, the words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

“I…” He paused, blinking quickly like he was searching for the exact words, like anything less than perfect wouldn’t be enough. “I could never love anyone the way I love you. Not even close. You’re everything. And I didn’t know love could feel like this… like my chest is too full, like I’m going to explode if I don’t tell you. It’s like… you’re my home.”

Your breath caught.

Because no one had ever said something like that to you, definetly not like that. Not with their whole heart in every syllable.

You reached up, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the soft curve of his cheekbones. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his lashes fluttering slightly as he leaned into your palms like he never wanted you to let go.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice thick with feeling. “More than I ever thought I could. More than I knew I could.”

His smile bloomed slowly, no smirk, no mischief, instead just something tender, something grateful. He looked like someone who’d finally found what he’d been searching for. Like maybe that something had been you all along.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and sure, then one to your nose that made you smile. And finally, his lips brushed yours again, this time even softer than the first, like a promise.

Then he stayed there, his head resting gently against yours, arms wrapped around you like he had no intention of letting go. And you didn’t want him to.

Not now. Not ever.

The air around you seemed to hum with something more. Not just love, not just comfort. Something unspoken but understood, something that wrapped itself around both of you like the blankets, like the stars, like fate.

Because in that quiet, glowing space between the rooftop and the sky, it wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just a night.It was the beginning of everything.

aurkayyyy i struggled w this. I cant even lie LMAO. when I got the idea for this story i knew that I wanted it to be Jeongin but it was actually so hard for me to make it sound like him and stuff 😭 and when I did include stuff abt him it just felt so like cliche to him like the baby power or the pizza but oh well 😛 also not proofread so if u find any mistakes pls let me know!!!

#skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #stray kids #stray kids imagines #skz #skz fluff #skz scenarios #Jeongin #i.n #i.n x reader #i.n stray kids #i.n skz #i.n fluff #i.n imagine #i.n fic #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids fic

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