#i hope this doesn’t crash in burn

[stevebabey]

the swindling of steve harrington’s heart

word count: 9.5k synopsis: you write for the advice column in the hawkins post, under the pen name gabby. you get a letter asking for advice about a first date and there’s no way it’s the same guy you’ve just landed a first date with, right? steve harrington doesn’t need help with his dates... right? [based on this post] [fem!reader + strangers to lovers but… steve’s a big sap for you already, ok?]

The first letter comes in on a Tuesday. 

It’s posted in an ordinary envelope, with only a messy scrawl on the front to dictate that it was for the advice column of Hawkins Post. Inside revealed the same loopy letters, on a single piece of paper, reading: 

Out of all the letters you’ve ever received at this job, most of which were lengthy admissions of troubles in suburbia, this one was by far the most interesting one you’d gotten all month. All year if you were being honest.

Writing advice under the pen name Gabby for your local paper likely wasn’t anyone’s first choice of job, not at least for those serious about writing as yourself was.

But between flipping burgers down at Benny’s and slinging shakes at Rita’s Diner, it seemed the lesser of all evils. And hey, it paid decently enough and you had a sweet little set-up in one of the drowsy corners of the office. 

It’s how you wind up here, scanning over the letter from one mysterious S.

It’s penned on some spare paper, nothing special. It wasn’t even lined paper like you might usually use for sending a letter of any sorts. It intrigued you the moment it had been dropped into your basket.

Hands flipping through the 4 other letters in there, rows of soft pink and blue envelopes, all with familiar handwriting, you determined that this one was, indeed, a new writer.

You practically devoured it from the first line. Gossip was rampant in Hawkins, like all small towns, but it was not so often shared so publicly with the paper, despite the anonymity that came with the advice column.

Most people in Hawkins seemed to come for advice on outshining their neighbours with a peach cobbler. Some asked whether jazzercise really was the go. There were very few sad tales of love in between the mush.

But this? Even just from the use of the word crush, you knew this wasn’t the average housewife talking midlife marital issues. This was someone your age.

It’s just a little bit funny, you admit — you, yourself, couldn’t imagine ever turning to the local paper to seek out love-life advice. Especially considering none of your previous replies as Gabby implied you had expertise in that area.

You decided it meant they were truly desperate or perhaps completely a hopeless romantic, or a bit of both.

But you couldn’t lie, either way, it’s entirely endearing to you.

It didn’t matter that it was probably someone who had no ‘game’, it was entirely completely made up by the fact they were clearly trying very hard, very genuinely.

They cared enough about getting things right. Whoever they were wooing was very lucky— re-reading over the short letter shoots a grimy wave of envy through your chest. When was the last time someone cared that much about a first date with you? About any date with you? The answer was… probably, never.

It didn’t help either that you had just landed yourself a date. A date with Steve Harrington.

For just a moment, a very brief moment, you look down at the signed S and wonder: would he?

No, he wouldn’t, you decide swiftly. The fragile hope that briefly hung up on the idea is shaken off as you recall his charismatic nature, his easy grin when he asked you out just the other week.

There had been a bit of nervousness, sure, but when you consider the dating history he’d had through high school, well… You feel embarrassed for even considering it. 

King Steve Harrington doesn’t need help with his dates.

Besides, the letter clearly states this was S’s long-time crush. You were fairly certain that if the school’s golden boy harboured any sort of feelings for you, it wouldn’t have slipped past your radar.

Last time you checked, Steve had only noticed you when you had gone into Family Video the other week — when he had promptly asked if you wanted to see a movie together sometime.

Sure, it hadn’t been nearly as smooth as you expected, though, that wasn’t to say you weren’t charmed. You’d heard a lot about Steve— though, who at Hawkins High hadn’t?

He had been that customer-service type of welcoming, hands braced against the countertop as he leaned into it, a handsome smile on his face.

You had pretended your stare didn’t linger on his arms. Or that you were drinking in all the subtle changes to himself, physically and more, since his primped-up freshmen-self. 

You had even admitted to yourself that he managed to pull off the dweeby Family Video vest, trailing behind him as he led you both to the action-film section.

Steve had stood close enough that you could feel the warmth emanating from him, and had helped debate your choice. He didn’t even comment when you got distracted looking at his arms when he crossed them, even though he smiled a little more smugly, having seen your wandering eyes.

Like it was your fault he had gorgeous, tanned, toned arms that made you want to drool.

But even with all his suaveness, Steve still looked surprised when you laughed at his joke, or his attempt at one — and then some of his coolness seemed to flee.

He had fumbled through the whole interaction of checking out your film and asked if you’d like to ‘maybe if you want, totally cool if not’, wanted to watch one with him sometime.

You think you’d say yes all over again just to see the way he had lit up. He positively beamed, then swiftly ducked his head to hide his hasty grin.

Saturday at 8, you’d agreed on. At the Hawk. He’d pay for the tickets and you’d shout the snacks. It’s a date, were his exact words. He had looked extra delighted when you had repeated them back to him with a nervous grin of your own.

It’s what you think of as you peer down at the letter in your hands, loopy scrawls telling a plea in love. You think about what you hope you’ll get on a first date — with Steve or anyone, for that matter — and pull up a new sheet to draft a response.

It’s about the only advice you can give. Truthfully, dates fail for a multitude of reasons that change on a day-to-day basis and if this S just didn’t match with their date, well… that was out of your hands.

But if S liked them this much, enough to reach out to the murky depths of the local paper’s advice column, then they should show that. If nothing else, you’re sure their date would be flattered at their sincerity.

Try as you might not, the letter plagues your mind as you leave work. Your response sits on your desk, penned up and ready to be printed for the Friday morning paper, hopefully giving enough time to your advice-seeking S.

By Saturday, however, it’s the last thing on your mind — it’s hard for anything else to occupy it when it bubbles away blissfully at the thought of your date later in the evening.

You try to not let your thoughts carry away with what Steve might wear, what film you’d watch, whether you’d be able to sneakily hold his hand in the shadows of the cinema.

It plays a romantic pink-saturated loop in your brain, daydreaming of some silly kiss in the back row because Steve just can’t resist, he’s had a crush on you for so long— okay, maybe the letter was on your mind just a little.

But 8 o’clock whirls around faster than you expect and you arrive outside the cinema with only a couple minutes to spare. You’re more than relieved to see Steve already there, leaning up against the brick wall where the upcoming movies are showcased, bathed in soft golden light. 

He’s got on a pair of dark wash jeans and the polo he’s wearing stretches around his arms deliciously, forcing a giddy sigh from your lips.

There’s a jacket slung over his crossed arms and one of his feet is tapping rapidly against the ground. Even from afar, you can see him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Your heart spurs faster at the sight. He’s nervous.

“Steve!” You call out, unable to help how you’re already smiling like a lovesick fool. It doesn’t help when Steve’s head pops up, his hair bouncing just a bit. He lights up at the sight of you, features moving from worry to something happier. 

He straightens up, back scraping the bricks, and he steps forward to meet you in the middle.

“Hey,” he breathes, a grin stretching over his lips. This close, you can smell the cologne he’s wearing— something musky, with a hint of bergamot — and your head spins, all dizzy with delight.

“Hey, yourself.” You reply as playfully as you can manage. You swallow back another wave of nerves.

Fuck, was he this pretty when he asked you out? In the space of a couple of days, he seems to have gotten even more attractive. He’s got that entire look about him that reminds you of a daydream.

“You look, uh, really lovely tonight.” Steve compliments, tucking his hands into his front pockets nervously. He sounds so sincere it aches, the words worming under your skin til you believe them completely; he really does think you look lovely.

It’s a strange moment of consideration you find yourself having. You’re here, on a date with Steve Harrington and he thinks you look really lovely.

It’s not like you hadn’t heard the rumours about the cosmic shift in the King of Hawkins High — going from sneering at other kids in the hallways to cleaning off graffiti on his own accord. 

Yet, some small part of you is still delightfully surprised, as though it had been unconvinced until you had seen it for yourself. In the past, a part of you had been truly miffed at the waste of a pretty face on a douchebag like King Steve. 

Now, it’s like an entirely different person. When Steve offers you another smile, earnest and sweet, you’re secretly glad to get to be the one who takes a chance on him.

You come to a standstill at the back of the winding line outside the ticket booth, the pair of you lingering closer than needed. The brush of his shoulder against your own feels blazing, a streak of warmth. You hope he can’t feel your resounding shiver— and half-hope that he does and gets closer because of it.

“That— uh, thank you,” you manage to remember your words. Even better, you manage to accept the compliment semi-regularly, even though your insides are knitting themselves into a tangle of nervous anticipation.

“You too. Look nice!” You say, louder than you intend. The girl ahead of you peers over her shoulder and somehow even that’s not enough to keep your mouth from running. “I mean, you sort of always look good. That’s kinda—” you wave your hand over him generally, “—your thing. Looking… nice.”

Dear god stop, you will yourself, mouth snapping shut and eyes following quickly, screwed up in embarrassment. Way to completely disregard the advice you gave a stranger and pile on the appearance-based compliments.

You do your best to hide your wince as you peek your eyes back open. It’s a relief to see Steve chuckle good-naturedly, a delicate pink touching the apples of his cheeks.

“You know,” Steve begins as the line ambles forward slowly. His gaze switches between the ground and you, too nervous to commit to looking you straight on. “I didn’t just ask you out because you’re pretty.” 

He pauses. Rethinks his words and makes a hasty correction. “I do! Think that you’re pretty, that is.”

His quick assurance makes you laugh just a bit and you hide it behind a bitten-back smile. Steve stops examining his shoes for a moment, glancing to check you haven’t taken his words the wrong way.

Your heart feels like it does a forward roll in your chest, seeing his even pinker cheeks. God, in what world do you make Steve Harrington so nervous?

“I just—” Steve continues, shoulders hiking up a bit, another nervous motion. “I don’t want you to think that that’s the only reason, I asked. I like that you’re nice. You’ve always been nice.”

You blink at him. In a moment of clarity, a couple of revelations roll through your mind, each one steamrolling the last one before you can grapple each one properly.

Revelation No. 1. is the fact that Steve had noticed you. Past tense. Noticed you enough to think you’re nice and bookmark that in his brain. He remembers things about you. And then— then he had made a special effort to compliment you. Specifically outside of your appearance.

And hadn’t you just given specific advice like that? You had! You had given advice to an anonymous person known only as S, with instructions for their first date. Their first date with their long-time crush.

Which means... you’re Steve Harrington’s long-term crush. Which means, oh my god, Steve Harrington accidentally wrote into your job to ask you for advice on his date with you.

The result of the revelations, each one blooming quickly as the one before it, leaves you entirely speechless for a moment. Baffled. You gape like a fish, mouth flapping around empty words. You can’t quite compute it. Steve? Steve is the one who wrote to the local paper for advice? Steve Harrington wrote in for advice about a date with you? His long-term crush?

You’re thankful Steve’s nervous enough to not look at you because, for a silent 10 seconds, you’re sure every emotion from ecstatic and bewildered crosses your features. What in the actual hell?

You’re not sure how you expect yourself to continue this date and act like a regular person, knowing what you know.

And, more importantly, should you tell Steve? 

You get about 10 more seconds of floundering to debate it, tossing up a thousand different ways this entire evening could change if you reveal yourself.

Steve would be embarrassed. Steve would be angry. Steve wouldn’t believe you and just think you’re messing with him. Steve didn’t even write the letter and you’ve connected dots that don’t even exist.

You can’t pinpoint which one is the truth. You truthfully don’t know Steve well enough to predict how he might react, no matter how sweet he may have been. A realisation of how quiet you’ve been rolls through you when Steve’s head pulls up, concern knitting his brows together.

Something else altogether comes out of your mouth instead.

“You noticed me?”

Steve goes even more red. It’s a glorious sight and in an instant, you can tell he hasn’t meant to give that much away. The line shuffles forward and Steve seems thankful for it, clearing his throat and eyeing the ticket box ahead like he was wishing you were both there already. There’s only one more couple ahead of you.

“Is that weird?” He says after a moment, his voice a bit smaller than before.

“What?” You say, because it’s the last thing you’re expecting him to say. “No! I’m sorry I didn’t— that wasn’t an accusation!”

You mull over your thoughts, trying your best to put into words how it had actually made you feel. How it had soaked your inside with giddiness, not with worry. 

“It’s... really sweet, actually.” You admit, feeling bold enough to nudge your shoulder against his.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, the question said so earnestly it’s like he’s not quite sure he believes you.

“I mean,” You smile, sneaking a nervous glance sideways at him. He’s watching you, expression hinting at anticipation. You nod, continuing, “I’m glad you didn’t just ask me out because you think I’m pretty.”

The last word comes out a bit strained. It feels strange to admit it out loud even with the way Steve looks at you; little glitters of adoration in his eyes.

“It’s-” You clear your throat and bite back a smile that might be too eager. “It’s nice to be noticed.” 

Steve makes a small sound of content, like some sort of pleased hum. Then the couple ahead of you is moving and it’s your turn to step up for tickets.

You hurry through tickets and snacks, getting a packet of Reese's Pieces, some popcorn, and one huge cup of soda with two neon-coloured straws sticking out. When you duck through the velvet curtains at the theatre doors, arm already looped through Steve’s, it feels like you’re entering not as two people but as something closer. 

The evening whirls by in a lavender haze and Steve is nothing short of everything sweet and charming. Even with his nerves tripping him up now and then, it’s all endearing to you.

You two are the last ones out of the cinema, ushered out by bored employees whose glaring only deepened when they realised you and Steve had conducted a popcorn throwing competition between yourselves. You had been left in the dust, with Steve catching near every piece you threw at him. You were less gracious, salt smearing on your cheeks from so many missed throws. 

By the time you’re both back out the front, the night has found a chill to drape across the evening. The sky glitters darkly. The bulbs surrounding the front of the cinema glow and crackle quietly and you’re pleasantly delighted to find you don’t want to leave just yet.

“Hey,” Steve starts. He’s stuffed his hands in his pockets but you can see them twisting about nervously. “Yanno, I had a really good time tonight.”

You can see the moment he bites his tongue and holds back another sentence. You smile as encouragingly as you can — though something about how well the night has gone has your courage growing, doubling, tripling in size.

“Me too.” You admit. You ignore how your palms start to dampen just a titch and seize the words before your nerve fails you. “Did you— do you want to do it again, maybe?”

Steve nods, a stray strand of his hair escaping with the enthusiasm of the motion. He chuckles a bit, pushes it back, and steps closer. “Yes. I mean, yes, of course. You’re... this was so lovely.”

There’s a stir ecstatically in your chest in his words, which drip in sincerity. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, head ducked in shyness. It’s still strange, for someone to be so forward in their affections to you. “Um, should I- I could give you my number?”

Steve nods again, just as fervently as last time. He’s somehow gotten closer in just the few minutes you’ve been speaking like there’s a magnetism within you that he can’t resist.

“Yeah, totally! Did you — I don’t have a pen, I’m sorry,” He chuckles again. His hand scratches at the back of his neck.

You’re thankful for your insane preparedness, digging through your bag to produce a pen. By the time you pop the cap off it, a green marker, Steve’s already rolled back his sleeve. He holds out his arm.

“Your canvas awaits,” He jokes. Your smile grows into a grin, almost ashamed of how funny you found that. God, crushes made you stupid — though thankfully Steve seems to grin wider at hearing your laugh.

You curl your fingers around his wrist to hold his arm still. He’s warm, hot blood pumping beneath your touch. You try not to focus on how you can feel his pulse under your fingertips, nor how it’s racing far faster than normal. After your number, you hesitate for a moment before adding a quick doodle of a heart. It’s sloppy, not exactly your best work. 

Steve loves it. The moment you release his arm, he thumbs over the heart. Steve looks up at you, an infectious type of smile on his face now. “I’ll give you a call, yeah?”

You nod, tucking your hands in your pocket. You’re unable to stop yourself from rocking up onto the balls of your feet in your excitement. 

“Uh, you should probably call after 9 unless you want to meet my mom already.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Got it. After 9. No meeting mom just yet.” He promises.

This time, reading the letter feels like there’s sparking gunpowder littered in your very heart — lighting it up in a frenzy of fire in your chest as you read. It’s impossible to do anything except inhale each new word. You felt a little bad, sure, reading a review of your own date but then again, it was your job.

Besides, you’d tell Steve. When... Well, alright, you weren’t totally sure when you were going to tell him.

Definitely not before the next date. It was still fragile — and some part knew that if you told him, there was a good chance Steve would be too embarrassed. Would work himself up over it and it would ruin everything.

It was like... a souffle. You had to take it out of the oven at the right time; too soon, and everything would sink in on itself.

So, you decided to wait it out. Dish out some more advice and... see how the next date went.

You write back, There isn’t such a thing as giving too much away. This girl will be flattered to know you care as much as you do. Take her somewhere special to you.

It’s just enough of a nudge you think. ‘Somewhere special’ was a wide-open prompt that Steve could interpret as he liked. He could pick just how intimate the next date would be. You promise to yourself quietly, that if you get a third date, you’ll tell him then. 

Steve calls you the night after your responding advice is published in The Hawkins Post. 10 minutes past 9pm. He tells you, voice low and sweet, that he’s got a surprise spot in mind.

“If you’re up for that,” Steve hastily tacks on. “We don’t have to. I’m- we can go out for dinner if you’d prefer that. I totally love dinner.”

Faintly through the phone, you hear the quiet noise, like a thud. You have to smother down a giggle as you realise Steve’s smacked himself with the phone in his own exasperation.

“I’m up for a surprise,” You assure him, clutching the phone a bit tighter in your excitement. “That sounds fun.”

“Fun,” Steve echoes, with a tone of disbelief. Like he hadn’t believed you’d agree until, well, you had. “Yes! It’ll be fun. So much. I hope so. When are you free?”

His words come out so quickly. You can’t hide your laugh this time, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to try to dissuade the giddy grin threatening your lips. No dice. Nothing can stop your elation.

“What kind of surprise are we talking about?” You ask first, thinking over your next words, wondering if you’re brave enough to say them. You take the leap. “Because, well, I know it’s a Tuesday but I’m free tomorrow night and—“

“Yes.” Steve cuts in eagerly. “Tomorrow night, let’s do it. I can pick you up?”

“Okay,” you agree, nodding even though he can’t see it. You don’t think your grin can’t get any wider, barely contained enough to relay your address for him to jot down.

Tuesday evening is soft, the sky a pale blue that washes warmth over the day. Steve picks you up on time. He’s handsome as ever, leaning up against the driver's side door as he waits for you.

Your heart does a little skip when he straightens up upon spotting you, perking up like he had at the cinema. It reminds you faintly of a dog wagging its tail; his happiness at seeing you so visible to see. 

“Did you get prettier since the last time I saw you?” He says, in lieu of greeting as you trot down to meet him. You feel heat bloom beneath your cheeks.

“I-” Your nerves creep up and honesty takes over your words. “I don’t know how to answer that.” You titter out a laugh, a smile tugging at your mouth.

Steve hums as you come to a stop before him. He pretends to give you a serious once over, his eyes light and smile easy. His gaze comes back up to rest on your face before he nods firmly.

“Mmhm, it’s just as I expected.” He reports back, soft and genuine. “Prettier in every way.”

You laugh again, nervousness bleeding into the sound but his words sink into your skin warmly. Fingers twisting into your sweater, you try to rein in your rabbiting heart.

“You’re a goof, anyone ever tell you?”

Steve grins. “Never said I wasn’t. Now, your chariot awaits.”

He sweeps an arm to the car behind him.

He’s right, it is a surprise. You’re not entirely sure where you’d been anticipating — maybe his favourite spot to eat? But instead, he takes you to a clearing, with blankets of grass and wildflowers dotted across the landscape.

For a moment, when you creep out from his car, hands still clutching the edge of the door, you wonder if this is how he found Skull Rock and the likes — that maybe Steve Harrington was an explorer by nature. You think back to your advice and wonder; what makes this place special to him? 

Your heart twists, knowing that he’s taken your advice, even if some part of you tears up in guilt. You will tell him. You take solace in knowing there’s not much to be guilty of; telling him the best way to woo you is hardly terrible manipulation.

Sure, it’s swindling but... of the sweetest kind. You lead him to your heart and in return, get to steal his own.

Steve’s brought along a blanket and picnic for the two of you. There are crudely cut sandwiches, though you don’t doubt he’s tried his best, paired with punnets of ripe fat strawberries. It’s... adorable. Dizzily endearing, how much effort he’s put in for you.

Your heart aches a little more at his pink cheeks as he unpacks all this for you like he’s worried what you’ll think. He is worried about what you’ll think, you realise. Despite all you’ve heard and known about King Steve, your mind winds up thinking back to his letter... I don’t want her to get freaked out if I come on too strong.

A fire of determination burns in your chest. Loving loudly would never be— could never be something to hide. Nor to feel embarrassed over, not with you at least.

So, you start by trying to feed him a strawberry, like a thousand romance novels have taught you. Instead of a cute gesture, you smush it into his cheek instead by accident as he turns his face suddenly. An apology squeaks out of you.

“I’m— oh my god, I’m so sorry,” You’re wiping the red juice splattered on his cheek, your own cheeks feeling fiery and hot. Steve takes your endless apologies well, assuring away the beginnings of your mortification.

He only manages to truly stop your flow of embarrassed apologies by squishing a sandwich against your cheek as well, just to make it fair — a peel of your laughter fills the field, some of your nervousness floating away with it.

Then, just as you had, Steve wipes off the smear of cream cheese on your chin with his thumb, the motion soft and gentle. Your nerves jump around again.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” you begin, finally asking the question that’s been burning since you arrived. “Because I’m loving this date but… Why did you pick this spot?” 

You’re careful to word your question in a way that doesn’t give away what else you know. Beside you, Steve takes a moment to think. His eyes scan over your face before he tilts it back to face the clearing, his arms resting on his propped up knees.

He’s just a boy. A pretty boy on a picnic rug he brought along to your date, in a field of flowers that he took you to. You have the thought to compare him to a painting in this moment right as Steve starts to speak.

“I came up here a whole lot after,” Steve heaves a loud sigh like he’s regretful for what he’s about to bring up. “After me and Nancy broke up. It was good to get out of town and just, like, have my own time to think. To think about what I really wanted.” 

You dare to ask. “And did you figure it out? What you really wanted?” 

Steve glances over at you and smiles crookedly. It’s one of his real smiles, you’ve come to realise. “To not get my heart broken again, for starters. That just— that shit sucked, you know?” 

He laughs a little bitterly, more to himself, and steals another glance at you, like his words are a test and he’ll find an answer in your expression. You smile gently, hoping to convey every softness that you have for him. Every good intent. 

“Well, m’not looking to do that.” You admit truthfully. “Maybe, I’ll… I’ll ease the ache?” 

Steve seems to soften at your words, relaxing. His shoulders drop an inch. “I hope so.” 

“And maybe, I want a little bit of loverboy Steve Harrington for myself too.” You say, your smile turning more coy. It’s true that loverboy was one of the nicknames for Steve tossed around Hawkins High halls but it hadn’t really stuck the same way The Hair or King Steve had. Except for, well, secretly with you.

“Loverboy?” 

“That’s what they call you!” 

“And who are they?” Steve asks, some of his signature charm creeping back in. He smirks at you, leaning in closer and your breath hitches nervously. You grin despite it. 

“People!” 

“Uh huh…” 

Time flows easily around the two of you, weaving like the softest cocoon. As the sunset blossoms, the grassy clearing becomes breathtaking. The moment the sun dips below the horizon, dimming the sky and encouraging out the stars, you suddenly know why this is Steve’s special spot.

He stretches out on his back, eyes to the sky. You copy him. Two little bodies cocooned in the sweet grass, wrapped in the night-time.

“This might seem strange,” Steve starts. His brows are bunched together, thinking hard, but his expression lightens as he turns his face to you. “But... Thank you for coming out here with me. For trusting me.”

A beat of quiet. A wind ruffles over the clearing, a soft whistle in the night. Steve swallows nervously. “Was it a good surprise?”

His question is so earnest it aches. It’s so obvious that he just wants to do this right and well for you.

You know now that even without your advice through the paper, Steve would have charmed you all the same. That you might’ve taken another route and it might’ve taken another couple of dates before you got here, sharing secret spots— but that you’d end up here, with him, regardless.

“It was,” you tell him truthfully, chest glittering with happiness. You smile at him, nudging his shoulder with your own. “Thank you for showing me.”

Steve grins. He turns back to face the sky, eyes cinching shut for a moment. Breathes in the moment. You admire the dimple of his smile. His pretty mouth. His eyes peek back open as turns back to you, voice dropped down into a whisper, “You’re welcome.”

It feels like a little more than you’re welcome — like maybe, he’s thanking you too. You’re really thanking yourself too, for wandering into Family Video when you had, for saying yes to Steve, for giving yourself this chance with him.

Moonlight shadows across his face, strong brows and sloped nose even more defined in the dark. You stare, eyes dragging from mole to mole, avoiding his intense brown eyes that threaten to make everything in your chest melt pathetically.

Shit, is he going to kiss you? Your stomach jumps with a spike of pure want and you move forward— right as Steve sits up. Embarrassment flushes down your spine and you recoil back, sitting up quickly as Steve had but not quick enough.

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly, twisting to glance at where you’d both been lying just a moment. In your panic, you don’t hear the eagerness in his voice. “Were you gonna—?”

Somehow, it seems more embarrassing to admit it aloud. That you might have been ballsy enough to kiss Steve first. You shake your head without thinking about it, arms coming to curl around your knees. Fuck, you wish you had read that moment right.

“Uh,” You spit out stupidly. “No, no, it was just…” you clear your throat. The awkwardness of the moment is nearly painful.

“I mean, yes,” you correct yourself quietly, clearing your throat again. You don’t want Steve to think you don’t want to kiss him. “I was, but—“

“You were?” Steve sounds close to devastation. His expression has crumpled a bit, regret rippling off him in waves. Your stomach turns.

“It’s okay!” You assure him hurriedly. “It’s— you know, the moments gone but there’s always… next time, right?” Your voice comes out a bit tight.

Steve seems a tad bit relieved at your words, shoulders deflating an inch or so. He nods along, even though you can still see the tinge of embarrassment on his face — it’s adorable, that he’s the one feeling embarrassed like it wasn’t you who made a move at the wrong time.

“Yeah,” Steve hasn’t stopped nodding, even as his gaze has travelled off you, staring down at his hands. The furrow in his brow hasn’t eased up, still drawn together in the middle, even as he agrees, “Yeah, next time. Uh, totally.”

Then, his head jerks up in your direction. “I’m sorry, by the way, I didn’t mea—“

You wave him off, a nervous chuckle coming out. You sort of want to bury your missed kiss along with all your humiliation but with every other word but Steve keeps kicking off the dirt. “Seriously, it’s fine, Steve. Really.”

His nod isn’t all that convincing to say he believes you.

Regret festers deep in your gut when the evening seems to derail from that point on. Try as you might, you can tell Steve is stuck in his own head; no doubt hounding himself for the strange rebuff he’d given you.

It would be endearing, that he’s so twisted up inside over it, if it didn’t seep awkwardness into the remainder of your date. You wish you hadn’t tried to kiss him.

The car ride to drop you home is absent of the sweet conversation you’d had when he’d picked you up. Words lull, just an oddly tense air between you two. You’re not sure how to fix this.

When Steve pulls up to the curb, the engine idling with a low rumble, you don’t open the door, not yet. Instead, you turn to Steve.

He’s already waiting, already looking over at you, a hint of worry in his expression — though, it’s gone in a flash.

Steve peels his white-knuckled grip off the steering wheel, pressing his hands into his thighs nervously. He gives a strange sort of chuckle and exhales.

“Right,” He starts, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I know that— well, obviously, that wasn’t how I’d hoped that would go at the end and—”

He pauses, eyes scrunching shut with a groan as he tries to collect his words. The next sentence looks like it takes effort to grind out. “I would understand, is all, if you decided you didn’t want to go out again—”

“I do.” 

“—because that was, well- wait, what?”

Steve forces his eyes open and doesn’t even try to hide his astonishment. Your heart throbs achingly at his obvious surprise.

“I do want to go out again.” You nod along with your words. Being so sincere makes you feel a bit naked, forcing your vulnerability out into the open so that you don’t let him spiral. But you’d rather deal with that discomfort that let Steve get the wrong idea.

“Yeah?” Steve breathes. He seems to remember himself, picking his hands off his lap and draping them over the steering wheel. They tap at it lightly. Still nervous. “I’ll— I’ll call you?”

You nod again. For a brief moment, you think of how dates are supposed to end with kisses, or so you’re told. Your eyes dip down to his lips.

You want to. Even just pressing a peck to his cheek might satisfy your churning, growing urge to kiss him — but you certainly don’t have enough courage scraped together after his accidental rebuff.

A little part of you whispers meanly that it may not have been so accidental.

“After 9pm, remember?” You hear yourself say with a smile. Opening the door, you step out onto the sidewalk and close it gently behind you.

Then you deliver Steve one more smile, one more look back, because that’s the bravest you can be at the moment.

He doesn’t call the next night.

Or the night after.

You’re certainly not expecting another letter from Steve, especially considering how your phone has sat idle and quiet in its cradle since your date on Tuesday. Ringing, but not for you.

But come Friday morning— there is it.

Another letter, scribbled in handwriting you’re coming to recognise. Your heart stammers through the next couple beats as you realise what it is, who has sent it.

This time, you nearly consider not reading it. For him and for you, you consider letting it get lost in the piles of paper, never seen, never read. But burning curiosity wins, coddled by your bruised ego.

This letter is messier and more hurried than its predecessors, letters looping together all slanted.

And…oh.

A small worry in you settles. Changes and transforms into something warmer as you realise he hasn’t called you because he’s waiting for advice first. Waiting, unknowingly, for you to answer him.

You genuinely think the space where your heart is supposed to be is empty — that the organ has melted down like gooey candle wax, dripping down your ribcage in burning hot affection. Your chest aches in the best way.

You’d never understood films where girls lie on their beds and kick their feet up, doodling hearts on paper. The urge is suddenly quite overwhelming. Christ. Steve really likes you.

He hadn’t called you back because— because part of him thinks you wouldn’t want him too. That one missed kiss would be the dealbreaker, even after those lovely dates.

You want to scoff, to laugh, to track down Steve and grip him by the shoulders and say, ‘I think you’re stuck with me if you’ll have me!’

You settle for pulling out a fresh sheet to draft your response.

It’s a bit of a gamble, considering the part about the stars is complete codswallop. The newspaper doesn’t even technically have an astrologist; the horoscopes are auto-generated every week. You’re praying Steve won’t know that.

The paper goes to print on Friday evening, for the early weekend morning the day after. Saturday morning, there’s a call of your name downstairs and you’re halfway down the stairs when you pause at the sight of your mom on the phone.

“Someone on the phone for you,” She comments, the smallest raise of her eyebrows. You ignore the way that makes you hot inside, rushing down the end of the stairs to rescue who you hope is Steve on the other end of the phone. Your mom skirts away but not without one more meaningful glance back at you.

You turn and face the other way, giving away nothing. You’re sure you sound a bit breathless as you speak into the receiver, “Hello?”

A crackle on the other end.

“Hi.” A voice says nervously. There’s a moment’s pause. “It’s Steve.”

You fight off a combination of responses; a girlish squeal and a hefty sigh of relief. He called. The cord of the phone loops around your fingers automatically.

“Hey,” You say, aiming for casual. You’re not sure if it comes out that way.

A small part of you doesn’t mind if he hears your poorly tamped down excitement — an even smaller part wants him to. There’s something different about this call, knowing what you know.

“I’m real sorry it took so long to call,” Steve says, voice genuine. He clearly feels the need to explain his silence. You suppose if you hadn’t received his letter, you might still be feeling a bit confused and bummed out. “I— I’ll tell you all about why tomorrow? If you’re free?”

It’s sickeningly sweet that he still sounds so nervous.

“Of course,” you say. “It’s—” It crosses your mind to tell him, here and now, to explain that you knew exactly why he took so long to call you. You fumble and something else comes out instead. “I’m- I’m glad you called, Steve.”

“Me too.”

Your cheeks ache a bit with the force of your grin. The cord of the phone loops over your finger again and again as you sink against the wall, clutching the phone tighter and pull yourself together,

“So, what’s the plan?”

“You, me, maybe head over to Indianapolis and try out the new golfing game they just set up over there? That sound… good to you?”

It sounds very good to you. 

“I can’t say I’ve ever played golf.” You admit.

A little worry piques up about making a fool of yourself, then settles quickly. Steve wouldn’t make fun of you. If you sucked, you’re actually sure he’d find some way to spin it all romantic style.

“I’ll teach you.”

“You’ve played?”

“Never,” You can hear Steve’s smile through the phone. “But can’t be that hard right?”

—

There’s a lot of thought that goes into what to wear, evident in the holes you must be wearing in your carpet from pacing across it. Restless energy drives you, some labyrinth of nerves and anticipation knotted in your gut. 

Spread out before you on the bed lies everything you own in the colour yellow.

If she wears yellow, it’s your sign. Make your move.

Your own words— well, Gabby’s words, delivered to Steve via the Hawkins Post on how to know if he’s earned your heart like you know he so desperately wants to. You want to show him he has — in a way that seems like a goddamn sign from the universe.

The skirt is one of your nicer ones.

Along the waistline, embroidered flowers are stitched into the fabric and it swishes in just the way you love. Best of all is the dreamy buttery colour, like the colour that bleeds through at the beginning of a sunset, when the sky starts to change at dusk. It’s yellow as yellow comes — for good reason. 

You want him to see you and know.

For the sign to be so unanimously yes that he doesn’t have any space for the same doubts that tornadoed up in his head after your last date.

The type of giddiness that can only be spurred on by crushes and love alike spins up inside you, like sugar catching in a wheel and turning to cotton candy. You’re so sweet on him it’s making you feel gaga. 

You’re also terrified — because you have to tell him now. Inklings of anxiety settle in your chest, leaving little notches in your ribs that twinge a little bit. You really don’t want Steve to leave your life, not now that he’s just come into it.

A little part of you regrets not telling him on the first date, when all your revelations rolled into one big Oh My God! outside of the Hawk cinema.

You hadn’t told him though, so you need to tell him now. And then again, if you’re asking Steve to trust in the stars then… maybe, so should you. 

The afternoon sun lights through the glass of your front door and coats the entrance hall in gold. Steve, as always, is on time. You’re barely down the stairs, the clock chiming at 1 o’clock, when a familiar toot! sounds from out front. Your fingers stress with the fabric of your skirt, smoothing it down for the nth time. 

Here goes… everything. 

You open the door to step you and you startle in surprise to find there’s already someone on the doorstep. 

The door snicks shut behind you, bumping your forward an inch, and the warmth of the afternoon sweeps across your skin.

Steve’s staring downwards, one hand adjusting his ringer t-shirt nervously and the other holding together a fresh bouquet of flowers- sunflowers.

He got you sunflowers. 

Yellow, yellow, yellow. There seems to be a theme to your love. 

His head shoots up at the sound of your entrance, his eyes snagging on your sunny-coloured skirt which shifts in the wind. You swear you can hear his breath hitch as he takes in the colour, a smile blooming wide across his face.

Remembering his manners, Steve clears his throat and tears his eyes off your skirt but it’s too late — the buttery yellow has done its job and he knows. 

His grin has turned brazen and wild. Confidence rolls his shoulder back a bit and his chest puffs out. He looks so handsome it makes you hopelessly nervous. 

“These are…” Steve holds the flowers out but his words trail off. His eyes back on the ground as he thinks, hard, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

In a second, he seems to come to a decision because he’s stepping closer to you, so close that if you both leaned in a couple more inches, your nose would brush his chin. He holds the sunflowers purposefully out the way, mindful of crushing them. 

He smells very nice, you realise. The scent of his cologne inspires a flustering reaction; you’re sure there must be cartoon hearts swimming above your head. You reign in your thoughts before they get away from you.

“Look, I messed up our last kiss and honestly, until recently I didn’t even know that was something I was even capable of doing.” Steve huffs a laugh, his throat bobbing as he swallows nervously.

His eyes screw shut for just a moment, gathering his thoughts, or perhaps his courage. Maybe both. 

“But, I am. I’m- I feel like a fool around you and I miss these little cues because I’m trying to think of the right thing to say or— or because I can’t stop looking at you. And it’s because I like you. I really like you.” 

He inhales a shuddering breath. The sun beams make his eyes two shades lighter. 

“I’ve been confused and lost in love once before and it means that some days I’m not even sure what that feeling even is, what I’m looking for, but… I think it may feel a lot like you.” 

There is it, presented forward to you. His heart on his sleeve, bleeding for you. 

His affections are so transparent it makes you ache for him more. Sunlight seems to fill your chest, burning in its ardor and the tenderness soon follows.

You feel the fondness you have for him, just a seedling of new love, taking root deep in your heart. A part of you suspects it may have snuck in there far earlier, nestling in sometime between your longing glancing and shared smiles. 

“And now, I really, really want to kiss you.” Steve says, the words so earnest they scrape on the way up his throat.

His brown eyes are searching your face as his free hand rises, hesitating for only a moment before it finds a home curled along your jaw. “And get a chance to get it right this time.” 

“Steve,” you whisper. His name makes your mouth tender like no other word can. “Kiss me.” 

His fingers slide along your jaw and touch the edges of your hair as he inches nearer and your heart lurches up your throat in anticipation. His lips are quivering ever so slightly, you notice. 

And then his lips are on yours. 

He kisses your mouth with all the adoration of a familiar long-time lover, deep and longing. Pushing up on your toes, your hands grasp at his shirt, the fabric twisting between your fingers as you pull him closer. It’s… lovely.

Your heart aches and soars, beating as one with him as his kiss sets a fire aflame within you. You are officially and utterly enraptured by Steve Harrington and all he is, but especially his kisses. You already miss the last of his lips when Steve breaks the kiss. 

He doesn’t move back, staying close, and the tip of his nose bumps against yours. He’s sporting a grin that rivals the day in sunshine. 

“You wore yellow,” He says, voice doused in awe. 

Oh. That’s right. His words are a swift kick to reality. You pull back just a bit, hands flattening out on his chest, just so you can see his face properly because you know if you’re too close, you might fall victim to his brown eyes. 

“About that…” 

Steve blinks and takes a second to realise that he must have spoken aloud. He chuckles, a hint of embarrassment in the noise, and rushes to explain. “That was— that must’ve sounded-” 

“I’m Gabby.” You interrupt before he can get carried away. 

Steve frowns, confusion creasing between his brows. “What? I thought your name was—” 

“No!” You jump in again, biting down your smile at his adorable misunderstanding. “I-I mean I write as Gabby. From the Hawkins Post.” 

Steve blinks at you again. His face blanches and then, it’s like watching fruit ripen, the apples of his cheek getting pinker and pinker with every passing second.

He splutters, a myriad of emotions overtaking his features; surprise, bewilderment, embarrassment. He jumps from one to the other in an instant.

“You- you’re— and you?”

There’s not really a proper sentence coming from Steve, just bucket loads of endearing and unneeded embarrassment radiating off him, so warm you can nearly feel it. Steve sputters for another second before he finally manages to spit out a sentence. 

“The whole time?” 

You have the decency to look sheepish when you nod. Steve steps back for a moment and you try to ignore the spike of fear it invokes in you — he buries his face in his hands, squishing the flowers against his hair, and releases a pitiful sounding groan into his palms. After a moment, he drags his hands down his face and peeks up at you. 

“The whole time?” Steve asks again, in a meek whisper.

“I’m sorry!” You squeak out, guilt beginning to overflow. Oh god, you’ve deceived him and he hates you—

“No, no, no,” He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, which then cards through his hair. He’s still looking a bit frazzled but his eyes finally focus back on you.

“It’s not— Oh, man, I can’t believe it was you. No wonder the advice worked so well! This is- this is a new kind of embarrassing—” 

Steve groans again, though his smile is starting to return. “I can’t believe you still went out with me once you figured it out. God, I knew that writing in was a bit pathetic, it’s gotta be like a—” He holds his hand out flat, hovering at chest height. “Top ten loser move of all time and you still—.” 

“No, it’s not!” You insist, stepping forward to close the gap between you. You shake your head, eager to convince him of how it had seemed from your side; a sweet love letter from someone who cared enough to try to get things right.

“It was sweet and honest. Before I even knew it was you, reading that first letter, I… I wanted it to be you.” You admit, a bit bashfully. 

Steve takes a moment to look at you, eyes dancing down to look at your yellow skirt which swishes as another breeze passes by. Warm afternoon air cocooning around you, you look the picture of devastatingly pretty, dolled up for a date with him. You’ve seen this dorky and little bit pathetic side of him, with his desperate search for advice and missed kisses and yet… you’re still here. 

“You did? You mean that? You don’t think it was… weird?” 

You shake your head, a few strands of hair escaping from behind your ear. Steve thinks about tucking them back for you. He doesn’t feel brave enough yet.

“I mean that. I— it was crazy when I figured it out and I sort of thought it was just wishful thinking but, definitely not weird.” 

You hold your hand up, fingers nearly pinched together with only a few centimetres between them. You squint, smile overtaking your lips before you can stop it. “Was just a little bit funny, though.” 

Steve laughs, head tipping forward to hide his rosy cheeks. He peers back up at you through his lashes, a new twinkle in his eyes. “You’re a little minx, aren’t you?” 

“I didn’t plan it!” You splutter out, defending yourself. “It was- it was just a freaky coincidence.” 

“A freaky coincidence?” Steve’s brows hike up an inch. His smile turns into a smirk and he rocks up on the balls of his feet, then steps back in closer to you. “Mmhm. Totally believe you.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you do.” 

“Weren’t you the one who told me to trust in the stars? You should take your own advice, really.” 

He leans in so close that you think he’s about to kiss you. He doesn’t— just hovers an inch from your lips. 

“I’ve found it works astoundingly well.” He says, voice husky with how low it is.

You shiver a bit, delight zinging up your spine and try your best to not to smile too much because, well — as you find, it’s awfully hard to kiss someone properly when you’re cheesing out, grinning too wide. 

Good thing, neither you or Steve seem to mind very much.

[mossflower]

dude i don’t think watcher are evil capitalists i think there’s just no win situation when it comes to funding creative endeavours on the internet

[tenitchyfingers]

I have found this just now and have actively been losing my mind over this like one of those Loki fans in the early 2010s like

his FACE. He knows something we don’t and he’s TRYING to not say anything.

“I know that there’s been a lot of effort to establish that Stu is still alive in the last movie”

“They’re shooting Scream right now and I’m not in Scream right now. Right now I’m not in Scream, right now I’m in San Diego” (this video was posted in February but it’s sure that it was shot during SDCC 2022 which means he was talking about Scream VI, not anything in the future and him repeating he’s not in Scream RIGHT NOW doesn’t exclude he’ll be in Scream sometime in the future)

So, me, once again:

[ormymarius]

praying on twink wonka’s downfall

[astral-from-afar]

Update on the latest spreadsheet

So I kind of underestimated how much I wanted to cover on the blue period spreadsheet. I’ve decided to include way more things (e.g other fandoms, languages, a total word count + average word count per fic). Hopefully I’ll be able to update it monthly if I’m not lazy. I will properly release it on a Friday/Saturday.

Hit me up if you want anything specific to be added on the sheet since I would love to hear suggestions

[scoups4lyfe]

nawwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

see now its even MORE ominous like fvck man

(what about the law of equal exchange?? HPSGHFSPD)

Well

Good 4 you tho buddy <333

hgnhgnhgnhfbgnf

the pheasant metaphor 💀💀

(my buddy do got a cute smile tho. Guess since he’s being competent we’ll call him Tweet Pink for now L O L)

Man I feel like this dude’s toupee is fr a bird of its own

(lmaooooo 💀💀)

[bethiewhimsy]

look i’m keeping my expectations for the hazbin hotel show very very low. BUT. i do have a little list of hopes for it.

[capulated-canthea]

i have misunderstood something (vent)

[bunnysbrainrot]

No Vacancy - Day Three

Relationship: Sam Winchester x fem!Reader

Content: explicit smut, rough sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), slight dacryphilia, size kink, unprotected sex (wrap it up), degrading language, and a very desperate Sam

Summary: After the discovery of the lust spell placed on Sam, you quickly learn that he can’t control himself. In fact, you don’t want him to.

A/N: Some paragraphs have different spacing than others. I’m not sure as to why, but I hope it doesn’t affect your reading!

“Fuck,” Sam muttered, pacing in front of the bed where you sat. It had been about five hours since the two of you surveyed Casey’s childhood home, uncovered her identity as a witch, and found the lust spell Sam took as ‘evidence’.

Now, he stood directly ahead, desperately holding back a groan. Sam had turned around, hand reaching to his crotch. You strode to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He pulled away from your touch, a growl sounding through gritted teeth.

“Sam, give me the sachet, I’ll burn it. It should help,” you offered, extending a hand toward him from behind.

“It’s not going to work,” he snapped, “The spell is… strong. Way too strong. I’m gonna, um, wait in the car, ‘kay?”

He stumbled to the door, doubled over in discomfort. You recalled what you’d said before about spells like these - their efficacy relied on preexisting feelings. The dots were there, and you’d connected them. You rushed to Sam’s side, helping him stand fully.

Sam panted, avoiding your worried stare.

“Sam,” you said softly, “what can I do?”

No response. Sam’s eyes flickered up to yours, and you froze. Within those eyes there was a deadly seriousness you’d never seen. Like a predator sizing up its prey before going in for the kill.

You whispered, “I think I understand now.”

Cupping Sam’s face in your hands, you brought him closer and planted a kiss on his cheek. He let out a whine, and shuddered against your touch.

“Take me, Sam.”

Like a starving animal, Sam’s teeth sank into your neck, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. His hands tugged and tore at your loose shorts and shirt, the last things keeping you from him. From what was truly his. Sam’s lips worked furiously as reddish purple marks erupted across your skin. They trailed from your jaw to your shoulders, downward to the neckline of your shirt.

Sam growled against your chest, “If you let me to this, I’m not holding back. I can’t.”

You gasped helplessly against his touch, chest arching into him. Sam grazed his lips over your supple skin, denying the both of you what you had ached for. He was waiting for an answer.

“Please.”

He cupped his hands to your thighs, lifting you swiftly to wrap around his waist. A hand found it’s way to your hair, clutching a large chunk and tugging your head back. Sam’s lips crashed to yours, harshly nipping and biting at your bottom lip, his tongue pushing in for entry. You granted it, circling your tongue with his.

A rough push, a free-fall, and you had landed unceremoniously on the mattress. Sam pounced, hovering his body over yours as you lay under him, breathless. You had imagined your first time with Sam, previously hypothetical, to be slow and sensual. This was a shock, but the way Sam’s mouth moved over your collarbone wiped all sense away.

You rushed to tug your shirt off, chest now fully bare to Sam. His eyes raked hungrily over your breasts. He dipped down, taking one perked nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. Two fingers pinched and twisted at the other, tortuously harsh and desperate.

Sam let out a hum with each moan that slipped past your bitten lips. Your legs wound around his back, tugging his hips flush with yours. Even still confined in his pajama pants, Sam’s length ground roughly into you, each thrust paired with a rough growl. His sheer size sent heat to your core.

“Sam, I need more,” you sighed.

His fingers fumbled for the waistband of your shorts, roughly tugging them past your ankles and carelessly discarding them.

“Need you inside me.”

“Sam, I need you now.”

“Please, Sam, I need it.”

Though the spell had been cast on Sam, your desperation matched his own ferocity. Every plea you whispered in his ear threatened to send him over the edge. But Sam, to his credit, tried his best to maintain his composure. His lips and hands roamed every inch they could, gaining purchase on each curve, kneading your breasts, dipping his head down your stomach.

He adorned you with hot kisses, suckling at your skin to bring out more of those beautiful marks. After this, he didn’t care who knew you were his, and what he’d done to you tonight. Sam swore to himself that spell or not, this wouldn’t be the last time.

“Open,” Sam ordered, pressing your thighs apart.

You clenched your thighs together, still timid about Sam seeing what lay between them. His hands gripped your knees, spreading them apart.

He needed to see everything.

“Fuck,” hissed Sam, trailing a finger through your wet slit. He brushed against your clit - swollen, throbbing, and aching for him. You bucked your hips into his touch.

Sam removed his hand, “Needy little slut.”

A finger dipped past your entrance, curling masterfully against your sweet spot. You ground your hips into Sam’s hand as he slowly pumped in and out of you, each of your moans earning a deeper thrust, before Sam added a second finger.

“You know how long I waited for this?” Sam’s voice had become strained, as if this still wasn’t enough for him.

A deep thrust. A curl of his fingers. A sharp gasp as he filled you. Another groan from the man taking over your cunt.

“The whole time,” Sam said, “The. Whole. Fucking. Time.”

Your fingers weaved into his hair, tugging him closer to your pussy, eager for him to add his tongue. He took this in stride, suckling onto your clit as his tongue flicked fervently. The added pleasure coursed through you - a familiar coil in your abdomen threatened to snap at any second.

Sam pulled away slightly, muttering against your soaked folds, “Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

Your orgasm crashed through you like lightning. Sam resumed eating at you, lapping up what leaked from your pussy onto his hand. Your walls fluttered around his fingers, even though they still crashed against your g-spot. The overstimulation brought tears to your eyes, calling Sam’s attention.

Normally, your crying would leave him yearning to comfort you, but with the spell overtaking his senses, it sent a wild desire through him. Oddly enough, he liked it. Loved it.

He braced himself on one arm, the other still trained on your cunt, fingers pumping furiously into you. Your tears fell past your cheeks, mouth agape in pleasure.

“That’s it, baby, cry for me.”

Dacryphilia was a foreign kink for you, though Sam’s encouraging words gave you comfort in it. You did as told, letting your tears fall while you writhed in pleasure. Sam let out an approving grunt as he delivered harsher thrusts. He added a thumb to your neglected clit, roughly circling as another orgasm surged through you.

“Attagirl, just let go,” Sam purred.

You’d lost track of time, of how many times you’d came. Sam never seemed fully satisfied - grunting in frustration and palming himself through his pants.

You whined, “Sam… need you… inside.”

He pulled his fingers out of you, ignoring the whimper you gave at the lack of touch. Sam raised on his knees, tugging down his pajama bottoms and boxer shorts. A thick, heavy cock sprung free, twitching and achingly ready. A bead of precum leaked from the head, onto your stomach.

Without a word Sam tugged your hips to his knees. He held the base of his cock and lined it up with your entrance, slipping the head between your folds, smacking against your clit.

“Such a pretty pussy,” Sam praised, realigning his length with your opening. He slowly eased into you, hissing through gritted teeth until he bottomed out. Every inch felt fuller than the last; you were certain you were being split in two. Now taking his full size in, you steadied your shaking breaths before Sam began to move.

“So fucking tight… Might just break you in half, huh?” Sam teased.

His hands rested on your hips, splayed wide for him so he could watch the way his cock sank into your pussy. You let out another whine when he thrusted harder, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix.

“Look at that,” he cooed. You couldn’t, with your head tilted back in a soft moan. Sam gripped your hair harshly, pulling you forward to get a better view.

“Fucking watch. See me stretching you out? Filling you up like the dirty whore you are.”

The degradation sent you into a frenzy. His cock thrust fully into you, then out halfway, the wider part of the middle of his shaft opening your soaked cunt. Each thrust left his length glistening with your slick.

Sam growled as he thrust harder into you. You felt yourself fall apart around him with another climax, wrapping your walls around him in a vice grip. He panted, mindlessly bucking his hips into yours, each stroke harsher than the last.

The room was silent save for the moans, whines, and whimpers escaping the two of you. Wet smacks rung out as skin slapped together - the noises coming from your pussy were borderline obscene.

Filthy sweet nothings came from Sam as his speed increased.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Just take it.”

“Good girl, cum for me.”

A hand wrapped around your throat, now pushed into the bed as Sam plunged his cock into you.

“I know, honey, it’s good, isn’t it?”

“Feels so good, filling you up like this.”

“Get nice and tight, perfect little slut…”

The pressure on your throat darkened your vision, sparks at the edge of a fuzzy blackness. Sam released your throat and gripped your chin, forcing you to look into his half-lidded eyes. Mouth slacked, tongue lolling out playfully, you accepted a finger that rested on your bottom lip. You wove your tongue around his finger, hollowing your cheeks to suck harder.

Sam growled lowly, “Good. Use that pretty mouth.”

You moaned around his finger, bobbing your head as you continued. Sam’s thrusts grew sloppy by the second, his own release not far behind a climax of your own, shuddering over his cock. He bottomed out, pausing to rest himself inside of you.

“Better be careful,” he warned, “you’re gonna make me finish.”

You clenched around him in reply, drawing out another moan from Sam. He slowly moved his hips, pulling from you fully, leaving you hollowed out without him inside of you. You protested with another whine, bucking your hips pathetically into nothing.

To your surprise, Sam seemed to be calming down. His once frantic panting had subsided into quick breaths. Maybe the spell was wearing off, you thought to yourself, as Sam reached for your hips with gentler hands, flipping you over onto your stomach.

Your fingers gripped the sheets as he tugged your hips up. Sam lined himself with your entrance once more, and sank right in until his hips smacked against your ass.

The self-control didn’t last long. Sam kept a relentless pace as he fucked you, relishing in each moan you let out, muffled by the sheets you had bit into.

He lifted one leg, propped now on one knee, and thrusted into you impossibly deeper. This time, you were certain you’d break, barely held together with Sam’s hands gripping your waist.

He gained full purchase on your spread hips, tugging you onto him, crashing against your cervix with each thrust. You cried out into the mattress when another orgasm took you over the edge. Sam shouted as his hips faltered, his cock twitching as his own release washed over him. Thick ropes of his cum filled you, each spurt paired with a raucous moan.

Even still, he didn’t stop after he’d finished. Sam took hold of your hips and continued thrusting, despite the overstimulation that begged him to stop.

He leaned back to watch himself fuck into you; the cum that had been deep in your cunt spilled out over his shaft and onto the bed. Sam threw his head back, another shudder coursing through him. Without this spell on him, one orgasm would’ve had him completely drained, but it persisted regardless. With a few deep thrusts, Sam came again, filling you even further.

You both panted as Sam pulled out completely, crouching down to watch his cum leak out of you. A beautiful reminder of how he’d used you, of how he took claim of your body as his. He brushed a finger through your folds, smiling as your body shuddered at the touch.

At long last, the spell had worn off. Sam’s breathing returned to normal as he stared at your naked form. The spell didn’t let him forget about tonight, even though part of himself shut off when you’d said ‘please’ that first time. He saw everything clearly now, and realized just how rough he’d been, and the things he’d said to you.

He eased your hips down and turned you onto your side, laying parallel to you as you both slowed your breathing.

“I said some pretty, well, rude things back there. I’m sorry,” his voice softened.

You shook your head at him, “I liked it.”

Sam smiled nervously and let out a breathy laugh.

“At least I know what to do for next time,” he replied. Your cheeks flushed a deep pink. Sam leaned in, planting soft kisses along your cheekbones, before finding your lips once again.

He mumbled against your mouth, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I hope you all enjoyed! I have an idea for a follow up chapter, if y’all want to read it! Thanks for all of your support!

- bunny

[foreingersgod]

You’re Everything . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: caitlin clark is the best basketball player in the media right now and you can’t help but feel like you’re no good for her.

y’all i don’t even write (so sorry if this is actual ass), but the cc content on here is almost no existent lol. so i hope you all enjoy :)

my masterlist: here

college is extremely hard, and unfortunately for you, it has pushed you to your breaking point.

unlike your girlfriend, caitlin, you’ve never been the athletic type. typically confined to your textbooks and essays rather than on the court or out in the field. Your studies were incredibly important to you and you were GOOD at school, but by no means were you as talented as the caitlin clark.

you’re so proud of caitlin, truly. she’s come some far in her athletic career. she deserves all the praise and all of the awards and all of the support. but regardless all the praise and admiration you showered her with, you couldn’t help but feel like you weren’t enough.

books littered the covers of your bed, chemistry worksheets and math textbooks seemed to stack up to the ceiling. your fingers dug into your scalp, lightly pulling at your hair. you had midterms coming up and you were starting to panic. last semester, midterms and finals flew by like a breeze and you were able to hold a very high gpa, but unfortunately this semester you’re crashing and burning. you were falling behind on assignments, forgetting due dates, and failing exams no matter how hard you studied. caitlin constantly reassured you that you were doing amazing regardless of how different your grades were last semester, but it’s really easy to say that when you’re passing every class and making history in basketball at the same time.

tears threatened to spill from your eyes and it felt like you were going to faint from all this stress. as you were sloppily scribbling down equations and flipping through flash cards, you failed to hear constant knocking and the lock of your front door turning. heavy footsteps echoed up to your room and you knew all too well who they belonged to. trying to get everything in order before your girlfriend reached your room, you quickly wiped your tears away and fixed your hair.

“YN i’ve been texting you like crazy, did you not-” she began. “hey hey hey what’s the matter, baby”

caitlin immediately seemed panicked at your distressed state, rushing over to you and sitting next to you on the bed. her arms instinctively wrapped around you as you nuzzled your head into her neck to hide your tears.

“it’s nothing, i swear, im just stressed for my chem exam” you lied. “you caught me at a bad time i guess” you attempted laugh it off, pulling a fake smile into the side of neck.

she pulled away from you, hands moving from you shoulders to your face, forcing you to look at her. she seemed to be looking at you for hours, studying the pain on your face and the dullness of your eyes.

“baby this is obviously not ‘nothing’…i’ve never seen you like this. over anything”

it didn’t take long for you to start tearing up again. “caitlin, i…i really don’t know…”

you can’t even get the words out. it felt like your sentences were building up in your throat and suffocating you. a small whimper managed to work its way out of you before you broke down in tears. again, caitlin was all over you, confused and hurt because she doesn’t know how to help you.

“YN please, please talk to me i need to know what’s going on, you’re scaring me” she said, pushing loose stands of hair out of your face and wiping your tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“i just-” you began, hiccuping from your sobs “i just feel like a failure!”

and that started it all. before caitlin could even protest such as absurd statement, all of your feelings and insecurities came spewing out.

“caitlin i’m extremely proud of you, please know that. i’ve never been so astonished by someone’s talent than yours” you sounded hysteric, you were sure. “but i cant help but feel like i’m a failure compared to all the amazing things you’ve done. you’ve broken records and changed people’s lives…you’ve won the awards and the adoring fans…and again, i can’t even begin with how proud of you i am…but looking back at all the things i’ve done…i’m nothing. for fucks sake i can’t even pass a god damn chemistry exam or a math quiz without losing my fucking mind. i don’t leave the house cause i’m too busy studying and i don’t have time to hang out with our friends or hang out with your team. i can barely pass my classes this semester and i just feel like such a burnout.”

it felt like it all came out in seconds. “you deserve so much better than someone like me. i’m nothing”

the silence that filled the room was heavy and haunting. you worked up enough courage to finally look at caitlin, scared that she’d realized you were right and confirm your worst fears. but to your surprise, she was crying too.

“you’re everything” her voice cracked, barely managing to get the words out. “baby you’re everything.”

“what?”

“is this how you’ve really felt? like you’re nothing?” you avoided her gaze “YN i couldn’t even begin to tell you how amazed i am by you. forget me, look at you!”

“cait.”

“no, i’m serious. you work your ass off every single day. you study you do your homework you go to work, and you still find the time to shower me with so much love and attention. you pour your soul into everything that you do and of course it’s hard, but please do not sit here and tell me i deserve more than you because i need you more than i need air, YN”

it felt like you had no more tears to shed, overwhelmed with feelings. so instead you took your girlfriends face into your hands, forcing your lips upon hers. you could feel her hands meander to the back of your head, toying with the hairs at the nape of your neck as she pulled you into a much deeper kiss.

eventually pulling away for air, you rest your forehead against hers while she whispers gentle “i love you”s . you finally feel relieved for the first time in a while.

[lexawoah13]

Awakened Desires

You voted and drunk Soobin unable to resist eating you out won so here it is! Let me know what else you wanna see

Summary: After a drunken night out with your long time crush and best friend Choi Soobin you crash at his place. Little do you know he feels the same way about you. And when he sees you passed out on his bed in his shirt and no pants, he doesn’t know if he can resist anymore.

Soobin x afab reader

Warnings: smut, oral(f receiving), noncon(your asleep), slight somnophilia, wet dreams, sex dream, drunk oral

*Let me know if I missed anything*

Soobin exits the bathroom, hair wet, towel around his waist. Entering his room and looking up from the floor as he’s drying his hair with the towel around his neck, he’s met with your plump rear. You're asleep on your stomach, hands under your pillow with your head to the side. One of your legs is bent, bringing it higher towards your waist. Your pussy is on display between your spread thighs. Only covered by the tiny thin fabric of your thong.

Fuck. Soobin swallows hard, unable to break his eye contact with your core.

Why… why isn’t she wearing pants? On my bed? Is she asleep? Walking over to see your state, noticing yours out cold.

Intrusive thoughts surround his brain as he makes his way back to the end of the bed.

One look won’t hurt. Right? Fuck her ass is so nice. Wonder how soft it is? I should have my face buried in between her cheeks is what I should be doing. What I would do to taste her. I bet she tastes like heaven.

Subconsciously making his way closer and closer to you. Reaching out to touch you softly. Testing the waters as he traces his fingers gently up your thighs. A small tremble runs through you as they gently shake.

Fuckkk. Is that nice? Getting a little braver he runs his fingers higher to the tops of your thighs, running them back down on the inside. A small whine leaves your parted lips, and you wiggle into his touch.

She likes this. Good. Let me touch you, baby. Please Let me feel you for once. Christ I just wanna touch you once. He fully grabs your ass, massaging and spreading your cheeks to see your core even better.

Fuck you’re so perfect, baby. So so pretty. Wanna see your pretty pussy too. Wanna taste you.

Soobin’s desire is starting to take over. He’s rock hard as he touches you unknowingly. He knows it’s wrong. But with every sound you make, makes him crave more. Laying down between your legs, he’s eye level with your pussy. Drooling at the prospect of tasting you.

Did you plan this? Only wearing this and putting yourself fully on display for me y/n? Fuck I hope so.

Rubbing his thumb in a long swipe along your labia.

Fucking hell baby youre wet. Did I do this? Are you wet for me? Feeling your slick through the thin fabric of your underwear. Pushing lightly over your opening, making you moan. He pulls away scared you’ll wake up. Wiggling at the loss of contact.

‘Fuck’ he breathes out replacing his thumb, rubbing up and down. You spread your legs further apart to allow him in as he starts rubbing your clit. Heavy breathing and soft moans leave your lips. Unconsciously lifting your hips to feel more pleasure.

Fucking hell you really like it huh? What if I just.. Soobin hooks a finger under your thong and pushes it to the side. Revealing your core to him. Sticky with your slick he can’t help but groan at the sight. He’s pictured your pussy so many times but it was nothing compared to the real thing.

So pretty. Want to taste you so bad baby. Rubbing his thumb against your bare lips now, feeling how wet you truly were. Oh fuck you’re so wet. Need it. Need you so bad y/n. Your moans grow louder now, thinking you're having the wet dream of your life. It feels so real. Lifting your hips again to ask for more.

Look at you, showing yourself to me like that. You want it too, God, I hope you do. I want you so bad y/n. Can’t help it. Soobin brings his face closer to your burning center, aching for more. Thinking for a second before one final wiggle makes him cave, diving in to taste your sweet slick.

He moans into you, the vibrations making you arch your back in pleasure. Tastes so good. Fuck. Soobin starts thrusting against the bed. Unable to hold back from how good this is. I wish you were awake. God, I wanna see you underneath me. See what pretty faces you make. Wish you’d let me.

Soobin devours you, bringing you closer and closer to your high. Focusing on your clit, sucking and licking around the swollen bud. Starting to stir you from your sleep. The sensations are overwhelming for a dream. Still in the light grasp of sleep, you turn yourself over, giving him more access to you.

Gonna make you come. Fuck you’re so perfect. Just wanna see all of you. He slowly pushes his shirt up your torso.

wanna see them

until he finally reaches your breasts, pulling the fabric above them. Your nipples are hard, making him hold his breath as he stares at them.

"Why are you so fucking perfect?" he says under his breath.

Feeling the chill hit your skin you arch your back again, looking for the warmth that was touching you moments ago. Soobin took it as a sign. Moving his hand between your legs again he moved the fabric to the side, rubbing your clit as he lowered his head to take your pink, hardened nipple in his mouth. Running his tongue around it, your back lifts higher off the bed. A soft ‘more’ is whispered from your lips. He pops off of that breast just to attach himself to the other. Sucking harder and dragging his teeth along it, speeding up his movements on your clit.

“UggghhHh fuck… Binnie” you whisper softly

Soobin immediately stops, staring at your face, frozen in fear of being caught. But, your eyes are still shut, and you don’t seem awake.

The fuck? How does she know it’s me?

“Binnee” you whine louder “Don’t stop pleasee- need you” Your hips moving on their own searching for release.

HOLY FUCK IS SHE HAVING A WET DREAM ABOUT ME!?

Soobin’s cock twitches, blood rushing to his length making him harder. Moving his fingers towards your hole, Soobin presses against it without entering you, leaning up to your ear and quietly asking in his deep voice “What do you want baby? Tell me”

His warm breath against your neck awakens your senses more.

“Wanna comeee” you groggily whine

“Yeah? Wanna come on my tongue pretty girl?” Rubbing light circles on your clit.

“Please! Please Binnie let me” Your eyes start to open, waking from your slumber.

This feels too real to be a dream. Fuck what is wrong with me?!

Soobin slowly crawls back down your body, leaving wet kisses in his trail to resume his work on your needy cunt. Unknowing that you’re slowly regaining your consciousness. “Then cum for me Y/N” giving his permission before lapping at your clit once again, thrusting his middle and ring fingers into your dripping hole.

Your eyes shoot open and your back arches high from his bed. Your saccharine moans bouncing off his bedroom walls shoot straight through him as he grinds down on his sheets harder. You reach down and grab his hair, when the reality of the situation sinks in. Looking down at the soft dark locks of the man you’ve been in love with, devouring you whole

It wasn’t a fucking dream!? He’s actually doing this?

“CumMING” you barely get the word out before your legs stiffen around Soobin’s head, pulling his hair and clenching around his fingers as your cum coats his face.

You had never come that hard before and your body was vibrating.

What in the actual fuck just happened? Did he really just… WAIT DOES HE WANT ME!? I mean he must be right? He just gave me head while I was sleeping? THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!? Should I keep-

“That’s a good girl” Soobin coos, licking his lips of your remains essence “good bunny” leaving a feather light kiss on the apex of your slit, right above your throbbing clit. “Wish you were awake though” he whispers to himself.

“I am” you say, sitting up and pulling him into a deep lustful kiss.

Soobin’s eyes nearly pop out of his head at your action. Quickly giving into you and opening his mouth to your kiss. Until he realizes what is happening and pulls you off to apologize to you.

“Y/N I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have-“

“Shut up!” You cover his mouth to stop him

“It’s my turn now”

[azsazz]

Lips of an Angel (Part 4)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the song ‘Lips of an Angel’ by Hinder. Azriel left you for Elain. After finding out that he has a child he didn’t know about, he’s furious.

**Daddy!Az AU**

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,805

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

_________________________________________

The glass in his hand is empty again, the bottle next to it too. 

Azriel sits at his desk, thinking about everything that has led up to this very moment: nursing the wounds he’d amassed from Rhysand as well as the full liquor bottle that he kept hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk in a secret compartment where Elain would never notice.

His left eye is swollen shut and throbbing. Bruises and cuts litter his body from the brawl he’d had with his High Lord in his office only an hour ago, over his ex and the fact that she’d had a child and never told him about.

The High Lord still packs a pretty good punch, he thinks as he shifts to pull open another drawer. His entire body aches with each movement but the alcohol has made it a touch easier. He’s burned through most of the bottle with his anger, but he could’ve sworn he had shoved another bottle in there somewhere.

Elain hasn’t arrived yet and he hopes that she doesn’t. Hopes that she doesn’t walk into his home with her striking smile and eager aura. Right now what he needs is to be alone. Alone with his thoughts, in the dark, silent and nurturing like they were when he was a child and his father trapped him in the dungeons.

The age his child is now. Wren. His chest aches an insurmountable amount when he thinks of the child, so much like him despite having never met. Eyes so strikingly similar to his own that Azriel knows you think about him everytime you look at your son. With tiny wings to match and the most stoic face he’s ever seen on a child, there was no doubting that Wren was his.

But you hadn’t even denied it when he asked, couldn’t, and that made him all the more angry at himself. That he had pushed you so far away from him, had hurt you so badly that you didn’t even tell him he had a child? That you had gone so far as to tell the High Lord and the rest of his family but not him?

“I deserved to know about my child,” he screamed into Rhysands face. The bellow was followed by a blow to his jaw, his bones reverberating beneath his skin from the force of it. It had been a long time since they’d come to blows like this, not training, but actually fighting. Azriel thinks the last time they’d had a real argument that had led to injuring each other like this was when they were still learning in the camps and Cassian and Rhysand had teased him, pushed him to his brink before accepting him into their found family.

“And you could have,” Rhys spits back, the utter fury in his voice shaking the paintings on the walls. The High Lord’s power had unleashed then, slamming Azriel back into the wall. His head crashed into the plaster with a harsh thunk and when he blinked the spots from his vision Rhysand was already pouncing towards him, ringed-fist raised. “We all put it together before you ever made a move on Elain. The signs were right there! Think about it! They were right in front of your fucking face and you didn’t even care.”

“Gods,” Azriel groans. He’s been leaning over his chair for far too long and the broken rib his brother had given him makes it hard to breathe.

But Rhysand had been right, all of the signs were there, he was just too infatuated with finding a mate that he overlooked them.

When you’d started having dizzy spells and he’d passed it off as you not drinking enough water, or when you’d told him you missed your cycle, he remembers that like it was yesterday and curses himself for being so dimwitted. 

All of the times you’d tried to cuddle up to him or kissed him just the way he liked but he still pushed you away because it had felt wrong to kiss you back when Elain was standing right over there. He was so busy chasing after Feyre’s middle sister that he didn’t notice your scent shifting, thinking you were coming down with a sickness that would keep you in bed for a day or two so he could have some time with Elain and didn’t have to worry about you finding out.

It was all right fucking there, and he hadn’t been able to see it.

Even when he’d come home to find you sitting in the guest room one night. The door had been cracked open and you’d been sitting on the edge of the bed looking around the room with a look on your face he hadn’t even cared to decipher, but he remembers it now. It was awe, excitement as you clutched your belly, probably thinking to yourself how exciting it was going to be to decorate a room for the babe growing in your belly. But all Azriel had done was pass it off as you starting to realize the distance he was forcing between the both of you and maybe you had decided to sleep in there that night instead of the room you shared.

There is no denying that he’s fucked up. Fucked up to the point of never finding love again. He realizes in this moment how badly he’s treated you, treated the little boy that dons his face and doesn’t even know him. Wren already thinks that Malik is his father, and with the way that the fae male looks Azriel can’t blame him. While you clearly had a type, your current boyfriend doesn’t seem to be as broody or cruel to you as he’d been.

Azriel sighs, saddened by the lack of alcohol he’s hidden in his desk, and sits in self-pity instead.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Azriel wipes his hands on his pants because truly, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

Sitting across the table from you, Malik, and Rhysand was not something he’d ever thought he’d be doing. Let alone being in the same room as you again.

And fuck, you’re as gorgeous as he remembers, even with the guarded way you’re sitting, arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set into a firm line as you stare him down like it’s not fucking burning you up to see him as much as it is for him to see you. 

Rhysand looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. They’ve both healed up due to the nature of their fae healing, but his brother’s glare makes Azriel want to allow the shadows curling around his ankles to shroud him behind their blackness.

And Malik. Malik is here, with his arm around the back of your chair. He’s slid his own closer to yours for comfort, and even the cheerful male he’d seen with his son doesn’t seem so joyful right now. His straight brows are drawn and he keeps glancing over at you in concern. 

Azriel can’t even find it in himself to hate the male. The one who’s taken care of you, of his son all of these years he’d been so oblivious. He wants to hate him with the fires of a thousand autumn fires, but, after the way that he’s treated you, he can’t help but to feel a little bit grateful for the male.

Wren hadn’t joined you, of course not. Feyre had taken him and Nyx down into the Rainbow for an afternoon art class followed by the most ice cream they could even imagine. Normally, you wouldn’t allow Wren so many sweets, but he’s been more than stressed lately with the information of seeing his birth father, and you’ve been trying to help him work through his own feelings on the matter.

Feyre even helped place Wren into an art therapy course with one of her good friends. Everett owns the studio next door and you’ve heard nothing but the best about the therapist. She’s been a light in Wren’s life as of late, and he seems to be responding well to the therapy. So well that he’s mentioned he might be open to meeting Azriel one day.

Today is not that day.

He doesn’t know what to say. His throat is clogged with years worth of emotions. Azriel prides himself on his cool, calm exterior, but right now, there’s none of that front on display. His palms are slick with sweat, leg jerking up and down to try and dispel some of the anxiety wracking his body. It’s no use at all.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he starts, and it’s more than a little awkward. He watches you and Rhysand share a glance and deflates in his chair. He’s more than a fucking prick.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you start, and he’s never heard your voice so cold. “I’m doing this for Wren.”

Azriel looks up at the sound of his son’s voice. There’s a hopeful note in his golden eyes that you don’t want to diminish, even if there’s still a sting as you’re reminded when his eyes had lit up like that at the sight of you. Your hands fall from where they’re crossed across your chest as the dread settles in, and you can’t seem to fight the tingling of your sinuses. You don’t love him anymore, but seeing him so often after years spent apart brings the feelings of everything he had done right back. 

Sensing your shifting emotions, Malik drops his hand from the back of your chair to your lap, threading his fingers through yours. Azriel’s shadows relay the way that you cling to his hand tightly, and he shifts in his seat.

He watches the way that your eyes go glossy, unfocusing from his and he knows that Rhysand is speaking to you, mind-to-mind. Azriel is sure that his brother is doing his best to reassure you, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. It should have been him reassuring you. It should have been him by your side all of this time.

Just the thought of Elain pains him. Everything that he has fucking done to you because he thought that he wanted her plays over and over and over again in his head. He will never forgive himself for any of this, but the road to making things up to you, up to his son, starts now.

Rhysand takes the reins of the conversation, and Azriel doesn’t like the way that he’s looking at him like any one of his courtiers, hands folded together as they sit on the table. 

He’s even wearing his crown.

“Wren has decided that he wants to meet you. Properly, this time.”

The floor falls out from under Azriel’s chair.

[vamossainz55]

let's just drive (charles leclerc x reader)

inspired by a request from an anon: would you like to write one for Charles where he can't drive his normal car (for whatever reason), so he asks the reader for help, but she's kind of nervous and thinks there will be some judging? a/n: i took the liberty of making her scared she'll crash, i hope that's okay. i just feel like it fit the prompt better (+ there's something that I don't like about this but idky- so my sincere apologies if you also feel it)

“Here you go,” Charles says, casually dropping the keys in your hand before giving your cheek a kiss. You’re not sure if he doesn’t notice the way all your blood has drained out of your face, or if he’s choosing to ignore it because he doesn’t mention it. Instead he circles around the car to go into the passenger seat.

He fumbles a bit with the door before closing it, having to awkwardly reach over with his left arm to pull the seat belt from the right. He struggles over the cast that’s wrapped around his arm, and for a second you feel sorry for him, but all of this goes away the moment he looks over at you expectantly. 

“Come on,” He says. You notice the smile he attempts to fight back, the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and looks away. So he did notice I look nervous, you think to yourself. Dickhead. 

Passenger princess. That is what all your friends had decided to call you once you had started dating your boyfriend. It had been an off-handed joke at first, one that was pegged because of your boyfriend’s career, but here you were almost two years into your relationship and the nickname had stuck.

Over the last two years you found yourself behind the wheel less and less, whilst finding more and more comfort in riding shotgun. It’s not that you hated driving, far from that, but he just loved it, offering to take you wherever you needed to go. 

That is exactly why the sight of his 488 Pista is making you feel sick, extremely sick. 

Regardless of your nerves, you somehow find yourself in the driver’s seat, pulling the seat forward to adjust for your own height. Somehow the car feels even scarier from the inside and you wonder whether calling an uber could be a choice.

“Did you really have to break your arm this week?” You ask as you turn the key. Of course you’re joking, well kind of. You just didn’t understand why you were the one who had to drive. The car roars as soon as the engine is on, and you try not to think how much power it actually has. You can feel your boyfriend’s eyes on you, amused by your whole ordeal. 

Your hands are clammy as you hold the steering wheel, looking into the wing mirror. You’re about to change gears, eyes shifting back to the rearview mirror. Reverse, I can do it, you think. There’s a small second of silence right when you’re about to step on the clutch and you can practically feel Charles’ eyes burning into you. 

The car reverses, only for a moment before it rocks back forward. You instantly wince, raising your shoulders to your face to wait for the impact that never comes. You hear a snicker from next to you and you exhale a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

“You cannot be staring at me like that!” You say, cheeks flushed red, looking at him. Charles only continues to look at you, a smile playing on his lips as he shakes his head. He reaches over to hold your arm, thumb slowly rubbing at your skin. The touch sends a shiver down your spine. 

“You’re acting like you don’t drive when I’m off racing.” Charles laughs in between his words, letting out a soft wheeze. 

“Yeah- I drive my car. Not a ferrari.” You murmur, trying your best to let the heat leave your cheeks.

“You’re not going to crash it you know?” 

“But what if I do?” Your question comes out high pitched and whiny, a stark contrast to how relaxed and laid back Charles seemed. He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth before letting it out with a shake of his head and a smile on his lips. 

“First off all- you won’t,” He says as he reaches to turn off the car before reaching for your hand. “And second of all, so what if you do?” Charles asks, snorting at the shocked expression you give him. 

“I’m sorry- are we forgetting how much your car costs?” You try to pull your hand away, wanting to prove your point about how stressed you actually are. He doesn’t let you though, only giving your clammy hand a squeeze.

“Actually, I don’t know how much it costs,” Charles says matter-of-factly. You can only groan, because of course Charles Leclerc does not know how much his Ferrari costs. 

“Over two hundred thousand euros Charles.” His brow raises slightly, showing slight surprise and you’re a bit relieved by it, hoping that it would be enough for the idea of you driving to stray away. It doesn’t seem to work in your favor though. 

“Wait- did you google how much my car costs before this?” 

“How could I not?” Charles is back to laughing again, shaking his head in amusement. =

“Amour, it is going to be okay,” Charles promises. “I trust you.” His words are enough to get your shoulders to relax a bit, and for you to take a deep breath. 

“But you love your car so much- what if anything happens?” You watch the way he brings your hand to his face, leaning down to pepper kisses into your knuckles. It helps in relaxing you, allowing you to let out a soft breath. 

“Come on now, I love my car, but- I love you more.” He smiles at you as he gently puts your hand back down, but you don’t give in, only continuing to look at him with your lips pulled down into a pout. “If you crash it- which I am not saying you will, I won’t be mad. I’m the one that asked you to drive it,” Your silence fills the car and he squeezes your hand again to catch your attention. “Hm?” 

“Are you sure?” You ask and Charles only laughs, rolling his eyes before pecking your lips. 

“I,” he says before giving you another kiss, “promise that,” and another, “I love you” and another, “more than my stupid car” he finishes, sealing the promise with one last kiss. He takes his time with this one, enjoying the way your lips had curved up into a small smile. Bingo.

“Now will you drive?” He claims victory when you nod in response, pulling away to lean back onto his seat. There’s a moment of silence as your fingers shadow to start the car, but another thought enters your mind. 

“Can I have one more kiss?” He knows you’re stalling, and at this point you’ll both be more than twenty minutes late, but he smiles anyways. 

“Of course,” He answers, coming closer again. Who’s to blame him though, he did love you most.  

[pedge-page]

Crash

Sequel to Cravings

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary: Frankie is reeling from the night you two had sex and can no longer differentiate between his addictions.

Notes: Great y’all, now he's got feelings . Hope you're proud. Anyway, thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive feedback from Cravings: alas, here’s part 2! There will be a part 3 finale following after this (because it was getting too long and I like making you all suffer). Thank you all again for the love and reading so far!

Warnings: Oral (m and f receiving), F and M masturbation, dry humping, drunk reader, slight dub con drunk sexual activities, references to sex, mentions of drug usage,  language, Frankie is kinda mean in this one :( , poor communication King and Queen

18+ONLY

- - - -

Frankie feels like a stranger who's overstayed his welcome in his own home. When he knew you were deep asleep, he crawled out of bed and sat on the couch for what felt like a simultaneous eternity and quantum leap of time, wrestling in his mind over what just happened.

He knows you'll be waking up soon, and the thought of seeing you now makes him feel so anxious. In direct contract to how he's felt seeing you every morning since you moved in. How much of last night stuck with you? You were tipsy, but not as fucked up drunk as he was. Did he come on to you too strong? Misread your signs? Did he force it on you? Would you regret it?

And even if you wanted it, was it just all for him? Was this just another "helping Frankie get over his coke problem"?

He can't just go back to seeing you as a substitute for his "problems". His hands shook at his side, leg bouncing. You were slowly transitioning from being the solution to his problems to becoming the reason for his new problems. He's never been afraid about how to act around you before, and that even includes trying to touch and kiss you in front of some guy you were flirting with at the bar.

God, what a shitty friend he is. You should have had the chance to go home with that guy, not have to deal with your coke addicted friend so he hog your cunt all night for himself.

Then again, why would you want to go home with that fucker anyway? Like he would know your body as intimately as Frankie does. As if he could even come close to bringing to the edge black out pleasure and back over and over all night. Catfish doesn’t pride himself on much except two things: flying a chopper under any condition, and making you cream on his tongue.

He feels even more guilty as his cock hardens in his pants, the memories of your sweet moans and perfection flood his mind. How he'd wanted it for so long and was so sure he was dreaming. But he could never mistaken: the hot tenderness of your sweaty skin, hair sprawled over his pillow, your nails sifting through his curls and scratching along his shoulders, the way your legs shook around his head, the taste of your over flowing juices needing him more than before, the sounds like honey pouring from your lips, the insatiably tight, wet grip of your pussy swallowing around him like a perfect fit, and the way you wrapped yourself around him like you never wanted to let go.

He wants you. Again. And again, and again. So much that he doesn’t think he can trust himself around you anymore.

-

You wake to a cold bed. It takes you a moment to orient yourself, recognizing the room is not your own.

You sigh relief when you hear Frankie shuffling in the kitchen, the smell of burning toast filling the air. You quickly run to the bathroom to freshen up, wiping your messy eyes. And surprised to find the once mess between your legs from last night had already been cleaned, probably while you had slept.

You can't help but feel like a shitty friend, hogging his bed, having him clean up after you when he was the drunk one who needed caring to.

You bounce into the living space, announcing your presence with an exaggerated yawn.

You rub his broad shoulders over his shirt, feeling him tense at your sudden touch. Slowly, your hands snakes down the chiseled lines of his back, wrapping around his waist. You felt his strong forearms flex the spatula in his hand.

He turned to you, his eyes warm but clearly sleep deprived. His breath is short when looking at you, eyes dilated. He can't stop your hands drifting south and feeling the clear tent in his pants that has been there all morning. He closes his eyes and groans as you palm his erect cock.

"Why didn't you wake me?" You asked, turning off the stove as you stare up at him.

Frankie swallows the lump in his throat. He brushes your hands off his crotch and holds them in his. “I’m okay. Besides, you needed your rest." He leans down to kiss your cheek, lacking his usual affection despite the gesture before coldly turning back to his cooking.

You pull away and sit down at the table, just a moment before he's plating your breakfast.

Frankie cooked you breakfast?

He brushes your hair out of your eyes before leading himself down the hall and into his room without another word.

Sheets, pillow cases, clothes, all of it gets balled up and tossed in the wash. He glances at you down the ball, your feet dangling over the island stool as you catch up on your news feed.

You couldn’t be any more oblivious to how much his heart is shattering—just from doing absolutely nothing.

-

He's annoyed at how well you carry about your business from then on. So much so that he's trying so hard avoiding using you as much. Yes he WANTS to fuck you again, wants to ravish your cunt every waking minute of the day like before, and then fuck you until you're pleading him to stop, tell you how good you look taking him, and how you were clearly made for him. But how much of it did you want for yourself?

After the first night, he’s been doing everything in his power avoiding sex with you because it’s dangerous. Because he can't control what happens next. Can't keep it platonic, and pretend he’s ok with it just staying sex. He almost lost it and confessed everything the first time—and what would happen when you didn't want that from him? If you didn't feel the same?

You'd leave him.

So of course you make it that much harder for him to resist you everyday since.

Did you realize how sexy you looked wearing nothing but panties, bending over your bed with the fan on after a shower to cool off? you left your door open, casually waving to him, breasts smushed between your chest and the soft blanket on your bed. Did you know he swells with pride when can he still see the obvious markings of his fingerprints bruised on to your hips, your thighs, your stomach, after spending so much time holding your shaking body against his mouth? The way your nipples pierce through his t-shirts that you manage to dig out of his closet, and how they do nothing but aide the memory of you underneath him, begging for him to use you?

Every time he sees you, he gets hard. And he immediately tries to ignore you, walks away, goes to do anything other than giving in to the desire of pushing you down, spreading your legs and taking his frustration out on the one who's causing it all now.

He can tell you're starting to catch on. You notice his curt attitude, the way his eyes avoid you when you’re in the same space.

You two were sitting on the couch watching tv as always, but he was uninterested, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed almost in annoyance. You had interpreted it as a sign of him holding back his urges. Sliding down the couch, you glide your hand across his chest, starting to undo your buttoned night gown. when he opened his eyes and saw the first sliver of your breasts opening for him he stood abruptly, throwing you off. He only mumbles 'goodnight' and headed straight to his door.

It's been a few days since the last time he ate you out, last time he really cared to touch you. And you should be glad, really. He's getting so much better. Clearly craving you less. That was the whole fucking point of all this.

But FUCK if you aren't needy as of lates. You can feel the hot flush of embarrassment as you drag yourself to your room. Wet and bothered and for the first time in months, left unsatisfied to your own devices without Frankie's tender and a bit selfish care. You don't remember the last you needed to masturbate, let alone wanted to.

It shouldn't be embarrassing. And yet as you dip your fingers down your panties and through your slick folds, you feel wrong. Empty. Like something isn't there thats supposed to be. The idea that you're so used to him getting you off whether you asked for it or not that you're now incapable of doing it yourself is—troubling.

You huff in frustration and try your best to work yourself to a minimal slickness, remembering all the times Frankie has brought you over the edge again and again. But thinking about him only makes you slightly perturbed by the fact that he's right down the hall and could be doing this himself, if he only needed you as badly like he used to.

You don't notice your friend is right outside your closed door, ear pressed against the wood as he listens to your hushed sighs. His cock is hard in his hand, pumping it with long strokes to your beautiful yet strained moans. He wants to be buried between your legs. Wants his tongue to lap at your folds, fingers craned deep in that tight hot wet heat thats been calling his name all night. Make you flinch away when the stimulation becomes too much, because he knows you'll still take it like his good girl until he decides to stop. He knows all the right places to push, nothing secret between the two of you. In fact, in the amount of time thats passed with your fumbling attempts to get off and his pulsing dick in his hand, he could have made you cum twice now.

His body has been on overdrive trying not to take you again. Trying to be respectful for a change. Everything hurts, even his cock, which no matter how much he tugs on it, it's nowhere near close to giving him that sweet release. He's feral, nails digging in his thighs with the need to feel you against him again. Needs to just fuck, let it out, and then he can deal with his brain, his guilt, afterwards.

And when he hears you softly moan his name, he can't stop himself from barging down your door, wild eyed, dick slapping against his abdomen as he crawled over top of you and captured your lips.

Stop, stop stop, he's telling himself. But with the way you're wrappings your arms around his shoulders, deepening the kiss, delicate hands cupping his aching cock, all his needs he's been denying for days have overtaken his movements. 

You're so bad for him. An unavoidable addiction.

Worse than candy, worse than coffee, worse than cocaine.

He flips you on your stomach, his hand engulfing the entirety of your lower back, pinning you there as his elbows spread your knees. He lies between your thighs, ass up in front of his face, and spreads your soaked folds, enamored with your clit twitching for him. Your little hiccup goes quiet when he presses his face into your mound, nose dragging along the line as his jaw works you open, fingers pulling your cheeks apart so he can suffocate himself properly.

His fingers dig into your waist, and he's rocking your body back and forth, dragging so deliciously against the sheets below you. His tongue is plunging in and out of your hole, and you realize he's fucking you on his tongue. You hum in relief, rocking with his movements, earning you stinging slaps on your ass cheeks. He kisses them better before biting your folds and gorging himself on your slit again, his appetite voracious after denying himself of your sweetness all week.

He ignores that bubble of guilt wedged deep in his stomach as he let's instinct bring him the relief he desperately needed, your squelching cunt and satisfied sighs tampering his cravings for you once again.

He watches you shake with your orgasm, encouraging him to keep taking. You babble: "Thats it, baby" "so hungry today aren’t you?" "Use it the way you like" and he closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the clear direction of how you saw this transaction. You were never this vocal before, but now when he's tossing and turning all night with his thoughts about wanting you, here you are telling him plainly. Almost as if you're reminding him the truth, discrediting his hopes for a different outcome.

He sits upright and slaps his cock between your ass cheeks, grinding down on you so you're still pressed flat on your bed. God, he wants to do it again. Spread your folds and split you in half with his fat cock. Make you weep and pass out, and then fuck you again. "Gorgeous fucking ass, mi hermosa. So pretty under me," He grunts as he slicks his member up with your arousal, just barely holding on the last bit of sanity he has by refusing to enter you. You whine in protest, but he has both hands on your lower spine, crushing your hips into the mattress as he uses your ass. "So good spoilin' me. Always there for me." He grits his teeth, rutting his cock against you, occasionally sliding back down to your folds to lather himself up. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He growls as he spills his cum over your lower back, breath catching in his throat.

The guilt creeps back in to his clear mind, and he's angry at himself again.

He can't stop himself.

"Frankie, why didnt—“

Before you could finish, he was storming out your door and slamming it behind him.

-

He used to be so loving. Used to worship your body, warm praises about how perfect you are for him. Sometimes he'd take his time, and other times he'd be fast, but still always with warm hands, attentive to your reactions, even when he was so fucked out of his mind needing you.

But now he's rougher. More sporadic than before, even as he decreases the number of times he's engaged with you. Silent now, too. fewer loving praises, less warmth behind his touch or his eyes, and in fact, spends more time having you in positions where he doesn't have to look at your eyes. He leaves you cold afterwards every time.

He's been acting like it a lot more lately: ignores you all week, being uncharacteristically polite when you corner him but managing to ditch whenever possible. And then he caves all at once, crashing in on you and takingtakingtaking, before going back to ignoring you. It should be a good thing: that he needed you less. That his cravings were subsiding more and more that he could actually go a while before needing a hit. It really should have been like this from the start: Cold. Transactional. Indifferent.

So why did you feel so awful now?

The only reason you haven't lost all hope is that very occasionally, that sappy, wet puppy dog of a mess shows his warm side again. You were showering when you heard him slip the curtain open behind you and step in, his arm immediately wrapping around your stomach, loving kisses adorning your shoulder, neck, and up to your ear. You sigh, relaxing in to his touches. He just held you there and kissed your body. He didn't even try to touch you, although you knew you were growing a different wetness between your legs. He didn't let you touch his obvious erection either. Just peppered you in kisses, dragging his lips over your stomach, combing through your hair, up to your elbow then down in the palm of your hand. There was no rush behind hid actions. No urgency. All gentle.

All Frankie.

YOUR Frankie.

But incidentally as he brought his eyes to yours, his chest seized with coldness again, and he's suddenly leaving you and the now cold shower without a word.

You didn't know how to make it better anymore.

He was so agitated again recently, and you could tell he didn't get any sleep again. You suggested he take the day off, the two of you could spend it "however he wanted", slyly offering yourself to him to take the edge off. But when he ignored you and went to watch the football game, two beer bottles dangling between his fingers, you rolled your eyes.

So fed up with his change in attitude, you spent an hour getting ready in your room, walking down the hall in heels, your tightest shortest shorts, and a low hanging crop. It had been a month since you and Frankie first fucked: combined with his recent behavior, stress with work, and lack of action, you needed a night out, needed to get wasted. Needed to stop being the baby sitter.

You needed sex.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Out."

You grabbed your keys and left.

You hadn’t even closed your car door before opening your phone and texting Frankie that you were going out with Santi to help alleviate any worries he might have of the company you're keeping. Pope’s just as close a friend as Frankie is: he shouldn't have any problems about the fact that you’re in good hands tonight and just need some time to drink and be out.

Away from Frankie Morales just for the night.

-

It’s like you’re perfectly doing everything wrong to him.

She's out with Santi. Fucking Pope. The same Santi who told Frankie years ago you're smoking hot, and he wouldn't hesitate to jump on you if you let him. His best friend, the one who knows him better than himself, and yet here he is making a move on his girl—

But you aren’t his.

In fairness, he has been a total ass. He keeps trying to curb his desires, punch away his uncontrollable feeling about you, only caving all at once on you like a bullet train. Then the emotional brick wall of regret builds immediately after release, desperate to shut out his overwhelming feelings and the rough actions he’s taken against you. It keeps repeating. 

He vainly hopes he'll actually stop wanting someone who doesn't want him any more.

He curses himself for only having enough alcohol to get slightly tipsy. It's been a week since the two of you did anything sexual, a month since "the incident" so it's a good thing you're out.

It doesn't make him feel better.

To his annoyance, his phone buzzes next to him as Santi's contact pops up. He puts it on speaker, can hear loud giggles and music outside, barely registering his friend saying you're completely wasted and need to be taken home. He doesn't even send a reply, already throwing his jacket and cap on and walking out the front door.

-

"FISHY!"

You're leaning over Santi outside the bar when you spot Frankie walking towards you two. Your mascara smeared across your eyes like you had been wiping them all night. You're mumbling incoherently, throwing your head back in a fit of laughter. Pope is barely holding you up right, sheepishly smiling to keep your morale up.

"Hey man. I’m sorry, She lost her keys and I walked here. Otherwise I would have..."

"It's fine. Gimme her," Frankie said curtly. How Santi would ever let you drink this badly, he'd have to berate him later.

"M' Pinocchio!" You gasped as Frankie slung one of your arms over his neck and hoisted you up on one of his shoulders.

Why? Full of lies? he wonders.

“I’m gonna be swallowed by a great big FISH." You hiccuped, cackling upside down with a nice view of your besties tight ass. Frankie readjusts your body like a sack of potatoes on his shoulder and stands up, holding your thighs securely. If Santi wasn't here, he'd smack your ass to get you to shut up.

Frankie nods once at Santi and goes to turn around.

"Hey Fish? Take—take care of her. Please."

No shit.

Frankie is pushing open the apartment door as you're mumbling "fishy fishy fishy—hic!— squishy fishy."

He drops you down carefully on your bed. "Get undressed."

You giggle even more, seductively biting your lips as you pull yourself up to his body, hands roaming his abs and down to his hips. "You first."

He stared down at you, your lust ridden eyes meeting his, as you're pulling your shirt off so you're only in a push up bra. He tried avoid staring at your supple tits, the faint bite marks and bruises from his past ministrations almost completely faded by now. A fresh canvas practically begging to be marked up again...

He shakes his head. "We're not doing this. You're getting in your pj's and going to bed," he said, scolding you like a brat.

"Ppfftttttt." You ignore him, lifting his shirt and kissing his belly button, tracing down his happy trail and pausing at his belt. "At least someone here misses me."

He hasn't even noticed how hard he was in his jeans until you were rubbing your cheek against his clothed bulge, doe eyes staring up at him. He hears the soft pop of his pant's button undone, zipper slowly being dragged down by your teeth.

"When was the last time I blew you, Fishy? Let me relax you. I know you've needed this..."

His jaw clenched as he avoided your eyes.

“Know you want me,” you purred.

 Those fucking words again. If you KNEW how much more he actually wanted from you...

"He's positively aching, Fish. Shouldn't ignore a big man in need."

He doesn't stop you when you pull his cock out of his pants, having foregone the underwear in a rush to get you. He closes his eyes when your pretty nails wrap around his thick length, lips ghosting over his tip as you press an innocent kiss to his slit.

You hadn't blown him in a long while, and not often enough as you would have liked. you don't normally take charge, but he's been so distant lately that you can't help but use the alcohol in your system as a newfound confidence to forcibly get him to unwind. Your cunt throbs with need, forgetting just how indescribably big he is until felt him swelling in your mouth. It's sinister how well his dick reacts to your tongue, like you had been practicing as often on him as he had intimately gotten to know your pussy.

Your lips suction his tip into your mouth, causing him groan. His stomach flexes above your forehead. He's resisting again. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you lightly bob your head, swallowing an inch more and pulling out with a pop, teasing him slowly. You needed to get him worked up so he could let go, relax for once.

Maybe not be so cold to you for a while...

He feels your hands gently grasp his own that were down by his side, guiding them up to the back of your hair. You squeeze them in permission before returning your hands to wrap around the length of his cock that didn't fit down your throat.

You experimentally swallow around his shaft, eliciting a soft "fuck" from his breath. He collects your hair in a makeshift pony tail in his hand so that he had a full view of your face, submissively staring up at him as you gulp more of his cock into your inviting mouth.

You feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, the veins in his v-line in front of you throbbing. Other than holding your hair up, he continues to let you set the pace. His eyes are fixed on you, head slightly titled to the side, entranced by your spell, his tongue just hovering between his teeth.

You push your face a little further, nose brushing against his public hairs, the first jolt of your esophagus resisting the intrusion. y|You hold yourself there, holding your breath for a moment before sucking him again. He's breathing deeply with long, staggered huffs.

You tilt your head back up, eyelashes fluttering as he watches his shaft rest on your outstretched tongue, slowly tracing the veins on the underside of him.

He fists your hair a little tighter, struggling not to grab your face and fuck your throat raw until you choked.

You swallow around him once before letting his dick fall from your mouth with a slick plop.

You stand up, eyes challenging his dominance despite the height difference as you drag him to sit on the bed, and while his eyes are emotionless, body stiff, he doesn't try to stop you. He rests against the headboard as you crawl over his lap. You waste no time to kiss him.

He’s not accepting your tongue, just letting you work over him. What the fuck is his problem? it's never taken him this long to give in. You can tell he WANTS to kiss you back, his jaw clenching so hard he could shatter his teeth. It's never stopped him before.

Truthfully, what you didn't know was that he was tired of you today; from trusting Santi over him for fuck knows what reasons, then having you come home drunk out of your mind, trying to tempt him with more emotionless sex. It's putting him off of your antics mentally. He wanted you, but not like this. He couldn't handle the aftermath of giving in to you again, but not having you.

Sexually, his mind was losing the war over his body's needs.

If it wasn't coke, it was you. And if it wasn't you...

It can only be you.

And Jesus, just when he thought he had a grip on being able to block you out for good tonight, you somehow managed to be an irresistable siren:

"'M so wet for you," you slurred seductively against his lips.

He can't hide the growl rumbling lowly in his chest. His lips part to let out a breath he had been holding and you take the chance to engulf his mouth with the hot kiss you'd been dying to get all week. His lips quickly mold to yours as you whimper pathetically, his hands sliding down to grip your ass in his warm, rough hands. You prop yourself higher on him, cupping his face in your hands, forehead nudging his Standard Oil cap off. You can feel his hot breath panting quickly against your cheek, his resolve crumbling.

He's right there. He's so close to relaxing. Just a little push...

You pull away, his lips almost chasing after yours. "C'mon big boy, wasn't it soooo good?" You playfully bite his ear. "You've got suck a nice cock here," you whisper, fisting his dick once again with the remnants of your spit, pumping his shaft easily. "Shame if it wasn't pounding me tonight...C'mon. Let's do it again."

He finally brings his eyes directly to yours. Your pupils were blown wide, crowded with evident lust. But it was what he could see beyond your eyes that told him exactly what he feared all along:

Nothing.

He doesn't stop the words from tumbling out of his month. "Why? so you can just use me for sex?" he said matter-of-factly, his face relaxing into a mix of coldness and spite.

You stop giggling and pull away, eyes widening with the most seriousness, and hurt, he'd ever seen on you. "And how is that any different than how you've treated me for the past year?"

His jaw is slack with panick, immediately wishing he could take back what he just said. No I—shit, I didn't mean —I didn't mean it like that—“

You get off of him with a hostile sense of urgency, ignoring his hands trying to caress your elbows, to keep you on him. You dig in your back pocket and then you're throwing something hard at his chest. "No, you know what? Fuck you, Frankie." You storm off to your bedroom and lock it.

He covers his face with both hands and leans back against the sofa. Looking down at his lap after a minute, he sees the pair of keys you've had to his apartment for the past year.

What he'd give to be high right now and to forget everything.

-

You spend the entire night packing. He's right at your door first in the morning when you open it, his stomach churning with pain at the image of your eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, hangover, and tears.

You brush past him before he can even apologize, settling your belongings on the kitchen counter. As you toss your scattered items in to your tote, he watches you, fingers twirling in on themselves with anxiety.

Now, now, do it now! he's screaming in his mind.

“I—“

You interrupt him, and it's only now that he sees you're not shaking in anger—you're trembling in tears: "I'm s-sorry that I snapped at you last night. I wasn’t— in the right head. I c-came on to you. You had your reasons for doing what we've done, and last night I was just genuinely u-using you for no other reason other than self interest and I'm s-so sorry." You swallow and take a deep breath before continuing: "I gave up a lot coming here, trying to help you, letting you use me to get better. But I can't do it anymore. I wanted to help you, but then when we had sex, I didn't know if things would change, I didn’t want things to change, and when I woke up, you weren't there, and then you treated me so coldly afterwards. I don't know what I did wrong.” Your voice cracks, sniffling away the running of your nose. “And it felt awful. I just wanted to go back to the way things were. But you s-seem like you hate me now, and I—“ you pause, rubbing your eyes on your sleeve, suddenly changing tone in a polite manner, like you were address a principle and ignoring your previous breakdown. "I'm very happy you're clearly doing a lot better and don't need me anymore. Sorry, I don’t—I don't mean to cry like this.”

Frankie is frozen.

You're crying. You're crying in front of him, which wasn't a first; you've cried to him about stupid boys before. But what IS a first is that you're crying for the first time over the stupid boy right in front of you. You're crying, Because. Of. Him.

Just tell her tell her tellhertellhertellherNOW 

But as he opens his month, his words get caught in his throat, like swallowing a lump of coal and puking a ball of fire all at once. His chest aches unlike anything he'd experience before. All he can say is "I... understand."

Nononononoyoudumbfuckwhatareyoudoing!

You nod and sniffle, clearing your throat. "I'd like to just go back to being friends. Before all of this. I'll still support you, I swear. I want you to still feel like you come to me for anything else. But I need some time. To get myself in check." You calmly collect your things and make for to the door.

"Wait!" he goes to grab your arm but his hand freezes up, like touching you would give you painful blisters. You pause and look over to him as he stands a bit closer. “I—I think you should keep this." He puts your key in your hand. "In case. Something happens."

Your lip quivers with empathy, eyes softening for him. "Please. I don't... I don't want to think about..." I don't want to think about seeing you lying face down OD'd on the carpet.

"Just. Hold on to it. Just in case. I'm asking as your friend. We're still that at least. Right?" The words feel like hot iron in his mouth, a heaviness in his heart desperately trying to convince himself more than you.

He wants to hug you. but if he did, he wouldn't let you leave. The warmth of his hand draws away from you after depositing the key in your palm.

You nod, rub his shoulder affectionately yet with clear distance, and leave.

He stands there like a statue in the hall, unable to comprehend just how much quieter and colder the apartment is now than it has been in months.

- - - -

Tagging people who either requested a part two or directly requested to be tagged. At least what i can remember (sorry if I missed you!)

Part 3: Insatiable

Series masterlist

Taglist: @paleidiot @pedropascalsbbg @tonakings @nerdieforpedro @thewritermj @ahintofkiwistrawberry @perfectly-imperfect-me23 @sammy-4103 @survivingandenduring @millercontracting @emilyjustemily

[froggibus]

The Second Choice - Leon S Kennedy

Pairing: Leon S Kennedy x gn! reader

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2k

Summary: after losing Ada, Leon can’t get her off of his mind—and can’t stop comparing you to her

CW: angst, feelings of inadequacy, second guessing, unhealthy relationship, feelings of loss, allusion to death/loss, Leon comparing you to Ada, alcohol abuse, hurt comfort, groveling (but pretty weak cause I can never stay mad at this man), arguing, insecurities, allusion to panic attacks

honestly have been feeling super angsty the past few days and needed to write a lil angst as a treat to myself lol. definitely not my best work but whatever

————

It’s no secret that after he lost Ada, your boyfriend was never quite the same. Aside from having nightmares for months, he also never quite got over her.

You’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t relieved the day he told you the news. She was always a point of contention in your relationship and you felt as though Leon would never be able to fully give himself to you as long as she was in the picture. You thought this would be a new leaf for you guys, a step in the right direction to further progress your relationship.

You’ve never been more wrong.

The first few months of the aftermath were rough. Leon drank more and came home less, and the times he came home made you wish he never did. You tried to take a deep breath and turn the other cheek to his drinking. He’s in pain, you’d remind yourself. He needs time.

It all came to a head one night after he hadn’t been home in almost a week—too busy out on a binge. You had been texting and calling him the whole week, desperately clinging onto him when you knew he didn’t belong to you. He never did.

Leon got home with the worst hangover of his life, hoping to just crash in bed and forget for a while. It had been so long since he slept—the nightmares that plagued him chasing away any hope of rest. But today he felt tired enough and the comfort of having you at home was more than enough to have the man dreaming of sleeping the whole way home.

The last thing he wanted to see was his bed covered in your clothes, a suitcase thrown open on your side of the bed and you desperately rummaging through the closet. “Honey?” He spoke softly, voice raspy from the constant burn of alcohol.

Your head snapped up, red rimmed eyes meeting his. “You’re back.”

“What’s going on? What’s—what’s all this?”

You almost felt bad for him. “I need some time away, Leon. I-I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” He wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“This. The long nights and the drinking and you never coming home anymore. It’s killing me, Leon. And I,” your voice broke and you took a deep breath, “I deserve better.”

Leon felt his heart drop into his stomach, a weight forcing him onto his knees, He looked up at you with glistening eyes, “y/n, please don’t do this. Please. I-I love you, I don’t know who I am without you.”

You sighed, trying to swallow back the lump in your throat. It’s not fair, it’s never been fair. But it’s Leon, and you’ve always loved him, and no matter how angry you were in the moment, you knew he needed you.

“Alright,” you said quietly, placing the suitcase back in the closet.

Hope filled Leon’s eyes once more, like azure sparkling in sunlight. He wasted no time in striding over to you and wrapping his arms around you. He held you so tightly it hurt.

He whispered, “I promise things will get better from here. I promise, y/n.”

—

Leon doesn’t drink as much after that. He comes home at a normal time but even then it feels like your boyfriend is vacant. Gone. The closer he is to you, the further away he seems. 

She’s always on his mind—and he makes that obvious to you. 

Leon’s eyes practically glaze over the day he sees you wearing red. The garment clings to your body in such a perfect way, the scarlet complimenting all of your features perfectly. 

You almost smile at the way his jaw drops. He’s never been a very reactive person so seeing him like this is enough to make you giggle. Of course, that’s before he speaks. 

“Ada had a dress that was almost the exact same colour.”

Your heart sinks at the mention of her name. He’s grieving, you try to remind yourself. It's only natural she’s on his mind. 

“Red was her favourite colour, she wore it all the time.”

You sigh, trying not to let your tensed muscles show. He misses her. It’s okay. But it’s not okay, and your stomach hurts and now you don’t want to go out at all. 

“It’s kinda itchy,” you say quietly. “I’m gonna change.”

And you find yourself tossing the cloth into the bottom of your hamper, never to be worn again. In fact, you don’t feel like wearing red ever again. 

The comparisons don’t stop after that day. Ada never seems to leave his mind, and any time he looks at you, there’s a look in his eyes that says he’s not really seeing you. 

It feels like anything you do, anything you wear, any interest you have—she had it too. 

You’re watching a movie on the couch, cuddled into his side. You have your arms wrapped around one of his, feeling the muscle beneath his skin. 

You giggle and point at the tv, “I love him. He was my favorite character as a kid.”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth and Leon turns to look at you. His blue eyes are clouded over with nostalgia. 

“Ada always loved him, too. Only guy that ever made her flustered,” he shakes his head, smiling at the thought of her. 

You can’t help but pull away from him and withdraw to your side of the couch. Leon looks at you in concern, head tilted to the side. 

“Can—can you stop comparing me? I hate that,” your voice comes out exasperated and desperate. 

Leon doesn’t say anything but a confused look takes over his face. His silence is almost worse than his comparisons—almost. 

He’s at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to say. That’s just how his mind works; he makes connections between things like that. A force of habit he gained from his strenuous line of work. He thought you understood that. 

“Just,” you sigh, pushing yourself off of the couch, “nevermind.”

You trudge your way to the bedroom and throw yourself on the bed, closing your eyes and forcing the tears away. He promised things would get better. He promised. 

—

Leon notices you withdrawing from him after that. Never in his life had he heard you sound so defeated and so angry. You’ve never been good at voicing your feelings, especially not to him, so he knew something was wrong the minute you spoke up. 

“Honey?” He shuffles over to his side of the bed, the mattress dipping down under his weight. 

You don’t answer, drawing your arms and knees closer to your chest. Leon sighs—he’s really messed up. 

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize I was making you so upset.” He takes a deep breath, “I just miss her so much, and you know how my brain works and—”

You whimper, “it’s not fair, Leon. You’re not being fair to me here.”

“I-I know! But you knew how things were getting into this so maybe you shouldn’t have—”

“Shouldn’t have what, Leon?” You snap. 

The blond stays awfully silent, staring at his clenched fists in his lap. He doesn’t know how to talk his way out of this—he doesn’t know how to keep you with him. 

“I think I need some time away.” 

Leon stares at you slack jawed. As soon as you stand up, he’s jumping to his feet too. He practically dives into your way, blocking your path. 

You stare at him expectantly and try to avoid the burning in your eyes. 

He looks at you dead seriously. “For every thing you have in common with her, there’s another thing that you don’t.” 

His words are enough to get you to sit back down on the bed. The beating in his chest settles down as you do. You’re not leaving. 

“She was really athletic for one thing, and a serial flirt. I mean, she was just so beautiful she could have any man wrapped around her finger. And she loved to fight and she loved gory movies and—why are you standing up?”

Leon stares at you in confusion. Did he say something wrong? He doesn’t understand. 

Your mind races a million miles a second. It’s clear from the way he talks about her that he loved her in a way he could never love you. Even from the way he talked about her compared to you. Beautiful, athletic, charismatic. Everything you wished you were, everything he wishes you are. 

“I need to get out of here, I-I feel like I can’t breathe.” You clutch your chest, shoving past him and grabbing your keys and your coat. 

Leon watches you walk out the door, hopeless to do anything to stop you. 

—

Leon waits for you to come home, sitting in a chair by the door for hours. The more time that passes, the more worried he gets that you’ll never come home. He taps his foot in anticipation—a habit he’d never had until now. 

He can’t believe how caught up he got. He was so focused on the ghosts of his past that he forgot about his future. And sitting in this old chair, his ass hurting from sitting so long, he wishes he could go back in time and shut his own stupid mouth. 

It’s nearly 1am when he hears your key in the door. Leon shoots to his feet, standing only a foot away from the opening door. 

The minute you see him, you feel like crying again. You were hoping he would be asleep and you wouldn’t have to have this conversation now. 

You close the door behind you and lock it, not even sparing a look at Leon as you make your way down the hall and to the bathroom. You only get halfway before Leon grabs your wrist and tugs you to face him. 

He drops to both knees in front of you, looking up at you with desperate eyes. “Y/n.”

You shake your head and try to tug your hand away but Leon keeps a firm grip. 

“I am so fucking sorry, y/n. I-I got so caught up in things that I didn’t even realize how I was treating you. I want to make it up to you.”

“You promised things would get better, Leon.” Your voice is shaking dangerously, “but all you’ve done is make me feel like her replacement. Like I’m the next best thing. And it has me second guessing everything. How do I know you even love me for me? How do I know you love me at all?”

Leon’s heart aches at your words. He knew he messed up but he didn’t realize the extent to how unloved he was making you feel. 

“No, no, no. Y/n, no. Look at me.” His eyes are wet, and he looks so vulnerable sitting in front of you on his knees. “I love you. I love you. You and only you. You’re not her, and I know that. I never loved her in the same way I love you.”

Tears fall down your cheeks, splashing on the floor in front of you and Leon. 

He keeps going. “You’re not a replacement. You’ve never been a replacement. You’re the best thing I could have asked for, and I’m sorry I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately.”

Leon slowly rises to his feet, slipping his hands into yours. “Let me make it up to you. Please, let me make it up to you.”

You sigh, biting your lip and trying to force the tears away. “Leon…”

“Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how much I love you, y/n. I will do anything to make you feel happy and safe again.”

And looking into his eyes, you know he means that. 

“Alright, alright, just—” you wipe your eyes and offer a weak smile, “let’s sleep on it, okay?”

Leon nods and lets you tug him to the bedroom. He still has a lot of work to do, but that can wait until the morning. For now, he’s just glad he has you back.

[boneblushed]

Glitch

synopsis Rafe has a bad fall on the ski slopes. A temporary amnesiac, he falls in love with you all over again.

a/n oh Euro Trip Rafe I have missed you so bad 🥹

The velcro of your left glove snags, the worn edge catching on the handle of your ski pole. You sigh. The gauntlet cuff on the right side isn’t looking much better, all scruffy and threadbare so the underlying skin’s exposed.

“Hold on,” you call out, skidding to a reluctant stop.

It’s high time you replaced them with a newer pair, especially considering you’ve been using the same gear your parents bought you post middle-school growth spurt. But you don’t come to Aspen nearly enough to justify doing so at the moment; not that money’s a particular issue, it’s more so the inconvenience an unnecessary shopping trip will bring you.

“Dude. Again?”

You abandon the broken strap to send Topper a helpless frown. He’s a little way ahead, partially obscured by the crowd, but the exasperation on his face is made evident by his tone.

He draws nearer and glances down at the shaggy velcro, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ve gotta buy you a new pair.”

Above him, the sky is a gauzy blue, juxtaposing the sugary white hue of fresh snow.

“Not worth it Top,” you argue. The strap hitches again, an objection. “They’ll barely get used.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers, turning again. “Come on. I’m going to buy you a new pair.”

He’ll buy you a new one, your heart sings. And then it stops. You know better than to read into this gesture — he isn’t being chivalrous on purpose; when is he ever? This is the fourth time you’ve had to stop to untangle or readjust, and you’re pretty sure he’s just getting sick of you holding him up. Logic prevails, but your traitorous cheeks warm anyway, demure about the offer.

“It’s fine,” you insist. The velcro barely sticks when you refasten it. Fine enough. “Let’s keep going.”

You continue to push through the horde ahead of you, making your slow way toward the chairlifts. As you near, the ant-like skiers and snowboarders on the mountain become clearer, and you pull down your goggles, blinded by the sun’s glare.

That’s when the accident happens.

All of a sudden, but crashing in dusky orange slow-motion. Some guy hits a rocky bit of the slopes, losing control of his snowboard and nosediving into the snow. It’s a gnarly looking collision, made worse by his concerning lack of helmet, and you share a worried look with Topper before making your way toward him.

“Dude, fucking move—hey, sorry, best friend coming through—”

You startle, halting abruptly. You’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“—sorry, ‘scuse me gorgeous, I’m just gonna squeeze past you real quick—”

“Noah!”

In the split second that follows, you endure several emotions at once. The first: concern heightened ten-fold. Because if Noah’s referring to himself as the best friend, the some guy in question is actually Rafe Cameron.

The same Rafe Cameron that you love to hate, almost as much as your poor heart avows it.

The second: a concerning ache. Right at the centre of your chest, within your ribcage, as if the tired ligaments that hold it together are as weak as your velcro straps. The feeling swells, and you feel your heart squeeze through the cracks.

And then there’s apprehension, some excitement, a sudden bashfulness that makes your cheeks burn.

All round pathetic. You force a smile that’s more a grimace, hoping that Noah doesn’t notice your disquiet.

He pauses en-route, a surprised expression on his face. “Y/N!” He exclaims, breathless. The surprise melts into a mixture of delight and amusement. “Tell me you witnessed him bailing just then.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” he replies soberly, linking his arms in yours and tugging you forward. Your ski poles cross in protest, your centre of balance askew. “You’re coming with me.”

“What?” You ask, evidently bewildered. “Noah…”

You twist around and find Topper in the crowd, who shrugs, equally perplexed. Help me, you mouth, though you’re moving ahead too fast for the poor boy to discern it.

“…uh,” you try again, turning back to the face him, “I don’t know if this is —”

“Y/N,” he interrupts matter-of-factly, zig-zagging through the crowd with ease. “If there’s one person that can talk some sense into him, it’s you. I mean, shit, did you see how fast he was going? He’s going to board himself into a fucking coma if he keeps doing stupid shit like that.”

This brings a pause. It’s sort of endearing, really, how fiercely he cares about Rafe.

Your gaze softens a smidge. “You’re a good friend, Noah,” you say. “He’s pretty lucky to have you.”

“Us,” Noah corrects.

Your pulse jolts. “He doesn’t have me,” you reply, frowning a little.

“Everyone else may believe that Y/N, but I don’t.”

And again, a terrifying emotion bounding forth in your chest. “I —”

You’re saved the trouble of sputtering through an excuse by Rafe’s languid groan, a thready-sounding, “Shit.”

The crowd parts at Noah’s command, and the pair of you squeeze through, now face to face with Rafe.

He’s splayed out on the snow with his limbs in disarray, only one of his boots still strapped onto his board. His cheeks are a chilly rouge, dirty-blonde hair sticking out at odd angles. You resist the sudden urge to reach forward and comb your fingers through it.

“Idiot,” Noah mutters, crouching down beside him. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

He unfastens the aforementioned boot and tosses his board to the side, the nose-end looking notably abraded.

“Huh?” Rafe mumbles, a little dazed. He gropes at his purple-hued goggles blindly, pulling them off to squint up at Noah. It takes a worrying number of seconds for recognition to dawn on his features, and when it does, finally, Noah turns around and beckons you forward.

You hesitate, your gaze flitting down to Rafe’s face. “Someone should call Ward.”

“No!” Rafe yells suddenly, attempting to push himself up before collapsing backward languidly. He clutches his left side and groans, his eyebrows pinching in pain.

His discomfort makes you wince. You spring into action without meaning to, that concerning ache in your chest pulling you forth until you’re crouching down beside him like Noah.

“No Ward,” you murmur, placing your hand on his shoulder. “Noted.”

Up close, you can see a cut on his bottom lip, the rough stubble on his jaw all dewy from the melted snow. Your brow furrows. As he tears his gaze away from Noah to face you instead, you brush back his dirty-blonde fringe, searching for any more injuries. He has a graze on his upper forehead and you thumb over it gently, the furrow in your brow deepening with concern.

You glance up at Noah and nod. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

Rafe tries to do the same, but a sharp ache sears through his head when he attempts to turn it again.

“Stop moving it,” you instruct sternly, exerting more pressure on his forehead to hold it in place. “Noah isn’t going anywhere.”

“Have to,” he groans, his voice all gravelly and rough, “make sure he’s still here.”

He’s almost certain that Noah won’t be, that he’ll turn to him and find that the two of you are the only people sitting on the slopes. He imagines it like that scene at the end of Deathly Hallows, everything in blinding white and playing inside of his head.

You know, because he’s almost definitely dreaming if you’re crouching down beside him right now. With a soft hand on his shoulder, another pressed over his forehead. Two points of contact, he marvels, dazed. He squints up at you again, his reverent gaze falling over you in paces, and it feels as though a fog is descending on his surroundings. Everything blurs. He blinks abruptly.

“Dude,” Noah chastises, leaning over Rafe’s torso so that he’s within his line of sight, “where the fuck would I go?”

Rafe’s eyes widen, and he looks between you and Noah, evidently bewildered. “Bro,” he groans after a pause, his head falling back defeatedly. “I’m fucked.”

Your heart lurches worriedly, and you frown, looking over his figure for more injuries. “R’you in any pain?”

“Not physical,” he mumbles, lifting his head tentatively to squint at you. He drops it again and groans, overwhelmed by your closeness. “You’re really fucking beautiful, by the way. It’s messing with my head.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a tell-tale warm creeping up your neck. “Alright, you guys can go,” you say, turning to address the crowd. “He’s totally fine.”

Noah grins down at him, looking equally parts proud and exasperated. “There he is.”

Rafe isn’t sure what that means. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel fine, his head’s all jumbled and there’s a dreadful ache in every one of his limbs. The sound of blood pounding through his ears is unrelenting, and the chill in the air is downright abrasive. Not to mention, there’s this angel reincarnate that’s leaning over him at present, a concerned expression on her face that’s somehow making her look prettier.

Two points of contact, Rafe thinks again, agonised. Your softened features come to him in slow motion, the light reflected in your wide eyes, the shine of gloss on your frowning lips. You look extremely familiar, but he’s having difficulty recalling your name. There’s this overwhelming pull in chest that tells him you’re a big deal to him—his girlfriend, he hopes, aghast and probably deluded. That’s the concussion talking.

Besides, he isn’t even entirely sure that you’re actually real, all things considered.

“We should probably get him checked out, huh?” You ask Noah.

Noah knits his brow thoughtfully, peering down at Rafe. “You good, Cameron?”

“I feel fucking hungover,” Rafe mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position. Your hand falters as he hangs his head forward, and he reaches up, pressing it back into his skin. The rough pressure makes your breath hitch, less languid and more sure than he’s been since he bailed.

“You’re concussed,” you correct meekly, frowning down at him.

Rafe tries to shake his head, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through it in dissent. “No,” he says, quick to fix his features. He grins dazedly. “I’m Rafe Cameron. And you’re… well, I hope you’re my girlfriend or something, because otherwise this heart attack in my chest’d be pretty concerning.”

You breathe out a scoff, mildly exasperated. A little relieved. If he’s well enough to remember to be an incessant flirt, he’s well enough for the concussion to not have caused any permanent damage.

“Alright, nevermind, no medical attention necessary,” you mutter, sending him a glare. It’s hard to hide the fact that your palms are clammy when you pull them away.

Noah loops his bicep under Rafe’s and pulls him to his feet, steadying him in place. The throbbing in his forehead intensifies, and he groans, staggering forward and doubling over.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Noah replies then, frowning. “Maybe I’ll give my mom a call, just to be safe.”

“Your mom?”

“Dr White,” Rafe supplies, forcing himself to straighten. He tries to control his breathing, ignore the way his surroundings seem to be spinning.

Everything except you. His focus acquiesces. He must look pale or something because your gaze is apprehensive, this pretty furrow in your brow that he wants to smooth his thumb over. God, he must look pathetic right now, weak and mildly concussed, the aforementioned bail notwithstanding.

So he lies, adding, “Don’t worry about it White, I’m good,” mostly for your benefit—so you don’t think he’s some fucking chump who can’t handle a bit of a tumble.

He wants to impress you, bad. He plasters on another grin, going for roguish and landing on dense. “Would be better if you let me take you out later.”

“No way you’re asking me out right now,” you reproach, sending him a glare. “You almost just died five minutes ago, and that’s the first thing on your priority list?”

“You are, yeah,” he agrees, still grinning. He tries to walk toward you, staggering a little. “Seriously though, this has gotta be fate — bailing real fucking hard and finding a beautiful stranger along the way.”

You blink. “Beautiful stranger?”

“Heavy on the beautiful,” Rafe agrees, lumbering forward clumsily.

“Stranger?” You repeat, and then you falter, glancing down at his feet. “Rafael —”

He loses balance far too quickly for you to intervene, and he falls against you heavily, causing you to topple into the snow. Biting cold on your back, delightful warmth on your chest. His instincts must be somewhat intact, because he manages to hold his weight up despite being right on top of you.

Like, right on top of you. A terrifying emotion sears through your chest. The smatter of freckles on his nose are almost faded, his cheeks a brilliant rouge, snow-burned lips parted slightly. His overgrown locks brush against your forehead, just.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, and then he pauses, his gaze flitting to your lips. In the beat that passes, he agonises over the soft planes of your face, how pretty your eyes are up close. His heart’s just about pounding through his skin. How kissable your lips look, your cheeks, your neck, how right your figure feels pressed into his. His palms feel clammy; that hasn’t happened in a long while. He thinks, oh shit. And then, I’m absolutely fucking fucked.

You swallow, watching his pupils dilate. “Cameron. I need you to focus for a second.”

“Listen,” he murmurs, ignoring you, “D’you believe in love at first sight?”

“Rafael —”

“Because I know we’ve only just met,” he continues, drawing closer still, his heady gaze deepening, “and that — shit, I don’t even know your name, but I’m pretty sure that if I don’t kiss you right now I’m going to go fucking insane. That’s crazy, huh? I think you make me crazy. Have I mentioned that you’re really fucking beautiful yet? It’s messing with my head. Wait — I think I might’ve said that already —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt again, your eyes widening slightly. “If this is some stupid prank —”

“Prank?” He echoes, frowning slightly. He leans forward a little, brushing his nose against yours. Your pulse jolts. “You’re a prank.” He groans then, dropping his head to your shoulder. Your closeness may quell the pounding a smidge, but not completely. “You’re not real are you? I’m dreaming all of this?”

Your lock eyes with Noah over his head, sending him a worried look.

“Rafael,” you try again, pushing him off you and sitting up carefully. “This isn’t funny. I’m so beyond serious.”

Rafe, still splayed out on the snow, angles toward you with a furrow in his brow. “I’m confused.”

“Noah,” you say then, your voice louder, a little panicked. “I think you will need to call your mom after all.”

Noah frowns, crouching down beside the pair of you. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” Rafe answers, groaning in pain as he sits up. “Is that I’ve made a fool out of myself in front of this gorgeous stranger.”

“Ask her,” you continue, your heart feeling a little odd, “how long post-concussion memory loss takes to wear off.”

Noah eyes widen, searching Rafe’s face for any signs of mirth. “No way,” he says. “He’s gotta be fucking with us.”

“There’s an us?” Rafe echoes, raising his eyebrows at Noah. “Dude. Did you know your girlfriend’s a fucking smokeshow?”

“If this is some new pick up line you’re trying,” he replies, eyeing him warily. “It sucks ass Cameron.”

“Oooh, territorial,” Rafe answers, grinning dopily. He props himself up further, leaning closer to you and lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You’re totally out of his league, by the way. Pretty sure you’re like, out of the Earth’s league.” He frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” then groans, “fuck. Having a concussion is like drinking on an empty stomach.”

The pillow of his bicep presses into yours, full well engulfing it. You turn to face him, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. If this was his idea of a prank, you want to believe that he wouldn’t let it go on this long. Especially not when you and Noah look so concerned, the latter retrieving his phone to give his mother a call.

“Hey mom,” he says, sandwiching his phone between his shoulder and ear and getting to his feet. You do so too. Rafe staggers to a standing position far more clumsily. “Yeah — no — the snow’s been sick, but I’m calling because something’s happened with Rafe. No, no, nothing too serious, he’s just a little concussed and may have some temporary amnesia. I was wondering if…”

“Maybe we can go on a double date,” Rafe tries again, grinning hopefully. There’s a bit of snow that’s melted on your bottom lip from the fall, and he aches to thumb over it, tuck his fingers under your jaw. “You, Noah, me.”

“No, no, he remembers me,” Noah continues, sending you a significant look. “But he doesn’t remember — yeah, it’s pretty selective — uh, maybe a few meters? Uh… no, what the hell’s a trigger? I’ll…”

“What d’you reckon?” Rafe prompts.

Noah turns away and you move your gaze to Rafe, half amused, half exasperated. “You, me, and Noah? Who’re you going to bring?”

“You,” he replies, like it’s obvious.

“And Noah?”

“Me.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. Rafe thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. His already muddled brain short-circuits for the billionth time.

“��half an hour?” You hear Noah affirm, the frown on his features audible. “Yeah — no — it’s been just over that — a trigger like what, though? What d’you mean you don’t know him as well as I do, he’s been coming to our house since he was like six years old…”

You don’t realise your brow’s furrowing until your feel Rafe’s rough thumb brush over it. You startle, feeling your skin warm as you look up at him.

“I’m lucky,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

You swallow. “Why?”

“You’re worried about me.” His hand drops to your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheek. You swallow instinctively. “And you’re way too beautiful to be worrying about someone like me.”

“You’ve lost your memory,” you answer weakly. “Anyone’d be worried.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He draws closer.

“Which part, exactly?”

“That people would worry,” he answers quietly, his voice gruff. Closer still. “That I’d forget about someone like you so easy.”

“But you have,” you prompt.

“Then remind me, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart, Rafael,” you murmur, trying for a frown.

“Not my — wait.”

The thumb that’s swiping over your cheek freezes suddenly. “Wait,” he repeats, blinking several times. He scrunches his eyes shut, retrieving his hand to clutch it against his forehead. “Wait — fuck.”

You lean forward instinctively, tugging his arm away to look over his features, his concerning graze. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I knew…” he answers, shaking his head and groaning, “…but…shit, it’s so fucking obvious now —”

You furrow your brow in confusion, locking eyes with an equally bewildered Noah.

He holds his phone away from his ear, walking over and surveying Rafe’s features. “You good, brother?”

“Fine, shit,” Rafe curses again, scrubbing his hand over his face before meeting your gaze, chagrined. He grins hopefully. “That might’ve been quicker with true love’s kiss, though.”

You aren’t about to believe that he’s back without concrete evidence. “And my name is…?”

“Mrs Cameron,” he replies seriously.

You let out a scoff, more relief than indignation, catching the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“Maybe,” he answers, raising his eyebrows, “if you let me take you out I’ll be too busy to bail.”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try.”

“But I’m maimed, sweetheart,” he adds, brushing back his dirty-blonde locks to show off the forehead graze. He pouts for good measure. “C’mon. Not even a pity date?”

You shake your head exasperatedly, catching Noah’s eye over his shoulder. “You’ll take it from here?”

“What? You aren’t gonna hang out with us?” Noah asks, pressing the phone against his chest. “I thought you were my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Off limits, bro,” Rafe says matter-of-factly.

You’re about to protest when he draws closer and ducks his head, his warm breath on your earlobe cutting you off. “I won’t ever do that again,” he murmurs, the smile on his face audible, “I promise.”

“Good,” you answer, frowning sternly.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You turn toward him, startling at his closeness. “Hm?”

He grins wider, brushing his nose against your fleetingly. “Missed remembering you bad, dream girl.”