#it’s not edited and i apologize for any mistakes

[penny44224]

Touch Bracelets 🎸🎸

idolboyfriend!Jay x PocFem!Reader -Fake Texts

Genre: Fluff, crack, smut suggestive

Warning : 18+ in some texts, cursing, reader & jay does text smut/nsfw theme things so be advised, major grammar issue

a/n: hi hi I’m glad everyone is enjoying the fake text so far for enhypen. I decide to delete that text app with the color bc I kept crashing so I’m now just texting myself and seeing if that is better and since it’s hard to edit the text if I made a mistake that are many grammar issues. So I do apologize and hope it doesn’t mess with your experience in this imagine. Also remember I’m new to this but I’m down for any tips or advice as I continue this.🌹enjoy

Master list

[sunshinechay]

Nont feels like a replacement. He came in disguise but I think once that disguise got dropped, I think he assumed that everyone has come to care about him as well as his brother. I think that statement is true, but I think Nont doesn’t believe it.

He just learned his brother may have died by suicide, but also that Nant may have staged it. Nant was a sex addict, a drug addict, a man capable of violence against someone he claimed he loved, manipulative and more cunning than Nont had imagined his brother to be. Nont idolized his brother but now that has all come crashing down.

Nont is upset and sad and angry and yet all anyone seems to care about is that Nant might still be alive. They want to keep searching, they want to find him, they don’t seem to care that Nont is coming apart at the seems. That he is losing the one thing that made him want to find out what happened to his brother, the pedestal that Nont put him on.

So he walks away from the boys he hadn’t realized he wanted to be friends with, he goes towards a man he might be falling in love with, thinking that man loves Nant. He offers to be Nant for that man just once, because he wants to feel that love. He is so desperate to feel wanted by someone that he will burn himself alive just for the chance to feel like someone wants him, even just one time.

But the way the boys look after Nont walks away, how uncomfortable Prom looks at the idea of pretending that Nont is Nant. They do care about him, they do love him. They don’t want him to leave or to feel like he is alone. Nont is a part of their lives now, but none of them know how to say it in a way Nont will believe, so they say nothing. Prom tries to show him through action, but all it does is convince Nont that Prom is in love with Nant. That Prom is not in love with him.

[goldenpinof]

"If I do a show called "We're All Doomed" about why life is so terrible and then it ends on trying to find a reason to be hopeful for the future and find and thinking that as individuals we do matter, I'm trying to make myself believe that every night I do it on stage."

[greywolfheirs]

Lokius procrastination part 3

Ok this one I can't blame on NaNo but it's been in my head for a while. Anyway, Lokius reunion ft. Thor. From Thor's POV because I love "Avengers meeting Mobius and wondering wtf he's got going on that makes Loki go crazy for this old man"

~~~~~

Thor watched as Darcy’s machine slowly revealed the silhouette of a person. As the details slowly filled in, he realized he recognized this silhouette.

“Loki?” he shouted incredulously as, indeed, his brother manifested before him.

Loki took a second to scan his surroundings before his eyes landed on Thor. “Brother, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Thor said, hope blooming in his chest. “Is that really you? Are you actually here?”

“I-I’m not entirely sure,” Loki said, patting his chest as if to check. Thor turned to Darcy who shrugged and nodded. Thor didn’t need more. He strode across the room and swooped his brother up into a tight hug, lifting his feet off the ground.

Loki chuckled and pat Thor on the shoulder after they parted. “You have no idea how good it is to see you, dear brother.”

“I could say the same,” Thor responded. “I no longer question your ability to cheat death.”

Loki made a face. “Well, that’s a long story.” He shook his head though. “But we don’t have time for it. Look, I need to go back–the timelines will start to fall apart if they’re left too long without my care.”

“They should be stable!” Darcy called from behind them. “That’s how we were able to bring you here in the first place. Of course, we didn’t realize it was you we were bringing here.”

Loki tilted his head and walked towards the scientist. “Are you certain?”

Thus began a conversation Thor was entirely unable to follow, until Loki gave a grim but satisfied nod.

“Right, then I suppose I’m available for the next ten minutes,” he said definitively.

“I mean, if we can streamline the formula, I might be able to bring you back for longer next time,” Darcy said, distracted by her computer.

Loki smiled suddenly and sighed wistfully. He put his hands on Darcy’s shoulders and kissed her forehead when she turned towards him in surprise. “I truly never appreciated you Midgardians the way you deserved. You’re brilliant.”

Darcy looked uncomfortable. “Uh, thanks?”

Loki turned from her and walked back towards Thor. He clapped his hands in excitement. “Well, then, brother, shall we catch each other up? What have you been up to?”

Thor thought about it. “Not much. Chopped off Thanos’ head. Spent time with the Guardians. Oh, and adopted a daughter.”

“Really?”

“Long story. What about you, brother?”

Loki opened his mouth to answer but Thor was distracted by the sound of footsteps running down the hallway. No one else should have had access to the lab, so Thor stepped around Loki and braced Stormbreaker. As the footsteps came into view, they revealed another Midgardian. He was wearing a brown suit, and had a gray mustache to match the hair on his head. He didn’t look like someone capable of breaking into labs. Thor kept his stance but relaxed fractionally.

Loki let out a choked sound, and Thor turned to see his brother with one of the most devastated expressions he’d seen since their mother died.

“Loki?” the intruder asked, as if he wasn’t sure.

“Mobius!” Loki cried, brushing past Thor to slide into the Midgardian’s arms. Thor had never seen his brother this emotional over someone so…plain.

Even more shocking, it was the man–Mobius, apparently–who seemed to be soothing the God of Mischief. As Loki slumped in his arms, Mobius cradled his head with his hand, speaking soft soothing words into his temple. It sounded an awful lot like, “I’m so glad I found you again.”

Thor glanced at Darcy, who looked shocked, but she didn’t know Loki well enough to understand the full extent of just how bewildering the scene was. To Thor, much as he couldn’t believe it, it almost seemed like Loki was reuniting with a lover. A Midgardian lover.

Loki stood back with a sniffle, and Thor’s suspicions were confirmed when Mobius reached up to wipe a tear from Loki’s cheeks. His own eyes looked reddened.

“How did you get here?” Mobius asked.

Loki seemed to remember where he was and showed Mobius to Darcy’s computer, explaining with slightly less complicated but still confusing words how he’d gotten there. As they turned around, Loki spotted Thor again, and brightened. He grabbed Mobius’s arm and walked him over, sweeping a hand at Thor.

“Mobius, I’m sure you know this is Thor,” he said, then turned to Thor. “Thor, this is Mobius. He—well, it’s hard to explain, really.”

Mobius stuck out his hand. “Agent for the TVA, Time Variance Authority, which you won’t know about but which I’ll explain when we’re not on a time crunch.”

Thor took the man’s hand. “Pleasure. And you know Loki how, exactly.”

“He arrested me,” Loki answered, smiling like he was proud of it.

“Well, that wasn’t me,” Mobius said, turning back to Loki, who waved it off.

“Details,” Loki said, his tone light with amusement. Thor was in awe.

“Anyway,” Mobius said to Thor, “I can catch you up on everything while Loki goes back to managing the timelines. I’d like to offer my help, if I can.”

“Of course,” Thor said, looking to confirm Darcy’s agreement as he said it. “It seems there’s a lot we don’t know.”

Mobius nodded and turned back to Loki. “So I guess we’re saying goodbye again?”

Loki nodded sadly but put a hand to Mobius’s shoulder. “Hopefully not for long this time.”

“It won’t be,” Mobius said confidently. “I’m dragging your ass back here one way or another.”

Loki smiled, and was about to drop his hand when Mobius stepped forward suddenly, pulling Loki down by the lapels. They crashed together in a passionate kiss, which Loki seemed to return enthusiastically. Thor turned both to give them privacy and to share a look with Darcy.

When they were done, Mobius whispered something Thor could barely hear but seemed to be along the lines of regretting not doing that earlier. Loki seemed to agree.

Darcy cleared her throat and announced apologetically, “One minute left, Loki.”

Mobius stepped away with embarrassment. He swept a hand towards Thor, who grabbed Loki in another tight hug.

“You have much to explain, brother,” Thor whispered in his ear.

Loki laughed. “I do.”

He stepped back, looking to Darcy, who simply nodded at him before sweeping last longing glances at Thor and Mobius. In moments, he faded away.

“Okay, agent,” Thor said after a moment of silence, “explain.”

Mobius nodded. “You guys want to talk over some pie?”

[pretentiouswreckingball]

falling behind

for @jegulus-microfic prompt: hands (wc: 780)

“I can’t do it,”

“Of course you can!”

“I don’t want to. Good luck dying,”

“No one is going to die Regulus, stop being dramatic,”

“Dramatic?” Regulus snaps at him, “we are on a hanging wooden bridge, 61 meters from the ground with no harness or safety measures whatsoever and you are calling me dramatic?”

James looks around at the wooden bridge, moving a little making the bridge move with him, then he shrugs.

“Seems pretty sturdy to me.”

From the way Regulus is glaring at him, James knows he wants to punch him in the face but it’s too busy holding onto the rail for dear life.

James huffs a laugh at the same time a voice calls from the other side of the bridge.

“Oi, are you coming or what?” Sirius calls, the others seems further away following the trail but Sirius seems to be waiting for them both.

James turns around and it only takes one look at Regulus' pale face to know he’s not letting that rail go anytime soon.

He turns around to Sirius.“We are going in a minute, why don’t you guys ahead? we'll catch up with you later,” he assures him.

Sirius seems a little hesitant, looking behind James, at his brother, but eventually he nods.

“Alright, see you guys in a bit, don’t take too long,”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” James calls back watching Sirius disappearing between the trees.

He turns back to Regulus.“I have an idea,” he says.

Regulus scowls at him, sensing what’s coming. “It better be good,”

“It is, don’t think you’re going to like it though,”

“Oh?”

James doesn’t say anything, he only holds a hand in front of Regulus.

As soon as he understands the offer, he shakes his head furiously. “Absolutely not, I’m not six years old James, I don’t need you or anyone to hold my hand just because I can’t seem to cross a stupid bridge!”

James remains silent, waiting. His palm up, open, inviting. Waiting for Regulus whenever he’s ready.

It takes some time, not as much as James thought it would but enough that his hand is getting heavy. Regulus is still holding onto the rail with both hands but little by little, his grip loses and he lets his right hand move away from the rail and towards James' outreached hand.

When Regulus’ hand is finally on top of his, James intertwines their fingers together. He squeezes once before he takes a step forward, nudging Regulus to follow him.

He does, one hand still gripping the rail and the other gripping James’ so tightly it’s kind of cutting his circulation but James never let go.

When they are one third through the bridge Regulus’ grip gets even tighter and when James looks at him, he notices it’s because he’s looking down at the dangerous river running wildly below them.

“Hey,” James calls him and Regulus’ gaze snaps up. “Eyes on me, love,”

A faint blush covers Regulus’ cheeks but he doesn’t acknowledge that, instead he says, “Tell me something, anything, before I lose my mind over here.”

James seems to think it over but when he settles for something, he smiles sheepishly at Regulus. “Did I tell you the time a bunch of street dogs chased me for five blocks trying to get a hold on my burger?”

Regulus shakes his head, trying to fight back a smile.

James is gesturing wildly, recalling the events with so much enthusiasm Regulus keeps laughing whenever he tries to impersonate the dogs.

Regulus' eyes don’t leave James’ for a second.

And before they know, they are at the end of the bridge.

They come to a stop.

“We did it,” Regulus says, looking at the trail in front of them. James nods.

“Yeah, we did,”

Neither of them move. Neither of them let go of each other. Because moving away from the bridge means moving away from each other.

James is breaking his head trying to come up with an excuse to stretch their moment a little longer but he can’t seem to get a word out of his mouth.

Regulus can.

“Did I even tell you the time a squirrel stole my lunch?” he says softly, still looking at the path in front of them.

James’ chest feels warm at the confirmation that Regulus doesn’t want to let go either. He grins when he looks at him. “No, you haven’t,”

Regulus finally looks back, a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s surprisingly a long story,”

“I happen to have time,”

They walk away, chatting and laughing, unconsciously gravitating towards each other, like they can’t help themselves.

They are still holding hands.

[joehawke]

Gave Me Something To Lose

Inspired by this post. Please be aware this is very melodramatic and if that isn’t your thing then feel free to scroll past lol. Set many years after Vecna, Steve and Eddie and their relationship have changed a lot for reasons you’ll read just keep that in mind. :)

Plot loosely based on the musical The Last Five Years

There’s just some things Steve can’t explain, stupid stuff like why the sky is blue or why his feet squeak against the linoleum floor no matter how many times he replaces the loose wood panels. He’ll never understand the concept of magnets, and he’ll never understand why Robin insists on continuing to put up with her weird hippy parents despite her constant grievances. It’s the little things, like how Dustin and Suzie communicate that don’t make sense to him, or the way Hopper grumbles about being around so many ‘damn kids’ when Steve knows he wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s the little things he pays attention to that others wouldn’t notice, like the way Max draws stars on the cuffs of her jeans when she gets nervous or the way Mike and Nancy have the same tendency, a signature if you will, to pick at their skin when they get mad. It’s the little things he can’t explain, the little things that leave him lying awake at night asking himself a million questions. 

But it's also the little things that stick with him, like those unruly magnets he’s yet to figure out (though he’s sure if he were to ask Dustin he’d get his answer almost immediately, but maybe it’s the wondering that leaves him aware and present). 

It’s those stupid nagging unsure of explanations that have him and Eddie staring angrily at each other across the dim flickering kitchen light - and damn it, Steve thought he fixed that stupid bulb. Steve’s head is starting the throb, like every fiber and being in him is fighting against one another and isn’t that just great? Like he needs another fight. This wasn’t his plan. Maybe that was the issue. That’s what started this whole mess, wasn’t it? 

The enormity of time sits like a weight on Steve’s chest, the ticking of Wayne’s old grandfather clock giving way to the eerie silence of the living room, the sound reverberating off Steve’s mothers old china. Steve closes his eyes, the hope of another day far away from this one blur on the inside of his lids. The sound of a trash bag lures Steve out, and it takes everything in him not to just walk away and never look back, but he can’t. Who would he be if he did? Images of his father flash into his mind before he shakes him away with a force he hasn’t been met with in awhile. 

Steve watches with careful eyes as Eddie opens the bag wide, dumping the remnants of what was supposed to be something carefree and new, now beginning to crumble to the bottom of the flimsy transparent plastic. He watches as Eddie’s shoulder blades flex through the cream satin of his shirt with every sharp movement, and it all feels too harsh and Steve knows this feeling all too well. 

He closes his eyes once more and breathes in the smell of stale champagne and left over stuffed chicken, and tries to imagine a world where his relationships don't turn out like his parents. Images of Nancy and now Eddie filter into his head. He fails. 

He blows out the candles one by one, watching the smoke twist and twine its way into the dimly lit room, disappearing into the moonlight escaping through the curtains. He can feel a pair of eyes on him as he examines the crescent shape of pink leftover lips that have imprinted themselves onto the champagne flutes, Robin and Nancy’s signature colors making themselves known as Steve tucks the stem of each glass in between his fingers, ignoring the lingering pair of eyes as he makes his way to the kitchen. 

He can see Eddie from his peripherals clearing Steve’s mothers old china off the table, stacking them with a force that makes him cringe. Steve scrubs harder at the remanence of smudged lips and closes his eyes once again, hoping, praying to a God he’s not sure he believes in, that in this moment, he’ll wake up to the day he and Eddie first kissed outside his pool. Eddie with his ridiculous red and black board shorts, and Steve with his way too tiny yellow trunks, a giant smile playing on his lips as he watches Eddie play fetch with the border collie from down the street that sneaks in under Steve’s fence every time Steve grills. 

Steve’s pulled out of his trance by the sound of glass on glass and when he opens his eyes with a startle, Eddie has set the stacked plates down on the counter next to the sink. Steve turns and continues to scrub at the flutes, continues to keep his eyes locked in front of himself. 

Eddie has his calloused palms wrapped tightly around a beer bottle, the warm amber like liquid sloshing gently against the ceramic as he brings it up to his lips. Steve can feel him pause, like he’s weighing his options studiously, before he fully takes the long awaited sip, the liquid disappearing down his throat with one gulp. The silence cuts through the kitchen and Steve can’t decide if he should leave it, let it fester like a fresh wound, or let it dissipate into friendly chatter. Steve knows the latter is far from. He reaches for one of the stacked plates, the gold rim of the porcelain glimmering in the kitchen light, when a hand reaches for the sponge in Steve’s left hand, setting it down in the sink gently.

 Steve finally lets himself look up at Eddie, and the reflection he’s met with suddenly angers him. His cupid’s bow is wet with a golden tint of what Steve can only imagine to be as beer, and the purple crescent indents under his eyes are almost comical, though Steve doesn't laugh. He twines his hands with Steve’s, and instead of giving him the satisfaction of pulling away, Steve stands his guard and goes for looking down at their feet instead; Eddie’s “nicest” smudged combat boots that Steve always gets a good laugh at, and Steve’s freshly polished dress shoes his parents got him in Venice for some holiday long forgotten, stare back at him in a taunting manor. 

Silence morphs its way around the room, closing in on him like something dark, and he wishes he had the courage to say something, anything, but he doesn't. He can’t be his parents. And saying something - voicing it aloud, doesn’t that make his worst fear creep its hands up his throat, allowing them to choke him once and for all? So instead, Steve focuses on that stupid flickering light bulb and despite the memories the flickering tends to bring back, he sits in it nonetheless - because sitting in those memories he thinks, is better than sitting in this weird limbo he’s tried so hard to keep away. But he’s never been one to win a fight.

“Stevie...”

And just like that, the sound barrier breaks, the static that was beginning to engulf Steve, shattering in an instant, and he can’t tell if it makes him want to exhale or inhale, yet he doesn't respond. 

“Steve. Come on” Eddie says, his tone harsh and tired, his head lulling to the side. And Eddie’s never harsh. He’s gentle and sometimes jittery, but never harsh. He’s migrated his hands to Steve’s hips, and he can feel every nerve in Steve freeze, “Stevie please. Can we talk about this? Can’t we go one night without fighting?” Steve’s jaw tightens and it takes everything in him not to look up into the brown he knows is staring down at him; the brown forest Steve once used to imagine sonnets were made of. The brown forest Steve’s watched dim over the last few years. “For god sake Steve. I thought you would be happy! Why are you acting like this?” 

Out of everything that has been said tonight, this makes Steve physically laugh. He looks up at him, a smile starting to form on Eddie’s own lips and this makes Steve laugh harder. 

“What’s so funny?” Eddie asks, a slight hint of humor lacing the previous venom. 

“You think I’m laughing with you” Steve laughs out. A statement. Not a question. Tears blur Steve’s vision and part of Steve blames it on the laughter bubbling in his chest, but a deeper rooted part blames it on the salty storm that has been festering all night. Steve can feel Eddie’s demeanor change, his hands freezing in their place, wilting like a flower in late summer, and the still eeriness of it all grounds Steve in a way he’s yet to allow himself to explore. 

“What is your problem?” Eddie spits, a supercilious filter dripping with every syllable. Steve lets himself look up at this. Lets himself search his eyes for an answer he knows is long gone. Steve lets himself go. For this one, mere minute, he allows himself to defend himself for just this once. Screw his vows to not end up like his father. He’s tired of acting like the picture perfect housewife his mother once was. Correction; his mother still is.  

“My problem?” Steve asks quietly, a hint of nothing but unadulterated venom lacing his tone like cloyed honey. 

“Oh don’t play the victim Steve. You’ve been nothing but cold and bitter all night. Not everything is about you. Did that ever occur to you? Oh right, of course not, because nothing else matters to King Steve as he sits here and falters in his big old castle” Eddie spits, turning to the liquor cabinet before reaching for the bottle of heavy, amber colored liquid. 

Steve watches as he pours himself another glass, his nails digging into the palm of his hand, purple crescent shapes forging into the silky skin as he takes in the words Eddie let snake their way around their kitchen. King Steve King Steve King Steve King — No. No No. Eddie was supposed to be the person who saw through his stupid placated facade and Eddie was supposed to be the person who understood and when did that get so screwed up? When did they get so lost in translation? Steve’s so fucking tired of sitting still and acting like a good fucking trained puppy. 

“Eddie.” Breathe. Once. In. Out. Exhale. Stand your guard. “I found out you planned on packing up and moving across the country through a ‘celebratory’ dinner with our friends and family. That you were planning on leaving for yet another year long tour. Excuse me for being selfish”. Steve spits, watches as Eddie processes what he said, as he almost smiles in mirth at the fact that for once, Steve spoke up rather than nodded his head and agreed. That for once, Steve fought against, and Steve can’t tell if the clench of his jaw is out of curiosity or out of anger over the fact that Steve didn’t abide. And when the fuck did Steve become his mother? Steve refused to let him win this time.

Eddie says nothing. Steve pictures his mother keeping her mouth shut by downing her endless bottles of wine. Steve’s tired of drowning with his mother. He continues. “You can’t think that for one moment I was going to be happy about this, did you? I’ve supported you since we bought that stupid shoebox apartment and you told me Corroded Coffin got a record deal. I supported you when you were gone days at a time because you had to leave town to ‘record a new single’. I supported you when you left me home alone for another three weeks as you played dive bars across the state. I put my life on hold for you, so sorry if this so-called ‘surprise’ didn’t make me happy” Steve says, letting go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, releasing his nails from the flesh of his palm. 

The air in the kitchen has gone quiet once again, and Steve thinks about an entity where silence isn’t the only option. Steve watches as Eddie searches his face for an answer to a question Steve’s yet to figure out. Steve sometimes wonders if people look at his life like some massive question and somehow he’s the wrong answer. Steve wonders when the day will come when people will realize he hasn't even solved his own unattainable mess of an equation. 

The grandfather clock strikes twelve and Eddie downs the rest of the warm hazy liquid, lazily tossing the cup into the sink. Steve steps back, an old habit he never quite realized he started doing. But maybe that’s a lie as images of Tommy Hagen yelling at him ‘that’s right Stevie boy, run away! Run away just like you always do!’ make his way to the front of his brain.

Eddie’s jaw clenches, and Steve watches as Eddie’s hands shake, a tell tale he’s nervous or upset. Steve doesn’t feel like deciphering which one it is today. Maybe Steve should’ve stopped there, maybe they could’ve gone to bed and figured it out in the morning. But that was the issue, wasn’t it? They never did figure it out. They’d go to bed with hope clasped between their fingertips as tense unsalvageable feelings warped their way between their sides of the bed. And Eddie would leave the next morning like nothing happened and Steve would wait at the door like a sad pitiful lost cause. And he was sick of it. He was so fucking sick of it. He vowed to never turn into his ‘grade A asshole’ of a father and yet, the one person he never would’ve thought to fear would be his sad excuse of a mother. And something in him aches for her. Something in him wants to reach out, hold her hand, whisper out broken promises as she tells him they’ll get out of this hole together. But his mother isn’t here and his fathers knuckles ache against his cheek as they try to reach down his throat and continue what Steve never wanted to start in the first place. “You know better boy, if you’re going to start a fight - you need to execute and end it. Got it?” So excuse Steve if he never was good at biting his tongue. 

“I’m not some fucking trophy wife for you to come home to and fuck away your stresses and then pack up and leave again. I’m not here for your - your – disposal” Steve spits, the venom starting to lace his words like something vile. Steve watches as something close to mirth flashes across Eddie’s eyes. 

“It’s not my fault you haven’t figured out what the hell you want to do with your life Steve! Excuse me for being happy for once your highness” Eddie laughs out, digging into his pockets if not just to have something to fidget with. 

“That’s not fair Eddie and you know it” Steve says quietly, and Eddie and Steve both know Eddie cut open a scar Steve’s been trying to close for ages now. And maybe Steve should blame himself really. A part of Eddie is right. Steve flunked out of his first few courses at the community college, but he had wanted to try again once he was in a better headspace. Only - that space never came. He was always too busy watching everyone else from the sidelines. He has nothing to prove for himself, and Eddie knows this. God Eddie knows this and he’s just bringing it to light isn’t it? And speaking of light, that stupid bulb is just flickering more aggressively and Steve’s head is throbbing twice as hard and his heart hurts and he’s so fucking tired. 

“Why not? You know it’s true. You sit around here all day moping and fixing shit that doesn’t need to be fixed. Have you ever stopped and thought, hm, maybe I should start fixing myself?” Eddie spits, continuing, and maybe Steve broke a while back, maybe Steve’s been broken since his father fed ideas of being nothing but a failure into his head. Maybe he’s been broken since Tommy Hagen planted the seed of an idea into his head and because Steve was too weak, he let the roots grow.  Maybe Steve’s been broken since he got rightfully punched by Johnathan Byers all those years ago. Maybe Steve’s been broken since his first encounter with the monsters he discovered lived outside just his head. But then Eddie came along and slowly but surely, started to piece his broken figures back together like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done. When did they start to fray around the edges and come undone again? When did Steve stop noticing Eddie had stopped picking up the pieces? Steve’s line of vision becomes blurry as tears threaten to escape his waterline. Eddie eyes Steve carefully, as if he were weighing an inner turmoil. “I will not lose because you can’t win Steve.” And suddenly, all the fight that Steve had left evaporates from his body like something ghostly.

“Fuck you Eddie” Steve whispers before turning back towards the living room and making his way out of sight into the dark hallway. Somewhere in the vast, unspoken quietude and space between them, lies a million questions, and this time, Steve won’t allow himself to explain them. 

I told you it would be melodramatic…

So whether or not you think Eddie or Steve or neither of them are the bad guy, I’ll leave up to your interpretation. Do I do a part two? Or leave it as it is to showcase not all relationships are perfect? (Cliche of me I know) thoughts are always appreciated

Please also note that I lowkey hated the characterization of both eddie and Steve and felt they were out of character until after I had finish and I came to the realization that I wrote them like that to showcase how hurt and insecurities can change both people and a relationship.

[stoprobbersfic]

in every possible way

in every possible way (or: five things nancy wheeler learned about family by having her own)

for @jancyweek2022​ day 5: family 

this is set in my future perfect ‘verse, so that would be some good/necessary context for this, for what it’s worth. (and yes, i said they had 2 kids. this is just part of the first one.) 

read it on ao3

oh my life is changing every day in every possible way and oh my dreams are never quite as they seem never quite as they seem

1. some big decisions feel very small

They toss it around for years, the idea of it. In fact, for a long time an idea is all it is.

She’s the lowest reporter on the newspaper totem pole, working the shittiest stories in the shittiest neighborhoods at the shittiest times of day. He’s trying to fully establish himself as a photographer and picking up bartending shifts on every night he doesn’t have a shoot booked.

And of course there’s the weekends they “go away” for some private time investigating thin spots in the world that may or may not be gates. Their friends think they have an extremely healthy marriage, putting each other first above all else.

Nancy thinks they have an extremely healthy marriage, because after you’ve fought monsters and saved the world together everything else seems like a piece of cake.

Well. Most everything else. That one thing her mother always brings up when she calls, that’s more daunting to her than any Demogorgon or gate ever was.

They’re in no rush, really. And the timing never seems right.

Do you think we should have a baby? She asks him after she says goodbye to her mother and he studies the stack of bills on the coffee table. He smirks at her.

I think we should make sure we can pay the light bill first.

Do you want to have a baby? He asks her as they tuck themselves into the corner of her office baby shower, her manager glowing in the center of a circle of otherwise hardboiled reporters and editors who are – slightly drunkenly, to be sure – oohing and aahing over a hand-knitted set of baby clothes.

I’m about to do her work and mine – when exactly do you think I have time to be pregnant? She shoots back, and he chortles into his glass.

It goes like that for a while, over months and months, until one night Nancy finds herself at their kitchen table, contemplating the brown paper pharmacy bag with the familiar egg-shaped plastic compact inside. That’s where Jonathan finds her, the light around her dimming as the sun sets outside their windows.

“Is everything OK or are you just enjoying sitting in the dark?” he asks, flipping on the light and taking the seat next to her.

She’s quiet a moment, considering approaches, and then just blurts it out.

“I think I wanna have a baby.”

She keeps her eyes squarely on the table, not daring to look at him. Every past conversation they’ve had – short or long – feels ephemeral to her, like they were just playing with hypotheticals. She means it this time. It’s been nagging in the back of her mind for weeks, for probably longer, manifesting in lingering looks at women with strollers on the street and on the L, with watching the toddlers at the playground in the park up the street when she’s taking a walk. In daydreams on her commute – still watercolor blurred and amorphous in their own way – involving Jonathan’s wide palms on her swollen belly, or tiny hands tugging on his shoulder length hair, a little body cradled between them as they sing pop songs to lull it to sleep that have gone from occasional to daily to more.

She had refilled her prescription without thinking, gotten home, and realized she didn’t want to wake up the next morning and take a pill.

His hand, warm and rough, on hers snaps her out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, me too.”

Her head snaps up so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash.

“Really?”

His face is open, his eyes warm brown and dancing. There is no hesitation to be seen. “Yep.”

A weight she hadn’t even realized she was feeling lifts off her all at once, and she lets the smile break over her face. The one she gets in return is just as wide.

His hand is squeezing hers hard enough to hurt but they’re both giggling and she is giddy, practically vibrating with it.

Then a thought strikes her. It stops the giddiness in its tracks. It must show on her face because suddenly Jonathan looks very, very worried.

“Nance? What?”

“Oh god. Does that mean I have to get pregnant?”

She can barely register his laugh before she’s being pulled out of her chair, tossed over his shoulder and is suddenly enjoying a very nice, close up view of his rear end as he sets off down the hall to their room.

“I’m trying not to take that as an insult.”

2. impending fatherhood is sexy

They’re not going to be the first parents among their friends, and Nancy is immensely grateful for that as she climbs the steps to the home Ben and Michelle bought six months ago, halfway through their own pregnancy.

Nancy wonders if they need to start thinking about things like a house or a yard. There are no cul-de-sacs in the city, thank fucking god, but there are dead end streets. If they do have to move, they sure as hell aren’t moving to one of those. That’s too damn close.

She rings the bell without thinking and immediately regrets it when she hears a piercing wail from inside. Stupid, stupid.

The cry gets louder as footstep approach the door and she’s all set and ready to apologize to Michelle but instead finds Jonathan behind the slab of oak, a tiny bundle of blankets cradled in one arm.

“The bell, Nance? Really??”

She doesn’t reply; she can’t. He’s in a t-shirt, his hair’s disheveled, he’s holding a baby, and suddenly every hormone in her body – and man, there are an awful lot of them right now – is rushing to straight between her legs.

He steps aside and she enters on autopilot, trying to figure out the best way to tell him he should give the baby back to Michelle and leave with her, right now, because she wants to climb him like a tree.

“Michelle went to take a shower,” he says, briefly snapping her out of her reverie. “I told her I’d keep an eye on Emma and to take her time. I think Ben’s on his way home but I had just gotten her to fall asleep.”

“Sorry,” she sidles up to his bicep, trying hard to ignore how good he smells, especially mixed with the soft scent of baby powder and freshly laundered blankets. “Hello, Emma.”

“Hello Nancy, thanks for waking me up from my nap so I can scream bloody murder in Uncle Jonathan’s ear again!” He bounces the bundle in time with his high-pitched response.

“Mmm,” she nuzzles his shoulder. “’Uncle Jonathan’ has a nice ring to it but I think ‘dad’ is a lot sexier.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, still bouncing the baby as she starts to calm. “Well we’re not quite there yet but I’m sure you’ll get to fulfill those fantasies someday. Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

“How about today?” She reaches into her purse, fishes around until she finds the little Ziploc baggie and pulls it out. Holds it up so Jonathan can see the pink and white stick with two parallel pink lines on it.

It is both immensely gratifying and incredibly attractive to watch his eyes widen so much she thinks they’re about to pop out of his head.

“Really?” he whispers, almost like speaking too loud would make it not true. “Nance, are you serious?”

“The lines don’t lie,” she looks up at him through her eyelashes. “How long until Michelle is done with her shower, do you think? Because I want to take your pants off with my teeth.”

    3. unconditional love really means unconditional

The look on his face confirms to her she’s horrifying but to be totally honest she couldn’t give two shits.

“Did you get the salsa?” she asks as Jonathan closes their apartment door behind him. Eyes the paper bag he’s carrying like she suddenly has x-ray vision.

“I did.”

“And those Mexican candy spoon things? With the sour-sweet?”

“Tamarind,” he corrects absently, clutching the bag to his chest like it can protect him from something. “I did.”

She beams a him. “Thank you. I love you.”

“…Yeah.”

“Oh come on,” she rolls her eyes as he edges into the room. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Um,” he tries, stops, and then just gestures in her direction with his free hand.

She looks down at herself. It’s pretty standard for her lately, 32 weeks into this bullshit ordeal: a pair of Jonathan’s clean boxer shorts, her most comfortable bra, one of his rattier button downs that has long be moved from his work wardrobe to “painting the house” duty, and which is big enough to accommodate her suddenly quite large belly. She swears up and down she blew up like a balloon; after weeks of morning sickness where the smell of just about any food that wasn’t white bread or oranges turned her stomach, she finally got her appetite back. But even then her belly had resolutely refused to show until about two weeks ago; now she suddenly had a little shelf to rest things on whenever she sat down.

Honestly, it was kind of convenient, even if sometimes their son’s kicking knocks over her plate or her cup.

Right now that belly shelf is home to a half-eaten Sara Lee cheesecake she had picked up in the freezer section of the corner store.

“What?” she asks.

He gestures again, this time more clearly toward her left hand. She looks at it, considers, then pops one finger into her mouth so she can eat the pitted black olive off the tip.

“What?” she asks again, a little muffled as she chews. Swallows, then follows it with a bite of cheesecake.

“That is disgusting.”

“It’s good!” she protests as he hightails it out of the room. She hears the rustling as he unpacks her latest cravings and eats another olive. “It’s like, a little salty and a lot creamy and a little sweet. Opposites attracting, like us!”

“Which one of us is the olive and which one of us is the cheesecake?” She can practically hear his shudder. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

That gives her an idea and she swipes another olive, this one on her middle finger, through the cake, scooping up some. Pops it into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. Meh. It’s OK. Not as good as she was hoping for.

When she looks toward the kitchen again he’s standing in the doorway, looking as disgusted as ever.

“Oh come on,” she rolls her eyes, sliding the cake off her stomach and onto the coffee table. Stands carefully, one hand still half-occupied with olives, the other going to the half-done buttons of his ratty old shirt. “I’m not that gross, am I? I mean, you didn’t seem to think I was this morning before I left for work. Or when I came to see you on your dinner break. I believe you thanked me for wearing a skirt, and god for fixing the lock on the women’s bathroom door.”

“You weren’t eating olives off your fingers with cheesecake this morning. Or at the bar.”

“Well,” she pops the last two remaining olives into her mouth and the last two remaining buttons free with her other hand. “I’m not now, either.”

His keeps his arms crossed, his shoulders stiff, as she slowly starts to walk toward him, hoping she can still pull off seductive when her belly’s this big. His eyes are full trained on her (now much more ample, thanks pregnancy) cleavage, though, so she’s pretty sure she’s doing just fine.

“That’s true,” he allows and finally reaches out to her, slides his hands up her side and over her breasts before drawing her close and brushing his lips over hers once, twice, three times. She feels her knees go a little weak. “And I love you no matter what. But would you mind brushing your teeth?”

    4. what’s in a name?

Nancy wakes slowly, blearily rubbing at her face as she blinks back the afternoon light. Something feels strange, feels different, feels off—

The baby.

She bolts upright with a gasp, scrambling out from under the covers and skidding into the living room in a panic only to be confronted by the sight of Will sitting in the old rocking chair Jonathan had rescued from his mom’s house years ago and that is definitely coming in handy now.

Will’s got her beautiful baby boy held snugly in his arms, his head bent toward him and long still-bowl-cut hair hanging down like a soft curtain. She thinks it’s funny, all these years and he still gets his hair cut the way his mom used to do it.

She thinks Will maybe have been saying something to her son, or maybe humming, but he looks up when she arrives, a smirk already on his face.

“Forgot you have a kid now?”

“Honestly,” she says, hand on her chest as she tries to calm her racing heart, catch her breath, “I’m not used to getting so much sleep.” Approaches them. “Thanks for letting me nap, by the way.”

“No problem,” Will looks back down at his nephew. “Joe and I were having a great time together. Doing some rocking, singing some songs.”

“And what kind of taste in music are you trying to impose on my firstborn child, eh?” She reaches out and brushes her fingertips over the fine brown hair dusting his crown. She swears up and down every day that he looks just like Jonathan while he swears the opposite, but she does have to admit Joe got her coloring. His chestnut hair and bright blue eyes could come straight out of her own baby photos.

Will grins at her. “Oh, please, like I could ever displace his father’s influence.”

“And what am I chopped liver?” She hears the door open and close behind them, the thunk of Jonathan dropping his photo bag under the coat tree. Lifts her face to accept his brief kiss when he crosses the room. Doesn’t hide her grin when he does the same to the crown of Joe’s head.

“Want me to take him?” he asks his brother.

“You stink like chemicals,” she interrupts before Will can agree. “Go change, and then we’ll give Uncle Will’s arms a break. He let me take a nap, he’s earned it.”

“Excellent, I’ll be right back.”

“No you’re not chopped liver,” Will says like they weren’t even interrupted. “But, come on. You let Jonathan name him Joe.”

Huh? she thinks.

“Huh?” she says.

“It was my brother’s idea right?”

“Well yeah but, like, Joe’s a normal name,” she frowns at him.

“What were your other choices?”

“I liked Adam, but Jonathan didn’t, not for a first name. He also suggested Ian, which was nice, but I liked Joe more.”

Will’s smirk is bigger now, and it makes her suspicions rise.

“Joe?” he repeats. “And Ian?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with Joe and Ian?”

“You really don’t get it?”

“Get what?” Suspicion is quickly turning to irritation and she suspects Will can read it on her face because he stops smirking quite so hard.

“Joe Strummer? Ian Curtis? The—“

“--Lead singers of The Clash and Joy Division,” she finishes for him, eyes wide.  Wheels around to find Jonathan standing in the doorway between living room and hallway, mid-frantic arm wave, as if he’d been trying to get his brother to stop spilling the beans. He freezes, then grins sheepishly at her.

“You like the name Joe, and anyway we already filled out the birth certificate weeks ago…”

“Jonathan!!”

Will cracks up as she huffs her frustrations at him, half-joking and half-not. Oh, she should have guessed. He was far too confident and clear about his name suggestions. Oh, she should have known.

Joe starts whimpering and whining as his own sleep is disturbed and as she chases Jonathan playfully around the room she hears Will still in the chair, singing through his laughter, “Should I stay or should I go now? If I go there will be trouble, if I stay it will be double…”

“So you got to let me know,” Jonathan joins in, cowering behind the rocking chair and his son and his brother. “Should I stay or should I go?”

When he stands up she makes sure the burp cloth hits him square in the face.

    5. it is possible to be this happy

Nancy gives the pot of sauce one last stir, lifts the wooden spoon to her lips and carefully blows before giving it a taste. Mmm. Perfect.

Jonathan may be the better cook overall but she’s learned a trick or two over the years.

“Hey Jonathan,” she calls, turning off the burner and putting the lid back on before walking back toward the living room, already starting to unbutton her shirt, “dinner’s ready, do you wanna hand him over to me so I can feed him while you’re setting the—“

She trails off in the doorway, taking in the sight before her. Jonathan is sprawled on the sofa, the light of the television airing Wheel of Fortune flickering across his face. He’s got Joe on his chest, his hand securely at his back. They are both fast asleep.

She does the two buttons of her shirt back up, considering whether she wants to wake them up. After a moment, decides against it. Dinner can probably wait.

It’s a little complicated but she manages to ease the pillow out from under Jonathan’s head and then maneuver herself so that he’s in her lap. Combs her fingers slowly through his hair, soft dark blonde strands she’s been playing with for well over a decade now.

She’s not sure how she got here. She imagined so many lives for herself, from dreams of women’s college with Barb to dreams of being a front page Pulitzer winning reporter. She’s saved the world and had her heart broken, almost lost everything and gotten it back again.

Her chest, her heart, her soul feels so full, like she’s about to burst from all the love in there, for this man and this tiny creature they made together, this tiny little human she would do anything for; walk over hot coals, throw herself in front of a train. From the moment his blue eyes looked into hers her world has felt like it is so full of love that it’s overflowing into a waterfall of feeling and all she can do is be swept along with the current, content to drown.

She thinks maybe that’s what people mean when they say they’re so happy they could die.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts only to find two pairs of eyes staring up at her, one brown and one blue. She smiles down at them both, reaching out to cup Joe’s head, stroke her thumb over the soft crown. Jonathan switches the hand holding his son to his chest and raises the other to cup her cheek.

Yes, she thinks, dinner can wait.  

[byfightingwiththewind]

the secret garden: dickon sowerby throughout different adaptations

given how many different adaptations of the secret garden there are, it is inevitable that some of them would use the same ideas. @isfjmel-phleg did a great post on the integration of mary’s mother and colin’s mother being twin sisters that has been used throughout different versions of the story, starting with the 1991 broadway musical. however, there is one popular change that particularly irks me, and that is what i like to call the “left-out dickon trope.”

so just what, exactly, is this trope? it’s simple: dickon sowerby is used as a plot device to “fix” colin and mary, restoring them to their childlike glory, and is cast away at the end of the story. in most adaptations that use this trope, dickon is painted in an almost otherworldly way, as an omniscient character who can sense when it is time for him to leave. he is not a cheerful, childlike boy full of life as he is in the original text; rather, he is dark, mysterious and ethereal. 

the trope, as far as i can tell, started in the 1987 hallmark film. it is also present in the 1993 warner brothers film, and after that, the 1994 animated film. however, it is most prevalent in the 1987 film, where dickon is played by barret oliver (“the neverending story”).

oliver plays dickon in a cocky, overly confident way. he is much older in appearance than mary and colin (although colin, played by the two-years-younger jadrien steele, is significantly taller) and acts like he knows more than they do about…everything. near the end of the film, mary and colin are fretting about how they will eventually be sent to boarding schools, and dickon makes an off-handed remark about how they will “be parted” (“we’ll be parted, you and me. but remembrance will keep us friends.”). after this, he leaves the garden—right before archibald walks in to witness colin walking for the first time, the emotional climax of the film. in the final scene of the movie, an older mary returns to the garden and talks with ben weatherstaff. they discuss a letter sent that details dickon’s death in a field during the war, and mary says that dickon always knew he would die surrounded by growing things. 

throughout the 1987 movie, there is a black cat, specifically in the scenes featuring future mary. this cat seems to represent dickon, as he is not there in the final scene; perhaps it is supposed to represent his spirit or something otherwise. it paints him as something different than the cousins—someone magical and immortal, which he is not and should not be. this, combined with his arrogant superiority complex, is extremely frustrating and not accurate to the book at all.

in the 1993 movie, dickon carries a bit of this arrogance. he’s a bit of a showoff in my opinion (that scene where he eats the grub, for example). the trait is handled better than in the ’87 version, though, because it can really be passed off as him being older than the cousins and them being slightly in awe of him. however, also like the ’87 film, dickon is completely excluded at the end. he’s set up to be mary’s best friend (or maybe more), but in the end, he is not included in the family’s reunion scene, looking on as a bystander. dickon is constantly seen with a white horse (oh, hello, 1991 musical fans—he actually does have a fine white horse. or pony? you know i think it’s actually a pony. i’m not one to trust on my equine knowledge), and with this steed, he rides away after bringing mary and colin to archibald—it’s almost like he was strictly there for plot convenience the whole time. i really like andrew knott’s dickon, more than many other versions, so it’s very disappointing when he doesn’t make the found family at the end. the 1994 animated adaptation follows this example—there’s a scene at the end where colin asks his father something along the lines of are they a “real family” now, and archibald responds “yes. you, me and mary,” while dickon and martha are never spoken of again).

obviously the 1993 film is the most popular and universally beloved adaptation, and it’s beautifully made. i think that it deserves the spotlight it gets, although i personally am a sucker for the 1949 film (hm. perhaps it’s because dickon isn’t left out or changed to be an ethereal character unlike his book counterpart?!). but the 1993 film tends to focus more on aesthetics and visuals rather than actual character development. for example, colin has his puppet theater, which is adorable, and a beautiful prop, but it doesn’t add much to his character. its existence means he’s more imaginative, right? couldn’t there have been a scene in which he plays with it by himself, showing his neglect and ability to fend for himself mentally as he has no one to do that for him? but there isn’t (although the clip of heydon and kate goofing around with the theater is sweet too). another example is dickon’s exclusion: the overhead shot of him riding away on that white pony going “my work here is done” is much more “cinematically beautiful” than him being a part of the group hug at the end.

in the original book, dickon is so lovable and helpful to mary and colin only BECAUSE he’s so down-to-earth and realistic. mary and colin are almost like caricatures of children in the beginning of the story: old-fashioned, idealistic, and not relatable. they don’t know what a real, “normal” childhood is like until dickon, a real boy with rosy cheeks and life inside comes to meet them. but dickon does not bring mary and colin back to life; he’s just one example to them of the life that they could be living when they begin to heal and grow. he’s not this magical, all-knowing, omniscient being with a superiority complex, and his character doesn’t need to rely on “fixing” mary and colin for plot convenience. they need to grow and learn by themselves, and dickon’s whole character should not be thrown away for the cousins’ sake. 

[prettyboylikeyou]

summer’s in the air and baby, heaven’s in your eyes

Harringrove Week Day 6! 

Prompt: Hawkins Community Pool Shuts Down for the Day

3k (read on ao3)

•

It’s summer, which means Billy spends the night at Steve’s more often than not. Like clockwork, Neil will pass out at 11pm and Billy is promptly climbing out of his bedroom window and hopping into the Camaro. He parks three houses down from the Harrington’s, and quietly makes his way to their front door, waiting for Steve to come retrieve him. 

Most days, his parents are home and he has to tip toe down, softly unlocking the door for them to sneak back up to his room together. They spend those nights quietly tangled together with hushed whispers and gentle kisses. They love how intimate it is, though neither of them were willing to admit it for quite some time.

Sometimes they manage to exchange hasty hand jobs, or even the occasional muffled blow job. It's secretive and riveting and even scary at times; they never know when they might be too loud and end up almost getting caught. Steve knows Billy secretly loves the thrill of the risk.

Other nights, however, Steve has the house all to himself, his parents long gone on some holier-than-thou business trip. Those are the nights that they can get lost in their own little world for a while. 

Billy’ll bring his stash and they’ll smoke for a bit, until they’re both feeling hazy and loose. They’ll kiss sloppily, they’ll fuck wherever they want, they’ll go skinny dipping in the pool at 2am. Sometimes they’ll dance in the kitchen to whatever record Billy deems the least painful to listen to of Steve’s collection. Sometimes they’ll pour glasses of Mr. Harrington’s bourbon and simply sip it like they’re fucking 40 years old, and not some irresponsible teens who will chug anything within a ten mile radius.

Those are the best nights. Last night was one of those nights. 

Billy had shown up with the joint already rolled and they shared long drags of it, shotgunning the last hit between their lips. He picked out INXS’ “The Swing”, and Michael Hutchence’s voice was spilling through the speakers of the record player, pouring out into the living room. They played an enthralling game of strip darts until they were both down to their underwear. 

Nobody won. Billy derailed it by sprinting out into the night and diving head first into the swimming pool, Steve following not far behind. They kissed languidly for ages, Steve pressed up against the rough concrete edge. 

They finished the night off with shower blowjobs and once they were raveled together in Steve’s sheets, Billy fucked into him slowly, still coming down off the relaxed high.    

 And now, here Steve is, waking up to see the sun pooling into his room, through the cracks of his curtains. Rays enveloping Billy’s naked torso, uncovered by Steve’s duvet. 

Steve loves it when he wakes up before Billy. He loves to sit up and just take him all in, drink in the peaceful sight of him. His tousled curls, his pillowy pink lips, the curves of his body underneath the sheets. Watches the way his golden tanned chest moves up and down, with every soft breath he takes. He never thought it was possible to even get so tan in Indiana. 

“I can feel you looking at me, weirdo,” Billy mumbles, voice still full with sleep. 

Steve laughs and slips back into the covers, pulling them up all the way up to their necks.

“I’m not a weirdo, you’re just– you’re just pretty,” he shrugs, the duvet crinkling up with the movement of his shoulders. 

“You flatter me, Stevie.” 

Steve plants a kiss on his nose and Billy nuzzles his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in tighter. 

Steve rests his head atop Billy’s, closing his eyes again for a few minutes, relishing in the sweet moment of their quaint morning. 

Billy pulls his head back and looks up at Steve through his dark lashes. He stretches his neck up to reach Steve’s lips with his own, connecting them together like perfect puzzle pieces. 

Steve leans down into it and reaches his hand up to the cup the back of Billy’s head, deepening the kiss. He gathers a handful of Billy’s hair and tugs lightly, emitting a startled but satisfied noise from the back of his throat. 

Billy pulls back with a chuckle. 

“God, we’re fucking gross,” he says, “Swapping spit before we even brush our teeth.” 

“Is it bad that I don’t care? Would do it all day if I could,” Steve sighs, contentedly.

“Who says we can’t?”

“Uh, your job maybe? Don’t you have to be off yelling at kids and saving drowning 80 year olds in like,” Steve glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table, “an hour?”

“Nope,” Billy pops the “p”, “Told them I couldn’t come in today. Knew that without your parents here we’d have one hell of a night, and I wouldn’t be able to leave your side even if I wanted to,” Billy spoke lowly and smirked. 

“Fuck, you’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it. Gonna spend all day here, can’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“Would never dream of it,” Steve shifts down the bed a little, so he’s face to face with Billy and plants another sweet kiss on him.

It’s Billy who deepens the kiss this time, enthusiastically pulling him in for another one and automatically slipping his tongue between Steve’s lips. He throws an arm around Steve’s neck, pulling him in even tighter. Steve’s hand finds it’s way back into Billy’s hair, and it stays there, mussing it up even more. Their pace quickens as they try to create any kind of friction, doing their best to grind into each other in their awkward position on Steve’s bed. 

Billy slots his leg in between Steve’s then, groaning at the welcome feel of his hard on and stroking his own stiffness into Steve’s hip, hissing at the contact. 

“Fuck, Billy,” 

“Yeah, baby?” he moves the hand that was around his neck to slide it up Steve’s side, stopping just short of his pecs, ghosting a thumb over Steve’s nipple, “What is it, what do you want?”

“Just— god, just— you, want you.”

“I’m all yours, babe.” 

Billy flips them around so he’s on his back and brings Steve with him, his legs perfectly enclosing Billy’s waist. His ass is resting perfectly over Billy’s dick and he’s being a tease, grinding down, swiveling his hips ever so delicately. Soft whines are escaping his mouth every so often, every time the cleft of his ass rolls perfectly over Billy’s length. 

“Wanna ride me, pretty boy?” Billy licks his lips, eyes dark with want.

“Fuck— yes, please,” Steve moans breathily, already so hard and so turned on from just the mere minutes of foreplay. He didn’t care though, he could feel Billy from underneath him and could tell he was just as worked up over this.

“C’mere, baby,” Billy hauls him down, bringing their lips together again, forming a breathy kiss. It’s hot and intense and Steve flushes, thinking about what’s still yet to come.. 

He grinds down even harder, sliding their dicks together through the fabric, now that he’s horizontal with Billy. 

A low groan pours out of Billy and he clasps his hands around Steve’s waist, lowering them until he gets two handfuls of his asscheeks. Steve exhales a matching groan to that of Billy’s, sliding their tongues together wetly and snaking a hand down Billy’s torso, slipping his fingers just below the waistband of his briefs. 

A sudden pounding on Steve’s front door startles him and he breaks away, practically jumping out of his own skin.

“Jesus, who the fuck is that?” 

Billy just pulls him back down and keeps grinding up, desperately searching for that friction they lost. 

“Who cares, fuck, probably just some crazy religious people going door to door,” he presses a trail of quick hot kisses up Steve’s neck. 

The banging continues, but this time it’s accompanied by muffled shouting. 

“Steve, I know you’re home! Open up, it’s me!”

Steve separates from Billy once again, sitting back so he’s resting on his heels and sighs, the mood officially ruined. 

“Fucking Dustin,” he groans. 

“I know how to pick locks, Steve! If you’re not down here in thirty seconds, I’ll just resort to that!” 

Steve’s eyes widen as he starts to scramble off of Billy. Billy doesn’t move, just rolls his eyes and whines at the sudden loss of contact.

“C’mon, he’s bluffing,” he tries convincing Steve. 

“It’s Dustin. He’s unfortunately, very much so, not bluffing.” 

“Fifteen seconds!” they hear. 

Billy becomes just as frantic as Steve then.

“Shit.”

They both start clambering, hopping up off the bed, knocking limbs and tripping over each other on the way. 

“What do I do? Hide? Climb out your window?” Billy whispers in a panic. 

Steve, still rushing to throw on some shorts and a t-shirt pauses and puts his hands on Billy’s shoulders. 

“No no, it’s okay, it’s all good. You just stay here, I’m sure it’s nothing and he’ll be gone in like, less than five minutes. He just has a flair for the dramatic.”

Another call comes from downstairs.

“Alright! Getting my trusty bobby pin out!” 

Billy’s eyes go wide as he searches for anything to throw on, just in case, and a moment of realization hits him.

“Shit, Steve, hurry! All of our clothes are still down there, just strewn all over the living room!”

Steve curses under his breath and dashes out his bedroom door. 

“Alright, alright, Dustin, I’m coming! Put the bobby pin away!” he yells as he runs down the stairs, rushing to the living room and trying to find all the haphazardly discarded clothes. 

“Nope, too late! You probably got like, ten seconds before I get this thing unlocked!”

Steve can hear the sound of the bobby pin in the lock, quietly clinking away. He hurriedly picks up the last of what he can find and shoves the pile of clothes behind the laundry room door. If anything, there may just be a random sock here or there. 

He smooths his hair out in an effort to look less panicked and frankly, less debauched, hoping Dustin’s still too innocent to catch onto what may have been happening less than one minute ago. 

He’s just about to twist the lock when the door comes flying open, Dustin’s efforts clearly paying off. 

And as soon as it swings open, he’s trudging through to the kitchen, leading the rest of the party with him, much to Steve’s surprise. He’s still clearly worked up about something, god knows what; none of the other kids seem nearly as agitated as him.

“Hottest day in Hawkins– 95 degrees! And of course, of course, some goddamn ankle-biter goes and takes a dump in the pool,” he heaves. 

“First of all, language,” Steve looks at him pointedly, “Second, ankle-biter? Harsh, dude. And third, what exactly are you talking about and why are you here?” . 

“The pool is closed for the day,” Dustin flails his arms out, “Maybe tomorrow too. Maybe even longer! Who knows! Who knows how long it takes to clean and disinfect a pool after having human feces in it! Human feces, Steve!” 

Steve grimaces. 

“Eugh, gross.”

“He’s just all worked up because it means he can’t ogle at all the high school girls,” Lucas chimes in, bumping his shoulder, “Like, I tried telling him that it actually worked out in our favor, because now we can have a private pool party all to ourselves. It’s way cooler than the community pool.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you guys haven’t even officially asked if it’s okay to use my pool. You just barge in here and expect free reign of it? How do you even know I’ll say yes?” Steve crosses his arms. 

“First of all, I feel like it’s a little unfair to call it “barging in”. I gave you a fair enough warning and you said it yourself, you were on the way to answer the door! I just happened to reach the destination before you!” Dustin starts. 

“Yeah, I was going to answer it after you threatened to just pick the lock anyway! And then successfully did!” Steve retorts. 

“Whatever, and anyway, you’re you. In what world do you say no to us? Also, Lucas, for your information, I only have eyes for Suzie, duh. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to get back in that water after knowing there’s been shit in it!” he shudders, “That stuff is nightmare fuel.” 

Billy abruptly comes bounding down the stairs then, clad in one of Steve’s t-shirts and an old pair of his sweatpants, seemingly not at all bothered by the fact that everyone now knows he’s just been chilling in the Harrington residence. 

He’s already flashing his signature smirk as Steve whips his head around and meets his eyes, hoping that the look he’s shooting him conveys, “Dude, are you crazy?! How are we supposed to explain our way out of this one?”

But he’s just met with that damn smirk as he carelessly continues on into the kitchen, planting himself right next to Steve. 

“Trust me kid, that’s not the first time some kid’s shit in the pool, and it won’t be the last.” 

“Billy? What the hell are you doing here?” Max pipes up, confusion written all over her face.

“Did you forget that Steve and I are pals now? Buddies? Amigos?” Billy asks, pointing between the two, “Can’t a guy hang with his amigo?” 

“Well yeah, it’s just, I don’t know. Just, still a little weird seeing you two not wanna rip each other’s faces off, I guess,” she replies. 

“Yeah, like, knowing you guys are civil with each other versus actually witnessing you hang out and be all buddy buddy together are two very different pills to swallow,” Lucas adds. 

“Right? Like I honestly never thought I’d see the day—” 

Dustin let’s out a dramatic sigh, “You guys, honestly, I know that of all people, I should be the most shocked and willing to analyze this newfound friendship between Steve and Billy, I get that. But please, can we just get in the pool already!” he groans, “I was supposed to be chlorine soaked and well on my way to a sun burn half an hour ago!”

“Alright, alright, I guess I will officially give you permission to have your little pool party,” Steve surrenders, “You guys go ahead, Billy and I will be way nicer than you all deserve and prepare some snacks and drinks. We’ll meet you out there in a bit.” 

A sea of “thank you’s” are thrown Steve’s way as they all run for the back door. Steve even manages to shout out a hasty, “Make sure nobody drowns! And don’t forget to wear sunscreen!”

Will is the last of them to run out and nods at him.

“Got it, Steve!” he yells and swiftly slides the door shut behind him. 

Steve turns to Billy with a soft smile and sighs. 

“So,” he looks at him hopefully, “ready to play lifeguard on your day off then?” 

Billy laughs lightly and crowds Steve to the corner of the counter. Steve hops up onto it and opens his legs for Billy to stand in between them. He places his hands on Steve’s waist as Steve crosses his arms over his shoulders and leans in to kiss him slow and sweet. When Billy pulls away he’s mirroring the same soft smile as Steve. 

“Oh, Harrington,” he sighs, “You and your soft spot for those kids,” he tsks playfully. 

Steve laughs and retracts his arms to put his face in his hands. 

“I know, I know! Dustin was right, I really can never say no to them,” he musters up the best exaggerated pout he can. 

“That’s okay,” Billy smacks a chaste kiss to Steve’s cheek, “That’s what I like about ya, you’re sweet. And besides,” he lowers his voice presses another slower, more fervent kiss to Steve’s lips, “I didn’t bring any trunks with me, which means I’ll have to borrow a pair of yours, right?” 

His waggles his eyebrows and his tongue teases the edge of his lips as he adjusts himself in the sweats hanging low on his hips. 

“Shit, Stevie, just the thought of that will leave me wired for days. You don’t even know how much it turns me on,” his breath is hot on Steve’s neck.  

Steve gives him a slow once over and his eyes linger on his groin. 

“Billy, baby, I think it’s pretty obvious how much it turns you on.” 

“Yeah?” Billy crowds Steve’s space again a nudges his face into his neck, licking a hot stripe up to his ear, “Whatcha gonna do about it, pretty boy?”

“Jesus, Billy, the kids are right outside!” Steve replies in a rushed whisper.  

“Yeah, and? Your bedrooms right upstairs,” he raises his brows, “Think we can manage to jerk each other off quick enough to not raise any suspicions?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,”

“Is that a yes?” 

Steve sighs, exasperated. 

“If they ask what took so long, I’ll just say you started a food fight.” 

“Always pinning me under the bus Harrington, damn.” 

“Oh my god, just shut up and get upstairs before I change my mind.” 

Billy scoffs. 

“Please, like you ever would.” 

Nonetheless, he hastily turns around and basically skips up the stairs, taking them two at a time, practically giggling the entire way to Steve’s bedroom. 

And later, when they’re back in the kitchen cutting up a watermelon, Steve is only half surprised when Billy actually does end up starting a food fight.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

cold and comfort

prompt: borrowed clothing

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

hi this one is perhaps not that great but if you want me throwing sakke into the freezing water for the millionth time then you're in luck ;)

A cold and bitter wind blows across the dock of the marina. It’s strong enough, and the dock is small enough, that all three of them collectively freeze up so that they don’t end up blown into the water. 

The wind abates after a few seconds, and they continue walking. They’re heading to a specific boat, moored at the very end of the dock. From here it looks small and worn-down, but it may hold a cache of weapons implicated in the murder of a local businessman. 

They are nearly to the boat when suddenly a man walks off of it and onto the dock. He stops in his tracks when he sees them, looks around frantically, and then sprints at them, full speed. 

“Stop!” Karppi shouts, but he’s too close and it’s too late for any of them to do anything. The man rushes right through them, and his hand pushes directly into Sakari’s chest. 

He falls backwards, reaching out for a handhold that isn’t there. 

He hits the water and a shock reverberates through his body. The cold is intense and as he sinks into the water his brain conjures up the helicopter and then the fishing shed. Panic grips him for a second, but he forces it down. 

He swims quickly and ably to the surface, gasping in cold air that burns his lungs. He starts to shiver immediately, and it becomes quite difficult to swim the single meter back to the dock. 

He hauls himself out of the water with considerable effort, then lies on the ground, his whole body shaking so hard it hurts. After a few seconds he looks up and sees both of his teammates standing above him. 

“Fuck,” says JP. “What should we do?”

Karppi drops to a squat next to him, and Sakari pushes himself up a bit. She touches his face with very warm hands, and he tries to keep his mind in the present. They are not in the middle of the water, waiting desperately for rescue. He is on dry land and he will be fine.

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” she tells him. “JP, give him your jacket.”

Both of them do as she says. It takes Sakari a while to pull his soaking clothes off, and he shivers somehow harder when the cold air hits his bare skin. 

And then JP gives him his jacket and it’s very warm. He pulls his arms through the sleeves and folds them tightly across his chest. 

“There are spare clothes at the station,” Karppi says. “Towels, too, I think.”

Sakari sort of nods, and then JP is pulling him to his feet. 

For a second he almost falls back to the ground. The cold has taken all of the energy out of him. But he manages to stay on his feet, admittedly while clinging quite hard to JP’s arm. 

“Ow,” says the man in question. “You don’t have to claw me.”

Sakari lets go of him and makes do with walking quite slowly and deliberately. It takes them a long time to reach the car, and it is not until they’re driving, heat on as high as it will go, that he remembers the man who had pushed him in. 

“We lost him?” he asks, teeth chattering so hard he can barely get the words out. 

“Yeah,” Karppi replies from beside him. “JP ran after him but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“Hey!” JP protests from the back seat. Sakari nearly laughs. 

By the time they reach the station his lower half has gone mostly numb. His torso, despite JP’s jacket, has not fared much better, and his hair is still steadily dripping water down his neck. 

Inside, he sits on a hard plastic chair while Karppi goes to find the towels and clothes she’d promised. JP sits down at his desk to begin the unpleasant task of writing a report of what had happened. 

The towel Karppi brings him is small and rough. The clothes, though, feel soft and worn and comfortable. He takes them with a quiet thanks and makes his way to the bathroom. 

He dries his hair first, scrubbing at it with shaking hands until his head begins to hurt. He takes off JP’s now-damp jacket, then sinks to the ground and removes his shoes. Water drips out of them when he pulls them off of his feet. 

It’s very difficult to get his pants off. They stick to his skin and he nearly falls over several times as he tries to balance on shaky, weak legs. He manages eventually, though, and then he’s rewarded with being able to put on the new, dry clothes. 

They don’t fit him very well. There’s a pair of sweatpants with a stripe down the side and the waist is too big but the legs are too short. The t-shirt is also a bit short for him, and the sweater is fine except that the neck has been stretched out. There are socks, which don’t match, but no shoes. 

He knows everyone will get a good laugh out of him being dressed the way he is, which he can hardly blame them for. He doesn’t really care, anyway. The clothes are warm and dry and soft, and he is not shivering quite so much, which is all that matters to him at the moment.

He goes back to his place in the office and doesn’t miss Karppi’s soft laugh, JP’s amused grin, or the ‘stealthy’ picture that Peltola takes. He sits down without acknowledging them and wraps his hands around the steaming mug of coffee that is waiting for him on his desk. 

thanks for reading!! can't believe there's only one more day what!

[boasamishipper]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🧍🏻did i do it right

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Coyote wheeled his suitcase in and pushed the button for the sixth floor. Hangman grabbed Bob by the back of his shirt before he could enter, said “Nope,” and walked in, hoisted Coyote up off the floor, his hands hooked under Coyote’s thighs, slammed him against the wall and kissed him before the doors even slid shut again.

Coyote was laughing into his mouth and kissing him back all at once, desperate and sloppy and happy, and Hangman couldn’t get enough of him. He felt electrified, wanting only to kiss more, to touch more, to crawl into Coyote’s skin if he could. “That wasn’t,” Coyote eventually managed between kisses, once the door had closed and the elevator started rising, “very nice.”

“Yeah? Want me to stop so I can go back down and apologize?”

The hand Coyote had in his hair tightened. “Fuck no.”

“Thought not,” Hangman said, and kissed his neck, biting and sucking at his pulse point. Coyote moaned; his grip on Hangman’s hair was so tight it was nearly painful, but Hangman relished the ache. He was here. “Fuck, Javy, you drive me so fucking crazy.” I missed you so fucking much.

“Feeling’s mutual, baby.”

The doors slid open with a pleasant ding. Hangman reluctantly set Coyote down, but kept his hand in Coyote’s free one, pulling him and his suitcase down the hall with him until they came to a stop in front of Hangman’s room. Hangman dug his wallet out of his pocket and fished out his room card, sliding it into the slot. The room was about ten degrees cooler than the hall, but the goosebumps that blossomed up and down Hangman’s arms had nothing to do with that and everything to do with the way Coyote was smirking at him.

“So this is a casa do Jake, huh?”

“I don’t speak French,” Hangman informed him, then immediately wanted to facepalm. “Spanish. Portuguese! I don’t speak Portuguese, shut the fuck up, Machado—”

Coyote burst out laughing. “French?”

“Shut up,” Hangman said, but he was laughing now too. He shed his jacket and boxed Coyote up against the table, unbuttoning Coyote’s shirt as fast as he could. “You know, I didn’t even care,” he punctuated the word with a searing kiss, rolling his hips forward, “about sex at all before we got together. So if anything,” another long kiss, another roll of his hips, and Coyote’s shirt fell to the floor, “this is all on you.”

“You want a letter of apology?”

“Mmhmm. Five paragraphs.” It was hard to keep the conversation going while Coyote pushed him toward the bed, watching Coyote pull his undershirt over his head, but Hangman managed. “Cursive. On good stationary.”

“Noted.” Coyote gave a solemn nod. “Alternatively, I could fuck you.”

“…That works too.” (swimmin’ in the floods (dancing on the clouds below), tg2 fix it fic 4)

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

If you read the whole thing it doesn’t sound like he’s talking about anyone in a particular way which is weird why they took the quotes out of context. Like loads of drivers talk about it in the same way.

I think the interviewer/writer has included maxs name for click bait purposes and either way why are you shaming Sebastian and not the people asking another driver about personal relationships. Like max has done the same as well

I didn't shame Seb? I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt by hoping it was the journalist framing it in a way to bring Max into it for click bait? You clearly haven't seen me post before because I've heavily criticize and shamed the media and the fandom before because, let's face it, this fandom is far from all sunshine and rainbows and I've never liked the media or the culture built around it, but, as someone of the 21st century, I'm stuck with it. This time I leaned in towards the fandom. If I wasn't explicit enough, I apologize.

Seb didn't mention Max explicitly and that's why I'm hoping it was taken out of context and framed to stir shit and for click bait. It wouldn't be first and it wouldn't be the last time the media is guilty of it. Interestingly enough my last comment on that post was this; As a whole the media and the fandom need to have a hard look on their morals.

Regardless, it still isn't any driver's place to discuss the private lives of the coworkers. I don't believe it is anybody's place to do so, regardless who does it. Both in the media and irl. Seb was mentioned in my original post in the second paragraph because of the interview that was released. Had it been Max or any other driver, his name would've been used in Seb's place. Had it been implied that the quote was about another driver than Max, their name would be in the place of Max's. I used that interview as a jumping off point to criticize the fandom because like it or not, it's a cycle. The media click bait feeds us, we feed the media click bait. Do you think that journalist would've used Max for click bait if there wasn't an audience for it? Do you think photographers would be stalking Pierre every single time he ventures near Spa if there wasn't an audience for those photos? It's beyond exploitive and beyond disgusting but the fandom is just as exploitive as the media because we lap up those photos every year and we become more and more desensitized to it. One Pierre Gasly fangirl on Twitter even reposted the photo saying that she hoped the flowers were for her.

I apologize if I come off as overtly defensive but I've gone through this in real life, I've had people discussing my private life and basically trying to analyze me like "oh she's x,y, z because of what happened at point 65 of her life". It's fucking dehumanizing regardless of intention. When it comes to trauma and let's face it we all have some sort of trauma, and that's what their analyzing, the trauma you lived through, that you endured, that you survived, it's just further salt in the wound. Unless you're a therapist someone has gone to willingly to talk about it, it's not your business. No one knows my story better than me. No one knows Max's better than he does. And yet it's become so normalized to dissect his trauma and to exploit it for click bait or likes. Not just him, there's the drivers I mentioned in my previous post but it applies to them all. I tried to keep my og post short and sweet because I wanted to keep my emotions in check and my wording as clear and concise as possible, in doing so I probably didn't elaborate as much as I should've and was probably overemotional while writing this one.

[holocene-sims]

For the drabbles, definitely 38 - things you said that made me feel loved

ahh thank you!! i love this prompt so much

soooooo i'm really good at angst first and foremost BUT this does have a very lovable moment at the end and it absolutely is something that made grant feel very much loved ❤️

“my dad always says…”

grant only halfway ponders an answer before he plucks a black crayon from the plastic box in front of him and scribbles in response:

“be nice to your mother.”

the crayon snaps in half unceremoniously, crumbling under the sheer force of his grip, and smears muddy ink all over his fingertips. he sighs and throws it in the bin, then replaces it with a pink crayon. he reads the next question and repeats the same process again.

“my dad and i like to…”

he writes the first letter of “do nothing” before the crayon pops and smudges a pink streak across the dotted line. but this time his actions are met by a disapproving tongue click and a lukewarm hand on his shoulder. grant looks up to find his third grade teacher peering over him with a frown etched on her face.

“i’m sure your dad is just very busy. he is a surgeon and–”

grant rolls his eyes, stubborn and willing to brave the wrath of every catholic school teacher’s favorite weapon: a cold metal ruler. supposedly they aren’t allowed to hit children anymore–if his grandparents are telling the truth–but that stops no one from a bit of corporal punishment. instead, she kneels down beside him and remains there without saying another word, seemingly waiting for him to speak. when he refuses, she stands up and abandons him.

so grant just sits there at his desk alone at the back of the room in his stiff, scratchy, dry-cleaned uniform and stares up at the chalkboard, scanning over and over the announcement for a “happy father’s day” celebration while the joy of his classmates echoes off the walls. he thinks for a second about crying but it isn’t worth it, even as tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. he saw this coming from a mile away. his parents have always taken off work to attend to his sisters’ school events but never his own.

staring gets boring and he replaces it with ripping his worksheet to shreds, folding it in makeshift origami style before undoing his hard work and tearing against the grain of his folds.

“nice craft. is that for me? i love paper shards.”

immediately grant gasps. he would know that raspy smoker’s voice and the peculiar half-irish accent from anywhere.

“uncle paddy?!”

“shh, i'm your dad.”

and he hadn’t imagined it at all. his uncle is there in the flesh, adorned as always in a blue flannel shirt, this time thrown over a dead kennedy’s t-shirt. he’s there–really there–and he’s come bearing a bag of sour gummy worms and a fruit punch capri-sun.

“ahh, so maureen is your teacher...okay, don’t let her see me because she doesn’t like me.” his uncle pulls out a chair from some kid’s empty desk and sits across from grant. “anyway, here’s a snack for you, my son.”

“why doesn’t she like you?”

his uncle quickly shakes his head. “long story. adult stuff. i dated her years ago.”

“why are you here?”

“because you’re my son! you don’t recognize your old man? did i get more cool and handsome from the last time you saw me, uhh, yesterday at my house?”

grant laughs but happily accepts the gift. “i thought...i didn’t think anyone would bother to come.”

“listen, i overheard you mention this whole debacle yesterday when you were hanging out with your cousins…” his uncle says, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “you said you thought your dad wouldn’t show up and it’d be embarrassing. so i didn’t care if the bastard did show up or not, i was going to come anyway. because i love you and you’re a good kid and–”

he stops mid-sentence and a rather sad expression comes over his face. an expression grant doesn’t know how to define. but the face is vanquished as quickly as it arrived and is replaced by a big grin.

“that’s all. i love you.”

"thank you." the tears grant had never meant to cry suddenly pour down his cheeks. "you're the best."

[everymlmhybrid]

Sorry that im addicted to writing Mr Orange as a nervous wreck who just took the undercover training and ran with it as a way to repress his feelings even worse than he already did. It will happen again and again and again thoughhhh

[rowarn]

PLEASE, LOVE ME. PT2

simon riley / reader

FIND PART ONE || read the full thing on ao3

tags: childhood friends, friends2lovers, virgin!reader, soft!simon, protective!simon, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, MDNI

cw: reader is over 20, pining, masturbation (reader), loss of virginity, explicit workplace sexual harassment/assault, so much crying, one-sided love, not-really-unrequited love, vomiting, panic attacks, depression, crying, sex related shame, PTSD (reader), codependency but cute, self-deprecating thoughts, slut shaming, wet dream, dry humping, simon fucks up tho, reference to suicide & suicidal ideation, really nasty argument, reader hits simon sorry, apologizes tho!!!, reader struggles to orgasm, drinking, fooling around while drunk (no sex), breast play, fingering, orgasm denial, simon's a tease, p-in-v, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, mating press, missionary, simon's dirty mouth, dirty talk, wet&messy, big cock, uncut simon bc i said so, reassurance & encouragement, some pain upon penetration, clit spanking, post-coital crying!!!!!!, aftercare, briefly edited so apologies for any lingering mistakes

note: this is part two and contains the gratuitous smut portion ur all looking forward to <3

you've loved him since you were children. after a confession when you were 14 went rejected, you vowed to never let your feelings be known again. but after an incident that left you hurt and fragile, you find it hard to keep that promise.

PART 2: 17.9k total: 35.8k

Things seem to get much better between you. Your anger and resentment towards Simon diminishes significantly and you can finally say you feel comfortable around him again. You wouldn’t say you’ve forgotten everything that happened, you fear that the entire ordeal has left its scar on you. 

But you finally feel ready to truly begin to work on yourself and get to a better place mentally. 

You’re humming to yourself as you dust the surfaces in your living room, cringing in disgust when you see how dusty a particular shelf was. 

Just as you go to give it another swipe, your front door opens and Simon stumbles in, huffing from effort as he carries two armfuls of groceries. 

“Simon!” you cry out, watching with wide eyes from the stepstool you stood on as he ungracefully dropped them on the floor, “Why did you bring them all up here like that?”

“Didn’t wanna make another trip,” he explained lamely, flexing his hands as he looked over all the bags.

“Okay, I guess,” you chuckle softly. 

Simon finally looks up at you, “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” you shrug, waving the duster at him, “I haven’t felt like doing it until now so might as well get it done when I feel like it!”

He’s quiet for a moment before he steps over the bags of groceries.His boots thunk heavily on the floor as he approaches you. Suddenly, he wraps an arm around your middle. You squeak in surprise when he very carefully and gently pulls you off of the stool and places you back onto your feet. 

Then he walks away like nothing happened, snatching up a couple groceries up from the floor to take to the kitchen. 

You decide not to comment on his behavior and simply choose to grab a couple of bags and help him out. When you get inside the kitchen, he’s already stuffing things into the refrigerator. You place the bags down and go back to pick some more up, transferring all the bags of groceries near him so he can easily put them away. 

You notice one of the bags has some piping, lightbulbs, wires, and other things you can’t identify. 

“What’s all this?” you ask, holding the bag out to him when he turns to look.

He grunts, closing the fridge, “Gonna fix some shit around here.”

“Why?” you ask, scrunching your nose up as you place the bag on the counter.

“Shithole needs it,” he mumbles, moving to start opening the cabinets, “Since you refuse to let me move you out of this place, I’m gonna make sure it at least functions.”

You hum and nod your head. Simon had attempted to convince you to move out and into an apartment of his own choosing but you flat out refused. He was already paying the rent on this place, you weren’t going to let him spend more money for a different place – because you know Simon would choose somewhere that would cost a lot more than your current flat. 

But you couldn’t deny, the idea of Simon doing a little manual labor around the apartment made your heart flutter in your chest. The way he took care of you and was willing to get his hands dirty just to make sure you were comfortable. The little domestic tasks you could imagine him doing. 

It almost felt like something a husband would do. 

You felt your cheeks flush immediately at the train of thought. How embarrassing and juvenile to think something like that

“I can cook dinner!” you mumble after clearing your throat. 

Simon actually has the audacity to laugh. You frown as he shakes his head, closing the cabinet before turning to you. 

“Absolutely not,” he says.

Your jaw drops, “Why?!”

“Because,” he steps closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before breezing past you, “You’re a terrible cook, love.”

You open your mouth to retort but can only huff. Because he’s right. The last time you tried to make dinner for the two of you, you had confused cayenne with cinnamon and made the most diabolical stew known to man. He vowed to never let you cook anything that required more than boiling water since. 

You pout your way back to the living room, mumbling a petulant, “Fine…” as you went.

You didn’t catch the broad grin on Simon’s face as he watched you sulk away. He was just happy to see your vibrance returning before his very eyes.

True to his word, however, he began to do some random odd jobs around the apartment. He changed that damn leaky faucet in the kitchen first. He would never admit it but it was beginning to drive him completely mad. He swore he could hear it dripping into the metal sink basin in his dreams.

Then he fixed the piping in the bathroom so they would stop all that god-awful clanking that practically woke up the entire complex. But after that, he figured he might as well fix the piping under the sinks as well.

That’s when you saw him. On his back, big body sprawled out as he worked underneath the cabinet, wrench in hand and soft grunts of effort coming from him. His t-shirt rose up just a bit, exposing a small stretch of tummy and his happy trail. Every once in a while, you could see his muscles flex and it made your mouth go completely dry. 

You felt like a Victorian man seeing his first ankle on a woman. Ridiculous. 

Sure, you’d seen Simon shirtless countless times – hell, you walked in on him completely naked once or twice. But there was something particularly…delicious about him like this. Unaware, casual, just doing work. 

It made a swell of heat settle in your abdomen. You squeezed your thighs together as you watched him. His biceps flexed and bulged, making the sleeve of his t-shirt grow taut around his skin. His muscles moved underneath the tattoos inked into his skin. 

You dragged your eyes down his body, past his pecs, past the sliver of tummy. You imagined yourself crawling between those thick thighs and unbuckling his belt, tugging at the button of his jeans. You imagined getting to see his cock chub up inside his boxers before you would pull it out and wrap your lips around the leaking tip. 

Salty, you imagine. You’ve always heard that men’s cum and pre-cum would be salty. Would Simon’s taste as bad as some of your friends had told you back in highschool? You hoped not. You couldn’t imagine not enjoying every part of him – even his cum.

You wanted him to shoot in your mouth, let you taste it. You wanted to milk it out of him, give him no choice but to cum down your throat.

“Are you just going to stand there or do you need something?” his voice startled you out of your thoughts.

Wide eyed, you looked to meet his gaze but you found he wasn’t even looking at you, still staring at the piped overhead.

“Um,” you cleared your throat, floundering for an excuse as to why you were ogling him like a piece of meat, “I didn’t want to interrupt you. I-I was just wanting to make sure the shower was okay to use?”

He grunts, letting out a soft sigh  before pushing himself out from under the sink, closing the cabinet before wiping his brow with the back of his hand, “Yeah, go ahead and shower, love.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, casting one last glance to see that his t-shirt had fallen back into place. Disappointing. 

You trudge out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Softly, you close the door and turn on the shower. The pipes don’t clang when the water shoots through them. It brings a smile to your face.

Once you’re stripped and standing under the warm spray, you let your hands wander your body. First, you cup your breasts, watching your nipples harden under your own touch before you slide one hand between your thighs. There’s a slickness between your folds that's distinctly different from the water, it’s slippery and sticky. But it makes your touch against your clit easy. 

You bite your lips to keep quiet, scared to death that Simon could hear you from under the sound of the water. You make quick, tight little circles against your clit. The bud is hard and twitches under your fingers. It makes the breath stutter out of your chest. 

You need more room, you realize, hiking your foot up onto a shelf. It spreads you open just a little more, gives you a little more access for your fingers to play. You sigh, head tipping forward to watch as you circle your own clit. 

But the more you touch yourself, the faster that tingling, warm sensation dissipates. You huff through your clenched teeth, frustrated. 

Usually, you could at least feel the beginning of that peak forming but this time…not even close. So you shamefully close your legs and go about your shower as if nothing happened, taking care to wash the slick from between your thighs especially.

As you lay in bed that night, Simon breathing deeply beside you as he slept, you were lost in thought. 

Surely, you were in the wrong for thinking about Simon like that – for getting wet at the sight of him. And then sleeping soundly next to him as if you weren’t some kind of pervert. Maybe you should just confess and apologize to him. 

No. You quickly admonish that thought, glancing over at his prone form. You couldn’t bear to see him be disgusted by you. He’d already rejected you years ago, finalized it and put the nail in the coffin so you would never be dumb enough to do it again. 

What would he do if he found out about your…attraction to him? He practically lived with you now, after everything happened. He was in your flat more than he was on base now. It was only a matter of time before he caught you with your hands dancing in your pants. 

Your cheeks flushed at the idea. Part of you thought it hot – for him to find you needy like that, desperately playing with your clit as you try to make yourself cum. 

But on the other hand, you could see the wrinkle of disgust in his brow and sneer on his face as he walked away. That outcome was not worth it, you decided. 

With a sigh, you rolled over so your back faced Simon and closed your eyes for the night. 

You both should have known better that the fragile peacefulness between the two of you was just that – fragile, balancing on a delicate precipice that could shatter at any moment. 

The ring of his phone was the break. 

“Answer that for me, love!” he called from the kitchen where he was busy preparing dinner. 

You leaned forward to check the number. It wasn’t in his contacts but Simon never got calls from people unless he knew them. So you slowly slid the button over and accepted the call. 

“Hello?” you mumbled into the phone.

There was a beat of silence before a woman’s voice responded in kind, “Hello?”

“Um…” you swallowed down the apprehension that settled in your chest, casting a glance towards Simon’s back as he stood over the stove, “Who may I ask is calling?”

“I’m looking for Simon,” she said, sounding much more coy than a second ago. She knew his real name and that irked you. People from work always referred to him as Ghost, only those he considered trustworthy or friends were privy to calling him Simon. 

“Um, he’s busy at the moment, can I take a message?” you ask, loud enough for Simon to hear in the kitchen if he was interested in intervening. But he didn’t move. 

“Sure!” she giggled, “Tell him that Victoria really wants to see him again and to call me so we can!”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat, “Y-Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know…”

“Thank you,” she cooed in a sultry tone, “Oh! And tell him I really had a great time last time we were together and that I’m looking forward to a repeat performance.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that,” you assured, hoping you didn’t sound as tense as you felt. 

She giggled before the call disconnected and you were left glaring at his stupid stock phone wallpaper.

“Who was it?” Simon comes to the archway of the kitchen, leaning against the wall. You can’t hear anything cooking anymore so you assume he’s finished dinner.

“Victoria,” you spit the name out like it’s poisonous, “Says she wants to see you again and she had a fantastic time with you last time.”

Simon shifts where he stands, looking down at his feet before looking back up to you, “Alright. I’ll call her back later.”

That sends knives straight through your heart. It aches so badly that you want to bite your own tongue off to make it stop. 

Jealousy, you realize. You’re fucking jealous. Some girl calls and asks for his dick and he just says okay? 

He’s not yours, you tell yourself. He can fuck whoever he wants. 

But that does nothing to quell the inferno raging inside you. 

There’s other feelings brewing inside you; rejection, fear, loss.

You feel bitter that you’re right there and he would still never choose you. He’ll always choose someone else because he doesn’t see you like that. It feels like he’s throwing it in your face, just spitting at you to show you that he doesn’t love you like you love him. He never has and he never will. You’ll never be an option to him because he doesn’t want you.

Then you’re scared he’s going to leave you. He’s going to go to this Victoria chick and leave you all alone so he can get his dick wet again. Just like last time. Maybe he’ll like it so much he wants to stay with her. Maybe he’s going to leave you behind so he can start a new, happy life without having to worry about the dead weight that’s been dragging him down since he was 8. You. His responsibility. His problem. 

You’re so scared that he’s going to be ripped from your grasp. That you’re going to lose him to someone else and it’s going to be you and your pathetic one-sided love for the rest of your life. Fuck, you’ve loved him since you were 4. You’ve loved him for so long that it makes you nauseous to think about. How many people loved one person for this long? 

Please, you wanted to cry to him, please love me. 

Please, just love me back.

“So you’re gonna go then?’ you finally find your voice, bitterness and resentment thick in your tone, “You’re gonna leave me to go to a booty call again?”

He stands up straight at that. Arms cross over his chest, he watches that way you glare at him, heated and teary-eyed. Hurt. 

He knew you still weren’t over the way he left you that time – when you needed him the most. You’d been ignoring the residual hurt that lingered, intent on pretending that everything was fine. He had been doing his best to make up for it but it always felt like one step forward and two steps back with you. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures softly, “I’ll call her back to tell her that it won’t happen.”

He tries his best to remain level-headed and soft, to be reassuring like he knows you need. But your expression doesn’t change. You continue to glare at him with that furious, hurt look in your eyes. 

Suddenly, you stand. 

“I don’t believe you,” you hiss, turning your back to him, storming down the hallway. 

He almost winces when he hears how hard you slam the bedroom door. He thinks about going back there to talk to you but decides against it. You need some space to calm yourself down. 

He eats the dinner he made for both of you alone, putting your half in the fridge for later. He goes about the apartment, locking the door and turning out all the lights. Then he gets to the bedroom door and goes to turn the knob and it doesn’t budge. 

Despite himself, he laughs. He jiggles the knob, jerks the door a little harder like it’ll open with a bit of force. And it might, it’s a flimsy ass door if he’s being honest – he’s forced bigger and heavier doors open before. 

He snaps your name, humor gone from his voice. You don’t answer. 

“Open the damn door,” he snaps, trying the knob again. He gets silence in return so he slams his fist against the surface. The sound is loud enough that it makes his own ears ring, “I said open the door. I’m not playin’ this game with you, sweetheart.”

“Sleep on the couch, Simon!” he hears your wobbly voice call back. Of course you’re in there crying, he thinks.

“I’m not sleepin’ on the fuckin’ couch,” he hisses, leaning his forearm against the door, resting his head against it with a sigh, “Open the door and let’s talk.”

“Don’t wanna talk to you,” you whine, bratty as all hell. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so damn pissed, “Why don’t you go sleep with Victoria since you like her so much.”

You don’t know why you say that last part. You don’t want him to go to her, you don’t want him to go anywhere. The thought of it brings more tears to your eyes. 

Simon is silent on the other side of the door for a long while. You almost think he walked away and succumbed to the couch. You wouldn’t actually let him sleep on that awful thing, of course. You just…you don’t know what the end goal here is, if you’re honest.

“Fine,” he finally spits, “If that’s what you want, I’ll fuck off and find Victoria.”

You hear the floorboards creak under his weight as he walks away. You sit up straight in bed at that, eyes wide as you listen to him stalk through the house. You swear you hear the jingle of his keys and that’s what has you lurching out of bed in a panic.

You almost trip over the sheets as they tangle around your legs but you manage to free yourself and wrench the door open.

“Simon!” you practically shriek, rounding the corner of the hallway to find him standing with his back to you, facing the door.

He’s got his hoodie and mask on, boots firmly on his feet and keys in hand. He stands still, back straight as his shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. But he waits.

“Don’t go,” you find yourself whimpering, “‘M sorry. Come to bed, okay?”

He doesn’t move and that makes your heart pound in your chest. You know he’s pissed, can see it in the way his fists stay clenched at his sides. His fingers twitch and he makes a move for the doorknob and you surge forward, wrapping yourself around his other arm, yanking him away from the door as hard as you can. 

He lets your weight knock him off balance, lets you drag him away from the door. He lets you tug him down the hallway, sniffling and crying as you do. 

“J-Just…” you find yourself frantically tugging his mask off, tossing it away before you rip the hem of his hoodie up. He doesn’t help you or fight you as you try to take it off of him. He just stares blankly at you, like he’s assessing you. You hate it. “G-Get ready for bed, okay? Just…we can go to sleep.”

“Why do you make this so fuckin’ hard for me?” he finally breaks his silence, the question cold and calculating. Like he’s tired. Exhausted, “I keep tryin’ to make it up to you. But every time something goes wrong, you throw everything back in my face and you act like you hate me again. I can’t keep…” he trails off, shaking his head before he sits at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together and head hanging between his shoulders.

“I love you,” you blurt out, a sob breaking out of your lips as you do. Simon doesn’t move. Your hands cover your eyes, as if being blind to his reaction will make the rejection hurt less, “I love you and i-it just keeps messing me up inside. I’m sorry.”

“You love me?” he asks, still no emotion in his voice. 

When you peek at him, he’s in the same position as before, hands clasped, elbows on his knees, head bowed. You have no idea what expression he’s wearing and you’re scared to find out.

“Yes,” you hiccup, sniffling softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks softly, almost solemnly.

“I promised,” you cry, another choked sob escaping you. 

“Promised..?” he doesn’t sound cold anymore, just confused, “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

“W-When I was 14,” you whimper, shame filling you as you recall your now-broken promise, “I-I told you I liked you and you said you didn’t feel the same. You told me to never bring it up again and I promised I wouldn’t. B-But…” you sobbed again, stopping yourself from finishing the sentence.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he breathes, bringing his hands to his face, scrubbing them up and down vigorously in a way that looks like it hurts. Then he laughs. 

He fucking laughs. 

It’s like your worst fears come to light. He’s laughing at you, at your confession. At your feelings. A fresh wave of tears fill your eyes and fall down your cheeks. You bite your lips to keep from making your sobs audible anymore. You didn’t want him to laugh at that too. You hang your head, wringing your hands together behind your back anxiously as Simon quiets down. 

“Shit,” he breathes, getting to his feet. He stands before you, cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. He frowns when he sees the utter despair on your face, the heartbreak in your eyes, “No, baby. No, no. I wasn’t laughin’ at you.”

Baby. You catch onto it. He’s never called you that before. 

You dash the spark of hope that it causes. 

He rubs his thumbs under your eyes, wiping the tears away. 

Then, he leans forward and slots his lips against yours. 

It’s like fireworks explode in your chest. Your heart races so fast that you feel lightheaded. You can’t even respond to the kiss in time before he pulls away, your mind is moving too fast for you to process any meaningful thought. But he kissed you. 

Simon kissed you.

“What?” you finally manage to whisper, looking up with wide, shocked eyes, “Why did you..?”

He looks confused for a second, still cupping your cheeks as he looks into your watery eyes, “You really have no idea?” Your brows furrow immediately and you shake your head, “How I feel about you?”

“You feel..?” you dumbly repeat. 

He smiles softly, thumb rubbing softly over your cheekbone, “You really think I don’t feel the same?”

“B-But when…when we were kids I…” you stumble over your words, the truth you’ve believed this entire time seemingly false, “You s-said you didn’t feel the same.”

“Jesus, love,” he huffs softly in disbelief, “You were fourteen. I was seventeen. You were way too fuckin’ young for me, it wouldn’t have been right.”

“B-But then…” you stutter, reaching up to wipe your cheek, “When did you..?”

He shrugs, “Not sure exactly. Suppose sometime after you turned 20 was when I realized I felt somethin’ for you.”

“So you really…” you whisper, snagging your hands into his hoodie to pull him close, “You really…I mean…”

“Love you?” he smiles softly, “Of course I do.”

You lean forward and press your lips to his. He hums, wrapping one strong arm around your middle to pull you even closer. His lips work magically over yours, taking control of the kiss with ease. You easily melt into it, following his lead. It’s not as easy as you thought it would be and you hope Simon doesn’t notice. 

But he does, of course he does. 

He pulls away and smooths the palm of his hand down your cheek before it comes to rest on your jaw. His thumb slides over your bottom lip and he hums.

“You ever kissed before?” he asks, voice calm and level with no teasing to it at all.

Still, heat explodes all over your face. Embarrassment overrides the euphoria of your requited feelings. You try to pull away but Simon’s much stronger and he won’t let go unless he wants to. 

“Hey, don’t run,” he coos softly, turning your face to look back up at him, “I was just askin’.”

“No,” you mumble, still burning with embarrassment, “I-I’ve only ever liked you so…”

“Fuckin’ hell…” he whispers, letting you step back just a bit so he can look over you, “Is that right?”

“You should know that,” you mumble, feeling small under his scrutiny, “You know everything about me.”

“Didn’t think datin’ history was somethin’ you felt like sharin’,” he shrugged off.

“Well, now you know,” you mutter, your gaze glued to the floor.

“That I do,” he hums in agreement, reaching out to brush a hand down the length of your arm. 

A soft, quietness falls over the two of you. You’re not sure what to do and it seems he’s content where he is. He’s watching you, tracking every little shift and fidget you make until he finally seems to take pity on you.

“Let’s get to bed,” he says softly, giving you a soft nudge towards the bed. 

You take the opportunity to dive into bed, yanking the blanket over you as Simon strips himself out of his boots and hoodie. You go to look away as he yanks his belt free with practiced hands but you can’t seem to. He slips the belt out of the loops and drops it on the dresser before unbuttoning his jeans and slipping them off. 

Your mouth waters at the sight of him in a tight pair of navy boxer-briefs slung low on his hips. You can make out the shape of his–

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he mumbles half-heartedly as he turns to root through the dresser to find some sweatpants. 

“Sorry…” you mutter shamefully at being caught. 

He chuckles under his breath, pulling the sweats on before he rounds to his side of the bed and drops onto the mattress, “Nothin’ to be sorry about.”

He leans over you and turns out the tableside lamp. Then he settles into his pillow with a soft sigh.

“Si..?” you whisper.

“Yeah?” you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Are we um…” you clear your throat, “I mean like…are we…together now..?”

You feel him roll over and toss his arms around you. You squeak when he tugs you towards him roughly, securing you against his chest before he kisses the top of your head.

“Do you want to be together?” he asks, muffled by his lips pressed against you. 

“Yes,” you whisper quickly, wrapping yourself around him almost possessively.

He tilts your head up and carefully slots his mouth over yours again. You sigh happily at the feeling. 

You notice that he keeps it a lot slower than he had before, moving his lips carefully against yours. Like he’s trying to make it easier for you to keep up. It makes your cheeks flush again but you sink into the pillow and let him kiss all he wants as you do your best to match his movements. 

His body shifts, torso hovering over you as he rests his weight on his elbows on either side of your head. Your hands rest against his shoulders and simply get lost in the kiss. 

After a moment, he deepens the kiss, sinking into you with his chest pressed against yours. You whimper and wrap your arms around his neck, carding your fingers through his cropped hair. 

One of his hands moves, coming to grip your waist, fingers sliding up the hem of your shirt. It’s like a dream come true. Literally. 

All those nights you spent with your hand between your thighs, thinking of him. Thinking of him touching you like this – with his hand sliding your shirt up a little further every second. You even feel that familiar wetness soaking your panties.

Then why was your heart racing from anxiety instead of excitement? Why did you feel a fearful tremble setting in your thighs, as if your knees would be knocking together if you were standing. Why were you scared?

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving your hands against his chest with a weak, “No!”

Simon is off of you in seconds but you can feel his gaze on you in the darkness. You struggle to catch your breath as you lay there, heart pounding in your ears. Your head hurts, you realize with a wince.

“Um…” you find yourself attempting to appease him, “I-I don’t…I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s alright,” he whispers sincerely, settling down into bed with a content hum, “Nothin’ to worry about, love.”

You scoot closer to him and hesitantly place your head on his chest. Simon’s arm wraps around your back and tucks you even more snug against him. You close your eyes and will yourself to relax and sleep as you feel Simon’s comforting hand rubbing your back. 

Neither of you talk about it in the morning. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. You don’t bring it up, even though you want to, and Simon doesn’t try touching you like that again. Part of you wants him to, you’ve been dreaming about his touch for years but once you finally get it, you freak out?

You can’t stop beating yourself up over it. 

But then you think about the anxiety that it had caused. The apprehension. How uncomfortable it felt – how you wanted his hands off of you. 

You sighed, flopping onto your side on the couch where you sat. Your mind was buzzing annoyingly from your thoughts. 

Regardless of your problems, you were happier than ever with him. He was finally yours. Wholly and truly yours. It was bliss. 

“Got a call,” Simon says, snapping you out of your daze, “Gotta leave.”

That makes you sit up, “Leave?”

You finally notice that he’s got his bag packed – the one he only takes when he’s getting deployed. You’re on your feet in seconds, following him to the door. He’s wearing his skull balaclava so all you can see are his eyes – sad, apologetic.

“H-How long?” you ask, unable to ignore the ache in your chest as you watch him.

“Few weeks, probably,” he mutters, placing the bag down so he can tuck his feet into his boots.

He straightens up with a grunt before turning to you. He sighs, gloved hands cupping your cheeks when he sees how sad you look – like a kicked puppy. You wish you could feel his bare hands on you but can’t find it in you to ask. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you find yourself mumbling.

It’s selfish and even a bit cruel of you to voice that desire. Simon’s thumb strokes your cheek in that sweet way he always does and you melt into him. He lets you thump your head against his chest as you suppress your cries, biting your lip so you can keep your tears at bay. 

“I know,” he softly whispers, stroking your back as you cling to him, “I know, but I have to.”

“I know,” you mumble, finally looking up at him. You know your eyes are glassy and you make sure to blink back the tears so they never overflow, “Just be safe and come home, okay?”

He lifts his mask up just enough to expose his lips before he leans down to kiss you. It’s a whole body experience this time. He clutches you against him like his life depends on it, gloved hands fiercely gripping the back of your t-shirt. His lips move smoothly against yours, hand coming up to cup your jaw so he can tilt your head and pull you even deeper into his kiss. He pulls away when he needs to breathe, smiling when he sees the dazed, lovesick expression on your face. He tugs his mask down and lets you go but you stay as close to him as possible. 

“Make sure you stay warm,” he coos, “Gonna start gettin’ real cold in a couple days.”

“I will, Si,” you assure him.

“Left some cash for you to do your shoppin’,” he adds, “I know you’re a shit cook but I left a list of some easy recipes. Don’t burn the flat down.”

You snort and playfully smack his shoulder, “I’ll just buy some cup noodles in that case.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your side to make you gasp from the ticklish feeling, “Don’t even think about it.”

Your grin falters when his phone makes that obnoxious beeping noise that lets you know it’s something urgent. He sighs, the tranquil happiness between you two broken immediately. He kisses your forehead through his mask and pulls the front door open.

“Keep this locked,” he mutters, stepping past the threshold, “I’ll be home soon.”

He closes the door and you’re left with an emptiness that overcomes you. You’ve always been scared for him when he has to go off on missions – you know that his job is extremely dangerous and he could lose his life at any moment. That thought alone makes a nauseous pit settle in your stomach. You push down the feeling of bile rising in the back of your throat and click the lock on the door with a sigh before you go about your day, trying your best to keep your mind off of him and where he might be in the world. 

True to his word, however, the temperature drops bitterly cold within 2 days after he leaves. There had already been a chill in the air that drove you to turn the heating on just a bit but now it was full blast. But now, it was dipping to freezing and you were anticipating the arrival of snow soon enough as well. 

You wake up one morning, however, and your apartment is bitterly cold. You sit up, confused before climbing out of bed. Your feet are immediately freezing as you step onto the floor. You hiss, wrapping your arms around yourself as you stumble over to the radiator in your room. You touch it and find absolutely no heat emanating from it. 

All the radiators are the same. Absolutely no heat. 

You curse, realizing you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. You curl up on the couch under a heavy throw blanket as you type with bitterly cold fingers into Google, looking for anything that can help you. But it’s to no avail. You can’t understand a thing. 

Your next thought is to call the building manager but you know that’s pointless. The useless man never actually helps with any work for his tenants. 

There’s no way in hell that you can afford to call someone to come and fix the problem. You have money for groceries but if you spent that you wouldn’t have anything to eat. You sigh, resolving yourself to bundling up and trying to stay as warm as you can. 

You pile all the blankets you have into bed and pick out only your thickest, warmest sweaters. 

This is going to be miserable, you think. 

The snow comes just a short week later and it feels even colder. You venture out of your flat to go to the grocery store, picking up ingredients for the dishes Simon wrote down for you and also some cans of soup that you can cook to stay warm. You also throw some boxes of tea and some hot chocolate in with it, figuring why not. Warm drinks will help. 

It’s almost 3 weeks of living like that. It’s miserable and makes your bones ache from how stiff the cold makes you feel. You make sure to eat nice, hot food to keep yourself warm and make frequent cups of warm drinks so you can keep your hands warm for as long as you can. You do your best. 

The worst is showers, though. When you’re standing under the blisteringly hot spray, it’s bliss. But the second you step out and your wet body is hit with the freezing air, you couldn’t have felt more miserable. 

The night Simon walks through the door, he finds you bundled up on the couch sipping a cup of hot chocolate. 

“Simon!” you gasp excitedly, tossing the blankets off to take a running leap at him. 

He huffs contentedly when he catches you in his arms, letting you embrace him for as long as you need. He strips his mask off and brings you in for a delicate kiss.

“Let me wash up,” he mumbles, stalking through the apartment.

“Um, before you do, Si,” you catch him at the entrance to the hallway. He turns to you and looks at you with a brow raised, “The um…heating is broken so…just letting you know when you come out of the shower it’s gonna suck.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before,” he mutters and pauses, “The fuck you mean it’s broken?”

“Heating cut off a few weeks ago…” you shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself as you start to feel the cold creep in again.

“A few weeks ago?” he hisses, running a stressed hand through his hair, “Fuckin’ hell. You didn’t call someone to fix it?”

You pout as he raises his voice, clearly frustrated, “I couldn’t afford it, Si! I had the money you gave me for food but I wasn’t gonna spend that to get the heating fixed. You know the building manager is a piece of shit, not like he was gonna call someone.”

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, seemingly thinking something over. Then he turns on his heel and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door.

“I’m sorry, Simon!” you call through the door, “I didn’t know what else to do! Please, don’t be mad.”

The shower turns on and all you can do is look up and sigh in exasperation. The second he’s home and he’s already pissed at you. 

You sulk over to the couch and flop down, tossing your blankets over you as you grab your mug. The hot chocolate is still warm but not as hot as it was. It’ll have to do.

Simon comes out of the shower, gets dressed warmly, and joins you in the living room. He doesn’t even look at you as he makes a move for his bag that he left by the door. You almost think he’s going to scoop the bag up and storm out the door. You sit up, ready to stop him but instead, he stoops down and zips it open. He pulls out his wallet and approaches you. 

“What are you doing?” you mumble, watching him flip the thing open.

It’s old and worn, a simple black leather wallet. He’s had it for as long as you could remember and you’ve put the poor thing through the washer and dryer so many times that you’re shocked it's still intact. 

He pulls out a bank card and promptly hands it to you. Your brain stutters to a stop as you look at it.

“Take it, fuck sake,” he mutters. He sounds annoyed but the way he looks away and his ears turn pink you can tell he’s…shy. 

Simon Riley is fucking shy right now.

You take the bank card out of his hand and look at it, flipping over in your hands, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“So you can use it,” he mumbles, slamming his wallet shut and tossing it onto the table, “That way, in case anything happens you can withdraw from my account for what you need. If an emergency happens and I’m not around, use it.”

“Simon…” you mumble, looking up at him, “Are you sure..?”

“Course I’m sure,” he scoffs, taking a seat beside you before softly rattling off four digits.

“Huh?” you dumbly ask.

“It’s my pin,” he responds, grabbing one of the blankets you have piled on the couch and tossing it on his lap.

“That’s my birthday…” you say softly as you repeat the numbers over and over in your head, “Your bank pin is my birthday?”

He snatches the remote up from the table and turns the TV on without another word. But you can see how pink the tips of his ears are. It makes you beam and before you know it, you’re curling snugly into his side. 

“Love you, Si,” you whisper, earning a kiss to the top of your head in response.

Simon calls the next morning to have someone come by and fix the damn heating. You listen to the man rattle off some information to Simon about what the problem was but it makes virtually no sense to you so you resolve yourself to sitting on the couch and waiting until it’s warm again. 

But even when it’s nice and toasty inside, you still plaster yourself to Simon’s side, snuggling as close to him as you possibly can.

“I want you to meet my team,” Simon says one morning while he’s making some eggs. 

You’re standing by the toaster, waiting for it to pop up but his words make you turn to him, “You mean 141?”

“Who else?” he huffs, flipping one of the eggs. It sizzles loudly in the pan, “They wanted me to go out with them tonight. Thought you could join us.”

“Really?” you realize how incredulous you sound and then try again, “I mean really? That’s okay with you?”

He nods, plating the eggs, “I think it’s time they met you.”

“I-I’d love to,” you say, unable to hide the excitement you feel. 

You catch a slip of a smile on Simon’s face before the toast pops up and distracts you. 

You have to dig into your closet that evening, after a shower, to find something nice to wear. You figure an occasion like this calls for something a little nicer than just jeans and a t-shirt like you usually wear. But you can’t find much of anything. 

“What’re you huffin’ about in  here?” Simon asks when he walks in, towel wrapped around his waist. He’s still dripping wet from the shower and you can feel the way your mouth fills with saliva at the sight. 

“I uh…don’t know what to wear…” you respond, turning your back to him just as he slips the towel off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, imagining Simon completely naked behind you.

“Wear those nice jeans you got,” he mumbles, grunting as he gets himself dressed, “And that little blue top you got.”

“The cropped one?” you ask incredulously, a brow raised as you turn to him. He’s got some jeans on now and he’s meticulously unfolding a black t-shirt so he can put it on, “I haven’t worn that in a while, how’d you even remember it?”

He shrugs, the muscles in his back rippling with his movement before he tosses the shirt over his head and pulls it down, covering his skin once again, “It’s cute. We’re just goin’ to the pub, love.”

“Okay,” you mumble, reaching into the back of your closet to pull the little shirt out, “If you’re sure this will be okay.”

“I’m sure,” he chuckles softly, grabbing his balaclava off the dresser. But he doesn’t put it on yet. Instead, he sits on the bed and watches you change.

You’re acutely aware of his eyes on you as you strip your shirt off. You keep your back to him, trying to ignore your racing heart. You don’t feel uncomfortable at all, instead you feel…excited. 

Your mind runs wild, imagining him stepping up behind you, kissing your neck and cupping your bare breasts in his big hands. They’re a little rough from his line of work and you wonder what they’d feel like against the sensitive skin of your tits, thumbing your nipples and pinching them a little meanly. 

“C-Can you hand me a bra?” you find yourself asking.

He grunts in acknowledgement and the bed creaks when his weight moves off it. He opens one of the drawers and is behind you in a second. His body heat permeates through his shirt as he presses his chest against your back. 

He slings your bra over your shoulder, holding it with one finger by the strap. You can’t help but tilt your head back to look up at him. He’s towering over you, pretty, brown eyes looking down his nose at you. 

You realize in this position, he could clearly see your breasts but he keeps his eyes on yours. You take the bra from him and he lets you, simply staring into your eyes with that stern silence he has about him.

“T-Thanks…” you find yourself whispering, mouth feeling particularly dry.

He grunts, lips quirked up just a bit before he turns his back and walks back to the bed. You let out a quiet, slow breath, willing your heart rate to go back to normal.

Simon was so exhilarating. Just being around him sets your heart racing and fingers trembling. 

You put your bra on and slip your top over your head, ignoring the sticky feeling in your panties as you do. 

“I don’t know, Si,” you mutter, turning to face him, “I-It’s a little tight on me now.”

The fabric once hugged you nicely but now it was snug. It molded around your breasts, even showing the lines of your bra. The neckline was low, giving a good show of cleavage – it didn’t help that Simon picked one of your more well padded bras. 

Simon looks up, his eyes immediately falling to your breasts. He sucks in a quick breath and looks away, licking his lips.

“Looks fine,” he mutters, standing to pull one of the drawers open again. He searches for a second, brows furrowed until he pulls out the jeans he was talking about. The ‘nice jeans’ as he called them, were just some low rise jeans you’d only worn about 4 times.

You look dumbly at them as he drops them into your hands.

“These?” you scoff, “Simon, I can’t–”

He quiets you with a kiss to your forehead, “Trust me, love.”

He steps out of the room after that, leaving you to your own devices. You’re thankful that you can change your panties without him seeing how saturated and sticky they’ve become because of him. You bury them in the laundry basket and remind yourself that you should do the laundry before he does because you’d be mortified if he found them. 

You don’t even look at yourself in the mirror, afraid you’ll feel too self-conscious if you see what you look like. But you trust Simon’s judgment on what he thinks would look good on you – and you can’t deny that dressing up how he likes feels nice. 

You step into the living room, intent on pulling your shoes on when Simon catches you with an arm around your waist. You gasp as he turns you to face him.

“You look lovely,” he whispers, smoothing his hands up your sides, thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt to stroke your skin.

You swallow thickly as your heart starts racing in your chest again. He leans down and pecks your lips but pulls back before you have the chance to kiss back. 

“Let’s go,” is all he adds before walking away, leaving you no choice but to follow like the lovesick puppy you are. 

Walking into the bar, your heart pounds painfully in your chest from pure anxiety. Your hand is clasped tightly in Simon’s as he easily moves through the crowd. You suppose his height makes it easy to see over people. 

“You alright?” he asks, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Haven’t been in a bar since I worked at…” you trail off, giving him a half-hearted shrug.

“If you wanna leave, just say the word,” he mutters, giving your hand a squeeze.

“N-No,” you shake your head, shooting him a wobbly smile,”I wanna meet your team at least.”

He smiles reassuringly and gives your hand a tug to encourage you to follow him. He leads you right to a table situated in a corner, three men laughing and drinking. 

“There he is!” the one with the mohawk cheeks, holding up his pint in celebration.

“Shut up, Soap,” Simon grumbles petulantly as he pulls out a chair for you.

Soap, you note to yourself. You know them by name but you’ve never actually seen the faces to put to them. Soap looks like you imagined, a broad grin and pretty, bright eyes – you imagined them green but they’re blue. 

“And who is this lovely companion of yours, Simon?” an older man with a hat and mutton chops asks with a kind smile, eyes on you.

Simon says your name before he sits down with a grunt beside you.

“Price,” your boyfriend supplies when you look curiously at him.

The man in question holds out a hand which you take and softly shake, “Nice to meet you.”

“Had no idea Lt. had someone waitin’ for him at home,” Soap says, a teasing lilt in his voice. 

So you’ve met Soap, Price, and that leaves; your eyes land on the quiet guy sitting back in his chair, a cool smile on his lips. He meets your gaze and his smile broadens – not teasing like Soap’s but purely kind.

“You can call me Kyle,” he gives you a polite nod.

“Gaz, then?” you question, tilting your head to the side. Kyle looks surprised, eyes flicking to Simon who shifts uncomfortably in his chair, “He’s talked about all of you before. I only know your call signs though.”

“John will do fine if you’d like,” Price says, tipping his beer back to take a chug.

“Simon calls me Johnny,” Soap adds, “You’re welcome to as well. Anyone important to the Lieutenant is important to us.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Simon roll his eyes. It makes you smile. He leans over, nudging you with his knee, “You want anything to drink? I need one.”

“No thank you, Si,” you reply, intent on having a clear head for the night. You’ve never been much of a drinker anyway. 

When Simon’s gone from the table, you suddenly feel incredibly out of place. Price and Kyle have the decency to not stare you down but Soap seems keen on keeping his baby blue’s right on you and a goofy little smile on his face.

“Um…” you shift uncomfortably as you look back at him.

“We’ve never gotten to meet anyone from Ghost’s private life before,” Soap says, saving you from having to think of what to say, “Just shocked s’all.” 

“You’re gonna start giving the poor thing the creeps with your ugly mug,” Kyle chuckles which also makes Soap laugh.

“Sorry about that,” Soap lifts his glass and cheers to you before tipping it back. 

He grimaces slightly as it goes down before slamming his glass back on the table.

“It’s alright,” you respond, “Si’s not really the open book kind. So I understand.”

“How long have the two of you known each other?” Kyle asks.

You find yourself wondering where the hell Simon even is but answer regardless, “Since we were kids. Um, we lived next door. His mom and mine were friends, I guess.”

Soap nods his head, elbows on the table as he gives you his full attention, “You guess?”

You hum, “I’m 3 years younger than Simon. The way it was told to me by my mom is that…his mom came over and,” you couldn’t fight back the smile as you recalled the story.

“Oh this has got to be good,” Soap nudged Kyle excitedly at your grin.

“Told my mom that Simon didn’t have any friends and that he was a…soft-hearted boy and she wanted him to have some friends,” you giggle, holding a hand in front of your face to hide your laughter, “So she wanted to set up playdates with me even though I was still a baby. My mom didn’t have the heart to tell her no.”

Soap tosses his head back and laughs, “No fuckin’ way.”

“I’m shocked to say it but that actually makes him sound cute,” Kyle adds, unable to hide the laughter in his voice either.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Price says, but there’s a smile on his face, “Simon’ll knock you out cold on this table.”

“So you and Simon have been together since?” Kyle asks, glass cupped in both hands.

You nod, “Only time we’ve been apart is when he enlisted and had to go off for a few years to train.”

Soap opens his mouth to say something but a large figure finally drops down into the seat next to you. Simon has a glass of bourbon and a glass that he slides over to Soap who catches it with ease.

“Thanks, Lt,” he nods, taking a sip before making that disgusted face again.

“What are you lot talkin’ about?” Simon asks, drumming his fingers against his glass.

“We were discussin’ all your dirty secrets,” Kyle teases with a charming grin.

“Nothin’ too damning I hope,” Simon huffs before he takes a large gulp of his drink. 

The other three men all hide their grins behind their glasses. 

The anxiety you had felt at the beginning of the night is long gone. The task force is full of jokes and laughs and even Simon seems like a different person. 

With you, he’s kind and even soft. He’s by no means gentle or patient. 

But this side of Simon is so jovial and comfortable that it warms your heart to see. He drinks a few glasses and by the end of the night, he’s got a relaxed, lidded look in his eyes that lets you know he’s got a bit of a buzz going on. 

“It was lovely to meet you,” Price says when you all walk out of the bar.

“I really enjoyed meeting all of you as well,” you smile, letting Simon tuck you into his side with an arm wrapped around your waist.

“Get him home safe,” Soap teases, your smile only widening when you hear Simon huff in annoyance. 

You bid goodbye to the three of them and make your way to the car with Simon, plucking his keys out of his hand and forcing him into the passenger seat despite his grumbled protests of how ‘he’s not that drunk’.

When the two of you finally get into your apartment, you let him lock up and turn out the lights while you go to the bedroom and get ready for bed. 

“You looked really nice tonight,” Simon mutters when he finally walks in as you crawl into bed, “I’m glad you liked them.”

“I’m glad they liked me,” you huff, leaning back into the pillows, “They were all really nice guys.”

“Yeah,” Simon hums, tugging his shirt off of his head, taking his mask with it, “They’re good people.”

You nod your head and tuck your knees to your chest while he gets undressed. He slips on a plaid pair of pajama pants and shoves the drawer closed with his hip before yanking the blanket back to make room for his large body. 

You bounce a little on the bed when he drops his weight onto it. He smacks his pillow a couple times before he lays back and sighs. It’s clear he’s still a little buzzed from the way he fights to keep his eyes open.

“Simon?” you ask, turning to face him. 

That makes his eyes open back up before he looks at you, “What?”

“Can I kiss you?” you ask. 

He snorts and it makes you smile. He reaches out and wraps his hand around the back of your head. You let him tug you down, pressing your hands against his firm chest as you kiss him. 

His hand travels down your back as he sighs into your mouth. You pull away briefly to look into his eyes before you kiss him again, this time deepening it as much as you’re able. Simon sighs contentedly, his other hand coming up to caress your arm. 

“I like kissin’ you…” you find yourself whispering against his lips.

He groans at that, the sound going straight to your core. You feel yourself clench around nothing, already starting to leak into your panties. 

“Yeah?” he coos, cupping your cheek, thumbing over your lips, “You can kiss me all you want, love.”

You whimper, surging down to kiss him again. His hands grip your waist, intermittently squeezing you, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Suddenly, you feel the warm, slick slide of his tongue against your lips. You whimper and pull back, brows furrowed.

“Shh, love,” he coos, pulling you close again, “Jus’ relax and let me…”

You huff, struggling to catch your breath as he urges you to meet his lips again. You feel his tongue again and eagerly open your mouth, letting him taste the inside of your mouth. You shyly meet his tongue with yours and feel his grip on your waist tighten as he groans in his throat. 

You’re sure you’ve soaked well through your panties by now. There’s an ache in your clit that you long to reach down and relieve – or better yet, have Simon relieve. 

You bet his fingers would feel so damn good against you. You find yourself whimpering into the kiss at the thought alone. Simon lets out a husky laugh into your mouth before pulling away. 

A string of spit connects your lips before it breaks and vanishes. 

With a surge of confidence, you toss your leg over his waist. He grunts when your weight settles on his hips, on his cock. It’s chubbed up against his thigh from kissing you and he knows you can feel it. 

“What’re you doin’, baby?” he huffs, unable to stop his hands from traveling up the front of your body. 

You grab his wrist and boldly slide it under the hem of your shirt. He bites his lip to keep from moaning when he feels your bare breast fill his palm. You see the way his eyes start to roll back before he looks at you again. It makes you throb in your panties and you can’t resist grinding against him a little before he grabs your waist and stops you.

“Si…” you whimper, pressing your hands against his chest, “‘S wrong?”

“Can’t,” he clears his throat and sinks into the bed, “Can’t do this, love.”

“Why not?” you ask, feeling a pit of disappointment in your gut, “You don’t want to? I just thought…”

You feel your face burn with humiliation as you slide off of his lap. Simon lets you, simply laying there on his back, eyes closed and a knit between his brows, as he evens his breathing out. You fight back tears as you sit there, biting the inside of your lip anxiously. 

“Not…not tonight, sweetheart,” he finally says, reaching over to pet your hair, “Been drinkin’ ‘nd I want to be sober for it, yeah?”

It would have been a solid excuse if it didn’t sound so flimsy coming from his lips. Like he doesn’t even believe it himself. 

“Yeah…” you offer, giving him a wobbly smile before turning out the light. 

You’re too embarrassed to cuddle into him that night. 

“Can I ask you something?” you find yourself muttering as you relax on the couch with him, watching some old movie he picked out, “As long as you promise not to get mad.”

He snorts, taking a sip of his tea, “Won’t get mad.”

“I just want to know…” you clear your throat and sit up straight a little more, going over the question in your head, “Why did you leave that night…leave like that, just to have sex?”

He tenses up immediately, you can feel it. He shifts where he sits, spreading his legs just a little wider so he can sink deeper into the couch, “We already talked about this.”

You wince at his clipped tone, knowing you’re stepping into dangerous territory, “I know but…I want to know the real reason.”

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth and sighs, keeping his eyes trained on the TV, “You think I was lyin’ to you?”

Now he sounds mad. You quickly shake your head, “No, Si. I-I’m not trying to start a fight, I swear. I don’t think you were lying. I just think you…weren’t telling me everything.”

He sighs. You can see the way his jaw ticks when he clenches it, “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, scooting a little closer to him, placing your hands on his chest, smoothing his shirt down a bit, “It was just…out of character for you, Si. I was really upset and you knew that. It wasn’t like you to just…leave. Just to get laid.”

He finally looks at you, just out of the corner of his eye. You meet the look, offering him an encouraging smile to show that you’re not upset or anything. 

“All night,” he finally mutters, “You’d been kickin’ in your sleep. Kept wakin’ me up.”

You nodded, a look of confusion on your face. You had no idea where this was going.

“You started sayin’ my name,'' he continued, “Moanin’ my name. Fuck, it was drivin’ me crazy.”

Your face flushes hot when you hear that. It all suddenly comes rushing back to you – what you’d been dreaming about. 

“You threw your leg over mine and I could–” he cuts himself off, his throat moving with how hard he swallows.

“Could what?” your voice comes out shockingly breathy. 

He catches it, looking at you. You can see the way his pupils widen immediately when he meets your gaze. It’s like he can see right through you, see the fact you’re dripping into your panties again. Just from this conversation alone. 

“I could feel how fuckin’ wet you were,” he brings a shaky hand up and runs it through his hair before he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “Couldn’t fuckin’ deal with it. I had to…let it out somehow.”

“So you knew that I wanted you…like that?” you find yourself asking.

He scoffs and shakes his head, “Didn’t think about it like that. Figured it was just a dream and that’s all it was.”

“Wasn’t just a dream,” you assure, scooting closer to him.

Simon’s breath catches in his throat when you lean over him, resting your hand on the arm rest on his other side, letting it support your weight. You stand on your knees, making you just a little taller than him before you lean down and kiss him. 

He remains completely still, like he’s processing. His hands flounder in the air for a second before he’s carefully pushing you to sit back down. You slump against your heels and look at him, perturbed.

“Why..?”

“I need to make dinner,” he says lamely. 

“Simon…” you admonish, knowing he’s lying. 

He gets up, knees cracking as he does. He winces a little bit before he bends down to pick up the blanket that fell to the floor when he stood. You kept your eyes on him, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. You almost let him go but before you can stop him, you grab his arm. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Simon,” you mutter, “I keep trying to make things go further with you but I just keep making a fool of myself and I–”

“‘S not you,” he assures softly, taking your hand in his, “‘S all me, baby.”

“So why…” you frown, “I want you.”

He shakes his head, “Night you told me how you felt. You sounded scared.” 

You remember, the way his touch had made anxiety fill you. You had wanted him, of course, but for some reason it had just been so damn awful at the same time. You hadn’t really dwelled on why that was. 

“It wasn’t ‘cause of you, Si,” you assured, shifting so your feet were on the floor rather than under you, “I promise. I-I was just nervous, I think. That’s all.”

“I don’t want…” he licks his lips, seemingly thinking over his next words carefully before he says them slowly, “I don’t to hear you sound like that with me again. ‘S why I’ve been avoidin’ it. ‘Cause I don’t want you to get scared again.”

You shake your head, rising to your feet, stepping in front of him. You take his hands in yours and squeeze them, “I don’t want to make a fool of myself with you, Simon.”

He frowns, “You know I would never think poorly of you.”

You smile and shrug, “I know that. I think…that time was just…too soon. After that night at the bar and everything that happened. And then the fact I’m so inexperienced that it’s laughable. I think…I just wasn’t ready for it. I needed to go at my own pace and I have been.”

“I don’t want you to push yourself,” he hums, “I know that night at the bar was terrifying,” he brings a hand up to brush over your cheek, “I understand if you’re not goin’ to be ready for a long time. It’s normal to not be ready after what happened to you.”

You huff, “I’ve been trying to show you that I’ve been ready for a while now, Si. I was anxious at first, yes. But now it’s…like a good kind of nervous.”

“A good kind of nervous?” he mutters, hands moving to your hips to pull you closer. Your breath hitches in your throat and you nod dumbly, “Tell me all about it.”

“L-Like my heart races,” you breathe, “And I feel scared that I’m gonna do something silly and embarrassing but like I want to learn and…and I want to do good for you.”

“Fuck,” Simon groans, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder, “Can’t say shit like that to a man like me, love.”

“Why not?” you whimper, feeling your knees tremble in excitement when you feel his hands start to wander.

“‘Cause…” he whispers, running his hands up your sides, “Makes me think some nasty shit, sweetheart.”

You swallow thickly at the promise in his voice, “Simon…” 

You sound so wrecked already and it makes him moan softly in your ear, “Tell me about it, baby.”

Just like that, you’re spilling your guts to him, “Get so wet for you, Si, all the time. I want you so bad that it hurts.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, finally pulling his head from where he was hiding in your shoulder, tilting your chin up, “Where’s it hurt, baby? Hm? Right in that needy little cunt?”

You whimper immediately, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes and nod, “T-Tried to touch myself. Thinkin’ about you made it hurt so I couldn’t help myself. Thought about you when I did.”

He hums as you babble to him but his mind latches onto one particular word, “Tried, baby? What do you mean "tried?”

Your cheeks burn hot at the slip up. Would he think you were silly for it?

“C-Can’t do it right,” you confess softly, hoping he doesn’t see how embarrassed you are, “Try so hard but n-nothin’ ever happens.”

Simon moans at that. Loud and unbridled, “What’re you sayin’, baby? That you can’t make yourself cum, s’that it?” You shake your head bashfully, “Fuckin’ hell. That’s adorable.”

“D-Don’t tease me, Si,” you whimper but the seat of your panties is so fucking wet that it’s sticking to you. 

He hums, a predatory smile spreads across his face, “Am I bein’ mean, love?” You nod your head, tearfully staring up at him. It only makes his smile widen, canines popping out, “‘M sorry. Can’t help myself when you tell me ‘bout how you touch your pretty little pussy and just can’t make yourself cum like you need. Think I can do it for you, hm? Want me to try and make you cum?”

You vigorously nod your head, uncaring how fucking needy you look to him. He’s offering to give you what you’ve wanted for years – to give you a real, honest to God orgasm. And you weren’t going to let this chance slip away. 

“Want you on the bed,” he suddenly whispers, “On your back, lose the pants but keep everything else on.”

With a jerk of his head in the direction of the bedroom, you take off. You hear him chuckle behind you at your excitement. He makes sure the door is locked before he heads back to the bedroom. 

You’re there just like he asked, pants pooled on the floor, leaving you in nothing but an old t-shirt of his and a pair of the cutest little lilac colored panties he’s seen. You’ve got your knees pinned together, clenching your thighs but laying perfectly still in waiting for him. 

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he praises, grinning when you whimper and tremble at his words, “Oh, sweet thing likes to be praised, huh?”

You nod your head, “Wanna be good for you, Si.”

“That’s sweet, baby,” he coos, reaching to the back of his collar so he can tug his shirt off of his head. 

Your heart hammers away in your chest when he crawls onto the bed, hands on either side of your head. He looks so big like this, on top of you, completely blocking any view you had of your ceiling and instead filling your viewline with just him. He leans down and kisses you, humming contentedly when you eagerly kiss back. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as he uses one hand to tug your legs open so he can slot himself between them. 

You cry out when he presses himself against your core. He’s wearing nothing but his jeans but you can feel the heat radiating through the thick material. 

“Shit, look at that,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels to admire the nice little wet patch that has stained your panties, “You already this wet, baby?”

“Kissin’ you always makes me this wet, Si,” you sweetly confess and oh, you are just so precious. 

His hands slide up your stomach, moving your t-shirt up and up until it sits crumpled under your chin. Your tits are bare and move with every gasping breath that you take. 

Simon’s hands are just as rough and warm as you’d expect them to be. His thumbs come up and glide over your nipples until they harden into stiff little peaks for him. 

Then his mouth is wrapping around one, swirling his tongue around it before pulling off with a lewd pop. His hand pinches the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he listens to you whimper and sigh. 

“Please, Si,” you whine, “I-It hurts, please.”

“It hurts?” he hums, leaving a fleeting kiss against the nipple his tongue was torturing just a moment ago, “Where? Hm?”

His hand travels down your body, cupping your cunt through your panties. You gasp, arching your hips just a bit to grind against his palm. He lets you, before he meanly pins your hips down with his other hand. 

“Where, love?” he smooths the pad of his thumb over the seam of your cunt through your panties. The fabric is saturated with your slick, letting him see every part of you through shape alone. His thumb finds your clit, the little bud poking out through the fabric from how hard and swollen it's become, “Here? ‘S it your pretty clit that hurts, love?”

You nod, eyes rolling back in your head when he presses his thumb against the bud, trapping it under his finger so he can roll mean little circles over it. You’d be mindlessly rutting your hips by now if he didn’t have his other arm slung over your hips to keep you pinned nice and still like he wants. 

It already feels so different than when you touched yourself. Maybe because it’s him or maybe because he’s so experienced. 

That thought makes you equal parts jealous and equal parts turned on. He’d slept with plenty of people but now he was using that expertise to make you feel good. 

“Can you take them off, please?” you whine, pitchy and sweet from arousal. 

“Asked so sweetly for me,” he coos, hitching his thumbs into the band of your panties before giving them a firm tug. 

You quickly lift your hips, letting him tug them down and off of your feet. You expect him to toss them away but instead he holds them up, thumbing over the slickness in the crotch. You watch him with wide eyes as he analyzes it. Your  breath hitches when he suddenly brings them towards his face and licks a wide stripe of the fabric, moaning when he gets a good laste of your syrupy sweet slick.

“Simon!” you gasp – admonish, leaning up to snatch them out of his grasp. 

His eyes open, he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, to look at you. He licks his lips like a dog licking its chops when it tastes something real delicious. 

He doesn’t even comment on what he just did or the pure embarrassment that is written all over your face. Instead, he grips underneath your knees and yanks you down the bed towards him so your hips are situated in his lap. 

“Jus’ let me touch you, love,” he whispers, “I’ll work a nice little orgasm out of you in no time, yeah?”

You nod your head because you trust him. You know he’s going to be able to give you what you need so badly. You don’t even question it – especially when you feel how good it feels when he uses his thumbs to spread your folds open for him. He groans when he sees the sticky strings of slick that display just how turned on you are. 

Pretty little hole clenching sporadically around nothing, dribbling more creamy arousal that makes his tongue feel like lead in his mouth. A pretty clit that twitches and throbs under his scrutinizing gaze. But you make no move to cover yourself and hide from his gaze. 

He finally touches the bud directly and it’s like electricity strikes through you. You lose control of your body as your back arches and your thighs violently twitch. Your cheeks burn when you hear him chuckle softly at your reaction.

“Sensitive,” he huffs, a crooked little grin on his face as he brushes his thumb over your clit again, garnering the same reaction as before from you, “Fuck, can’t believe you’re this sensitive and can’t make yourself cum.”

“‘S cause it’s you, Si,” you sweetly confess.

And it’s true. Having him touch you like this directly – feeling his callused skin over the most sensitive little part of you is euphoric. It doesn’t feel anything like when you touch yourself at all. It feels magnified, you feel like a live wire and everything feels like too much. But you don’t do anything to impede him because you trust him more than anything – especially like this, with your body. 

He replaced his thumb with his middle finger, prodding at your entrance. You almost think he’s going to press inside you but he doesn’t – instead, he gathers your slick up on his finger and drags it up to your clit. He softly circles the bud, cock kicking against his thigh when you sigh and croon so sweetly for him. 

Your cunt makes sticky noises as he continues doing this, gathering your arousal and lathering your precious bud up with it so he can so softly play with it. His touches aren’t enough to actually work you to the edge, it’s much too slow and soft but it feels good. He waits for you to relax against the bed, lashes fluttering as you whimper and twitch on the bed for him.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss against your trembling thigh, “Relax f’me. Want you nice and soft for me so I can get my fingers in this tight little cunt.”

You gasp at that, partly in excitement and also in apprehension. You’ve never actually put anything inside yourself before – except once, you put your finger in and it burned so you never tried it again. 

“D-Dont…” you find yourself muttering, making him freeze. He thinks you’ve changed your mind, anxiety getting the better of you and he’s fully prepared to propel himself away from you at a moment's notice, “Be gentle, okay?”

His gaze softens when he looks at you, “Won’t hurt you, love. I promise.”

You remain relaxed for him when he carefully prods you with his middle finger. He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, not rubbing it or anything, just keeping a nice pressure that keeps you sagged against the pillows. 

It doesn’t feel anything like when you tried that one time with yourself. Everything is so much wetter and more pliant. It’s like your walls just suck the digit in, even though it’s so much bigger than your own finger. 

You sigh softly when you finally have something to clench around. Simon gives you a sweet kiss to the spot right underneath your belly button in silent praise. He keeps his lidded, brown eyes on your face, watching every little expression you make with rapt attention. 

He slowly and carefully fucks his middle finger into you, feeling the way you slowly relax around him, soaking his skin with your arousal. He smooths his free hand up the length of your body, abandoning your clit to wrap his palm around your breast. You place your own hand over his, encouraging him to squeeze harder. 

“How’s that feel, love?” he asks, still sliding his finger in and out of you.

“Okay…” you reply, keeping your hand over his on your chest, “But it…um…”

“What?” he urges, “Tell me what you feel.”

“I-It feels nice but…” you trail off and he hums, nodding his head.

“Doesn’t feel good?” he finishes for you. You nod your head and he laughs softly, “I know, baby. Jus’ tryin’ to get you used to the feeling and then I’ll make it feel real good, alright?”

“Okay,” you whisper but he can tell you’re not too convinced that it’s going to feel much better.

You’re worried that the same thing is going to happen – it’ll feel really good and then you’re never going to be able to climb over that wall. You hate to imagine disappointing him, failing to get off. You’d hate for him to put all this work in and you just can’t cum in the end. 

“Hey,” he coos, “Get out of your head, pretty. Don’t worry about a thing, alright?”

You take a deep breath and slowly let it out, allowing yourself to relax against the bed again. Simon waits for you to be nice and pliant around his finger before he starts to fit his ring finger alongside it. He catches sight of the furrow in your brow when he stretches you around two of his fingers. It burns but when Simon brings his thumb back to your clit, tapping against the bud, it vanishes. Your thighs twitch and you whimper, walls clenching in time with the little taps until the burning vanishes completely.

“There we are,” he praises, “Knew you could do it, sweetheart.”

“A-Are you gonna add another?” you find yourself asking.

“Later,” he responds, scissoring the two fingers he has snug inside your cunt, “‘M a big man, love. Gonna need you nice and stretched for me.”

You whimper at that, walls clenching around his fingers as he slowly begins to fuck them in and out of you. Your cheeks burn when you hear the loud, squishing noises your hole makes every time he stuffs them back inside. 

After a moment of just getting you used to being stretched on two of his thick digits, he suddenly crooks them up and hits something inside you that makes your back arch. It causes a tingling feeling that you’ve never experienced to heat your tummy every time he touches it.

“Simon!” you squeal, trying to clench your thighs closed but his broad shoulders keep them open, “Th-That feels-!”

“I know, baby,” he coos cockily, grinding his fingertips against that little spot that makes you so gooey and creamy around his fingers, “Feels real good right there, I know.”

Your back arches and your jaw drops. You can’t do anything but moan and cry out as he fucks against that spot. He’s urged on by your sounds of pure pleasure, eyes flicking between where he’s got your pretty cunt spread open and the euphoric expressions you can’t do anything to hide.

It’s so precious, seeing you so open and loud for him. You don’t do anything to hide your sounds of pleasure nor do you even think of faking any of them for his sake. Every little thing you’re feeling, you express, and you can’t help yourself because it’s all so new and so much.

That hot, tingling feeling in your core only intensifies with every experienced stroke of his fingers. Your eyes are rolling back every time he touches that magnificent spot inside you, abusing it with his fingers until your walls are soft and malleable for him again.

And then he brings his index finger into it. He’s even more slow and careful as he fits it in beside the other two fingers. It doesn’t burn like when he had given you his second finger but it’s a certain stretch that simply feels strange. 

He gets you stuffed open on his three fingers, up to the third knuckle. You’re spread so wide and squeeze his fingers so tight that it makes him moan when he thinks about what it will feel like around his cock. 

If you’re this tight around just his fingers then you’re going to feel positively euphoric around him. 

“Simon…” you coo, reaching down to card your fingers through his hair. 

He grunts in acknowledgement, but is unwilling to part his gaze from the sight of the creamy mess you’ve begun to leave on his fingers. Your pretty clit is twitching and so swollen, glistening from your juices and he suddenly has the inescapable desire to wrap his mouth around it. 

You’re not even looking when he decides to do it. It’s like he can’t stop himself. 

All you feel is something wet and hot wrap around the little bud. You practically wail at the feeling of his tongue sliding against it. Your feet kick aimlessly, hitting his back and shoulders as you flail beneath his body. 

You sob his name, yanking harshly on his hair in a way that hurts but he’s not going to stop you. He knows it’s mean to do this, not even warning you or easing you into the feeling before he’s suckling your clit. His tongue slips in circles around it, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. His ears practically ring from how loud you’re crying out for him. 

His three fingers remain buried inside you but he’s hardly able to move them from how tight you’re squeezing them. All he can do is grind his fingers against your g-spot but it only makes your pretty body more twitchy and makes you squirm even more beneath him. He has to hold you down so you can’t get away. 

He doesn’t want your precious pussy to be ripped away from him, your juices are making his taste buds tingle – you taste so damn good. 

That familiar heat begins to grow in your core – one you’ve experienced many times before by yourself. You cry and wail for him, sobbing his name and gripping his hair. 

“S-Si, don’t stop, please, please, please–” you choke on your own cries, slamming your head into the pillows as your back arches painfully hard. 

He grunts lowly, blonde lashes fluttering as he watches your body’s pure, unfiltered reactions to this pleasure. He knows you’re getting close, can feel you clenching around him and your clit pulsing on his tongue in time with your heartbeat. 

You feel yourself reaching that wall, the one you can never overcome. But it feels different this time, the pleasure isn’t slowing. It’s not fading like it always does when you’ve got your own fingers on your bud. 

It always seems to slip out of your grasp by this point.

This is it, you think. You’re going to cum. You’re finally going to fucking cum. 

Then everything stops.

His tongue is gone from your clit and his fingers are nowhere to be found. Simon’s shoulders rise and fall as he watches your face flicker through a range of emotions before your eyes fill with tears and you look at him – utterly pitiful and hopeless.

“Wh-Why…” you finally whisper, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. 

Your cunt pulses and throbs around nothing, the heat of your orgasm quickly dissipating, leaving that horribly empty and unsatisfying feeling in its wake. 

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, genuine and soft as he leans up to kiss your face, “That was mean, huh? ‘M sorry. Jus’ want you to have your first orgasm on a cock, love.”

That doesn’t do anything to quell your disappointment but you nod anyway, wiping away some stray tears that trickle from your eyes. 

“Please,” you breathlessly whisper, “Please, Simon. Want your cock, please. I-I was so close. It felt so good,” you start babbling, eyes falling to the hard outline of his cock in his jeans, “I wanna cum so bad, Si. Y-You promised. Please, just give me your cock. Please? Please? Simon!”

Simon’s mouth goes dry as he hears your babbled begging. Fuck, you’re absolutely aching for it. All you can think about is cumming. He never thought he’d get to hear you beg for him like this, so pathetically. You should be embarrassed, begging for cock like this when you’ve only just now gotten your first taste of being stretched open. Yet here you are fuckin’ crying for it.

His cock drools pre down his thigh, he can feel how wet his boxers have become from how much he’s leaking it. He’s aching in his jeans – he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it just as badly as you do.

“Shit, alright!” he snarls, wrapping a hand around your throat to force you to look at him. You gasp at the rough treatment, “Jus’ shut up and I’ll give it to you, yeah?”

You obediently nod your head, still staring up at him with those wide, teary eyes. He tries to act like his hands aren’t fucking trembling when he yanks his belt off. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this needy – this excited to get his cock inside a pussy. 

But it’s you. You’re special. 

He loves you. This isn’t like the one night stands and hookups he’s had in the past. This is different. 

He feels like a fumbling teenager the way he clumsily yanks his belt out of the loops and shoves his jeans down his thighs along with his underwear. His cock, big and heavy, hangs under its own weight – it never slaps up against his stomach. He wasn’t just chatting shit when he said he was a big guy. 

He wrapped his hand around himself, giving it a few, firm tugs. He feels your eyes on him, watching the way he touches himself and it sends heat through him. He scoots closer to you again, pulling back his foreskin to show the fat, leaky head that he meanly taps against your clit. 

You gasp a cute little ‘ah!’ when he does that brings a smile to his face. He can’t say he’s the best lay for a virgin because he’s so big and he’s a brute – it’s in his nature. But he’s trying his best for you. 

“Alright, baby,” he coos, leaning on one forearm above your head, draping his big body over yours. He easily manhandles you into position, caging your knees against your chest and wrapping himself around you, “Just relax for me, hm? Can you do that f’me?”

You nod your head and shakily put your hands on his shoulders, cupping his jaw to bring him down to kiss you. He sighs into your lips, using his free hang to grip the base of his cock, prodding against your hole. You’re so slippery that it slides out of you and slips up your clit. You whimper at the feeling, thighs twitching at the stimulation. 

When he finally starts to press inside, your nails bite into his shoulders. It stings – it hurts. He’s so big, making your poor little cunt burn the deeper he presses himself. The head pops in and your hips jump at the feeling, his cock slipping back out. 

He huffs, dropping his forehead against your shoulder, “Fuck, sit still.”

“S-Sorry!” you whimper, “I’m sorry!”

“Shh,” he sighs, kissing your cheek, “‘S okay, baby. Hurts, huh?”

“A little,” you whimper, trying to downplay it so he won’t stop.

He hums and presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth. He knows that working an orgasm out of you before making you take his cock would be the nice thing to do but he’s selfish. He wants to feel your orgasm around his cock – where you deserve to have it. 

It’s your very first orgasm after all. It needs to be good and he knows he can make it real good once he can get you speared on his cock. 

So he grips himself again, sitting up for just a moment to lewdly spit on your pussy. It hits your clit and trickles down where he catches it with the head of his cock. He leans over your body and starts to push in again. This time he tucks his arms under your shoulders and pins you impossibly against him, leaving you with nowhere to run when he starts to press into you. 

You whimper, feet kicking against his back when he pushes deeper than before – past the head. He knows it hurts, you’re stretched beyond your limit and he waits with bated breath for you to say the word and tell him to stop. 

But you don’t. 

You just grapple your arms around his waist and dig your nails in. His skin is sweaty by now and it makes getting any purchase on him difficult. You let out a watery little whimper that has him freezing. You’re speared on half his cock when he finally looks at you. 

Your eyes are teary and they slowly drip down your cheeks.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, brushing some away with his thumb.

You immediately shake your head, no hesitation, “No! K-Keep goin’, Si.”

“Don’t cry, pretty,” he shushes, keeping his grip under your shoulders and his hips pinned firmly against yours so you can’t squirm when he starts pressing in again. Your mouth opens in a silent gasp, eyes fluttering from the ache that settles where he’s stretching you wide, “‘S okay, just take a deep breath. ‘M almost in, love, you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me. Takin’ all of my cock so deep, just like you deserve. Hear me? This cock s’all yours now, yeah? Can have it whenever you need it.”

Your walls spasm around his cock as he talks, making him groan low in his chest. He’s almost there, can feel his balls starting to tap against you the deeper he gets until finally, his hips meet yours and you wail. 

He prods painfully against your cervix and he knows that it’s uncomfortable but he’s not willing to pull back just yet. He needs you to get used to being stretched and stuffed full of every inch of him. He takes care to do slow, gentle grinds, his pelvis catching your clit that eventually makes you relax. 

“That’s it,” he praises, “Just relax and let me make you feel good.”

He finally eases off of you, balancing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, hovering over you. He slowly pulls his hips back, watching you slump against the bed when he finally stops pressing on your cervix. 

He finally starts fucking you, sliding his cock out just a bit before rolling his hips forward again. It's slow and soft, just testing the waters and getting you used to this new stimulation. 

It feels entirely different from his fingers. His cock is bigger, fills you so much more, touches deeper. 

His cock reaches spots deep inside you that his fingers didn’t even reach. But he’s permanently pressing against that spot his fingers were torturing. It feels so fucking good. 

Simon can see the way your eyes roll back as he carefully fucks you. Your first cock and you’re taking it so damn well. It makes him want to see how much more you can take but he knows he needs to ease you into it, he doesn't want to overwhelm you.

“Si…” you sigh softly, blinking as you struggle not to float off and become drunk with pleasure. 

“I know, pretty,” he coos, kissing your cheek before leaning back on his heels, fastening the thrusts of his hips. 

You can’t keep quiet now, mouth falling open to let out the most precious sounds of pure pleasure. You’re staring at him with wide eyes, like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky just for you. His cock fucking throbs at the look of wonder that crosses your face. He knows you’re getting close, can feel how tight you’re clamping around him and he can see how much you’re creaming around him – making a mess at the base of his cock and in the thatch of curls there. 

“You gonna cum?” he coos, grinning when you shake your head, “Of course you are. I can fuckin’ feel it, baby. Know you got one for me, go ahead. Cum on my cock real nice, c’mon.”

“C-Can’t,” you whimper. It’s too much. You’re so wet. It’s fucking messy but you feel yourself at that damn wall, hanging on a thread and waiting for euphoria to come but it doesn’t, “Please! Simon! Please, I-I can’t! Please, please, please…”

“Fuck,” his hisses when he hears you begging to cum on his cock, “Come on then, baby. You can do it. Just let it go, let me fuck it outta you.”

You toss your head back into the pillows as a sob is ripped from your chest. As if he can sense how much you’re struggling, he brings his thumb down to press against your clit. Your eyes fucking roll, only the whites of them visible. You clench down around him like a vice and it only takes a couple little swipes of his thumb for you to tumble over the edge. 

It feels unlike anything you could have ever imagined. Pleasure soars through you and your hearing cuts out. It feels like you lose control of your body, unable to do anything but thrash and twitch as he fucks you through it. You’re not sure if you would prefer him to stop or keep going because it’s all so fucking much that it hurts. 

You’re gushing around him, drenching his cock in sticky, creamy cum that drips in thick strings down his balls. Holy fuck.

It feels like hours that you’re speared on his cock, cumming and cumming before it finally leaves you and you collapse against the bed. You’re still twitching, entire body shivering until he finally slows his thrusts to soft little rolls of his hips. He takes his thumb off of your clit and you’re thankful because it was starting to become unpleasant. 

You swallow despite how dry your mouth is, eyes finally focusing on him. His brows are furrowed and his bottom lip is tucked into his mouth. Pretty, brown eyes are locked on you and you suddenly feel shy. 

Had he been watching you the whole time? You hoped you didn’t make any ugly faces or embarrassing noises. 

“Fuck,” he coos, seemingly sensing your shame, “That was a fuckin’ orgasm, love.”

You’re panting, you realize. And you’re tired. You’ve never felt more relaxed in your life. 

All you can think is that you’ve been missing out on that your whole life? Now you’re not sure you’ll be able to even live without it ever again. 

Simon’s hands cup under your knees and pin them to your chest. You gasp as he bends you as he sees fit. You’re limp, so completely drunk on the pleasure you just experienced that you simply let him. 

But you realize he’s even deeper like this – and it doesn’t hurt like it did before. He’s pressing against your back wall and it actually feels good. You feel so sensitive inside, like you can feel every twitch of his cock. 

He’s still languidly dragging his cock in and out of you. It’s a fucking mess between your legs, you’ve cum so fucking much that it’s everywhere. He’s never been covered like this before and it’s fucking hot. 

Your cum sticks between the two of you in little strings that break and reform every time his hips meet and leave yours. Your little clit is puffy and swollen from your orgasm and he wants to press his thumb against it again but he knows the poor little thing is much too sensitive still. 

Your legs flop uselessly as he fucks you, eases you past overstimulation until you’re sweetly cooing for him again. He takes that chance to fuck you properly again, intent on finding his own orgasm deep in your cunt. 

His heavy balls slap against your ass. He wants to cum. He plans to make himself cum like this, just using your pretty pussy. But then he sees your eyes widen again and your lips part almost curiously and his eyes narrow.

“You feel it again, huh, sweetheart?” he goads, shifting his weight on his knees so his hips are pressed even closer to yours. 

“C-Can’t,” you whisper, the same thing you had before. But it’s different now, “W-Won’t be able to, Si.”

“S that a challenge, love?” he teases, a crooked little smile on his face. You sleepily shake your head, “Hmm, I think I can fuck another one out of you. One orgasm won’t be enough, two is a good number for now. Until I train this little cunt to cum for me all night long.”

You whimper, reaching out the claw at his forearms where he pins your knees to your chest. You’re held so uselessly open, cunt completely vulnerable to his fat cock stuffing you full. His pelvis hits your clit in a way that makes the little bud tingle and your cunt clenches pathetically around him with every thrust he gives you. 

Sweet little ‘ah, ah, ah’s’ are punched from your lungs every time he sinks completely inside. He’s gripping your knees harshly, squeezing where he has a grip as his own orgasm starts to creep up on him but he’s going to give you another orgasm. He has to make you cum again, to see you lost in pleasure like that once more. He knows that will push him over the edge, give him what he needs. He wants to cum with you, fill you up while you’re in the throes of pure pleasure that only he has ever given you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps, fighting the feeling of his own eyes rolling back in favor of watching you. 

He loves the way you wear everything you feel on your face. From the looks of wonder when it feels really good to the little rolls of your eyes when he makes it hurt just a bit. It’s so cute. 

Makes him want to play around with that little part of you – be a little mean to you. 

“Cum,” he growls, fighting his own orgasm down, “Fuckin’ cum right now.”

“I can’t!” you wail, kicking against his hold on your knees, pressing down to spread you open even further. 

His hips slam against yours, loud slaps and slick noises of your gooey cunt filling his ears, “You can. You will. Cum, sweetheart. You better fuckin’ cum.”

But you shake your head. It’s so close, you can feel it. It’s creeping up on you and you want it so bad. You want to feel that pleasure again. But you’re not even sure you’re going to be able to cum again, it feels so much more sensitive than before. It’s too much. 

Simon bares his teeth, letting go of one of your legs to drift between your thighs. Your eyes widen, you think he’s going to rub it again – it’s so sensitive that you’re not sure you’ll be able to take it. 

But instead, he does something else.

You hear it before you feel it, a soft little slap followed by the feeling of being electrocuted. Simon watches you with lidded eyes to see how you react. Just like he expected, you wail and your body gives a mean twitch at the impact. 

So he does it again. 

And again. 

And again.

Not too hard, just enough for it to hurt a little bit. A sting against a terribly sensitive little bud. It’s mean – he’s mean. But he can’t fucking help it. 

He needs you to cum for him again.

“Cum,” he snarls, giving your clit another slap.

As if on command, it sends you over the edge. Your legs kick out and he has to abandon your clit to hold you down, pinning you harshly to the bed as he uses all his weight to fuck down into your spasming little cunt. You’re cumming so hard around him that you stop breathing. He hears the hitch of breath and doesn’t hear the exhale. All you do is lay there, cry for him and cum.

He finds his end just as violently, tossing his head back to moan into the room as cum erupts from his cock. His thrusts grow sloppy as he milks the orgasm out of himself, voice breaking as he whimpers from how fucking good it feels. 

Like no orgasm he’s ever experienced. It’s like he can’t stop cumming, filling you up so much that it oozes out from around his cock. 

You’re trembling underneath him when he finally comes down, tearfully gazing up at him with your mouth agape, struggling to catch your breath.

“N-No more,” you pathetically whimper, legs twitching from the aftershocks, “C-Can’t take anymore, Si.”

“Shh,” he shushes, letting your legs go so you can relax comfortably as he pulls his cock from your pussy.

It’s twitching and clenching sporadically, still coming down from your orgasm. It makes his cum drip out of your cunt, a mess that spreads to the already messy sheets. Your cum and his mix together to make a sticky, gooey mess that makes his mouth water. He wants to eat it up, stuff his tongue into your tight little hole and swallow it all down. 

But he can’t. Maybe next time, he vows.

His cock gives a valiant kick at the thought of getting to do this again. He sits on his heels, gazing at his messy cock as if softens. He feels dazed, almost drunk. 

Then he hears the softest little sniffle from you and his eyes snap up to your face to find your crumpled expression and tears falling down your face. You cover your face with your hands and earnestly begin to cry.

“Hey, it’s alright, love,” he coos, laying beside you to tuck you into his chest.

“I-I don’t know why I’m crying,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his waist as you cry into him. 

“It happens,” he assures, “It was a lot and you’re just a little overwhelmed s’all. Just let it out, baby.”

And you do, weakly sobbing into his chest until it feels like you can’t cry anymore. He holds you through it all, rubbing your back and cooing sweet nothings in your ear until you grow silent. 

“Alright, love?” he asks.

“S-Sorry, Si,” you sniffle, finally pulling out of the spot in his arms you were hiding in, “I-I don’t want you to think I didn’t want it or that it was bad. I just…”

He gives you a soft smile, leaning forward to kiss you. It’s short and sweet, “I don’t think that. Like I said, it happens. Sometimes people just cry after sex, nothin’ to worry about.”

“Are you sure?” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks dry when the tears finally stop.

“Positive,” he sits up, “Let’s get cleaned up, alright? We need to change the damn sheets, fuckin’ hell.”

You giggle as you look down at the sheets where a very visible dark spot is sitting where you once laid. You don’t even have time to be embarrassed before he’s swooping you off of the bed and escorting you to the bathroom.

It’s too small for both of you to fit but you make it work. He wipes you down with a warm cloth before hopping into the shower to rinse and clean himself before he gets out and lets you do the same. While you do that, he changes the bedding completely and replaces it with new sheets and blankets for the two of you to sleep in together. 

When you finally stumble into the bedroom, he wraps his arms around you and urges you onto the bed. You giggle as you flop onto the bed before he crawls in after you and covers the both of you up, wrapping himself around you until you’re tucked securely against him. 

“I take it you liked it?” he finally whispers.

You shyly nod, “I-It was um…fun.”

“Felt real good, huh?” he teases, grinning wolfishly when you whimper.

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, “It felt really good. I already want to do it again.”

Simon groans, hugging you tightly before shaking his head, “You’re gonna be insatiable. Gonna give my cock a run for its money.”

You giggle, affectionately petting his hair before he looks at you with the softest expression you’ve ever seen. It’s like his eyes are sparkling in the low light of the bedroom. He leans forward and ever so softly kisses your forehead, then your nose, before he reaches your lips. He pecks them softly, pulling back for just a second before he kisses you again. 

“I love you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost miss it. 

And your heart begins to race. You almost struggle to find the words to reciprocate. But when you do, he smiles and tucks you against him again, big arms wrapped around you like a bear hug.

It’s almost surreal. You can’t believe you’re here after everything – with him. 

Like you’ve dreamed your whole life, he loves you just like you love him. 

PART ONE.

do not modify, translate, or repost

[pomodoko]

The Shuro hate because of the latest episode is pouring in and I cannot even begin to tell you how upsetting it is to see someone who is so much like me be berated by people for being so called "ableist" and "misogynistic" and simply "the worst". He is a product of his environment (a different country, which means a different culture), and sure his love for Falin may be one-sided, but it is still love, and it's love enough he's risking hunger and sleeplessness and self care to find her. Even Chilchuck pointed out that him proposing spontaneously is just something people in his country do. He is not shallow with his love. The same can be seen with his frustration with Laios. It's borned out of miscommunication and cultural differences, and it is clear, very clear, at the end of the episode that he cares deeply for both Laios and Falin. He's envious of Laios's personable and straightforward nature, and he admitted to it. He gave Laios a way out (via the magic bell) and promised to give him his aid when Laios is in trouble. He is a complex and well-written character, and he deserves more than just people shallowly trashing on him.

Also Shuro is also autistic to me but in a different way Laios is ✌️ Come on: hyperfocusing at the cost of your health? Relying on social cues to predict how people think? Too awkward to correct Laios from the fact that he's been saying his name wrong the entire time (his real name is Toshiro)?

Edit: Honestly? Genuinely? I also think a lot of the hate that Shuro receives also borderlines antagonistic because he's "getting in the way of Farcille" (he has not shown any creepy attitude towards Falin) and racist. Genuinely I think a lot of American/Western fans are super racist towards Shuro. He's angry at Laios's mistakes the same way Chilchuck and Namari do (overstepping boundaries, being ignorant of cues, etc) but nobody thinks twice about giving Chilchuck and Namari the pass. How come this repressed man from the equivalent of fucking Feudal Japan gets the boot? Is it because he fought Laios out of fear and the trauma of seeing his team die and his love interest be made into a monster thanks to dark magic? Does his apology and offer to help not count? You people are hypocrites.