Three Little Words
Summary: You tell Simon you love him.
Characters: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader
Word count: 400ish
The first time you tell him that you love him wasn’t planned. It just happened.
You and him were on a walk at night together. Late nights seem to be the only time that he ever genuinely speaks his mind and even just slightly lets you in.
You came to a halt and kissed, wasn’t the first time by far, and it just slipped over your lips before you could think about it, you just can’t help yourself.
His eyes widen in shock and he freezes, you can tell that he is panicking behind his mask. You know he can’t help the way he feels about commitment and big feelings so you just kiss him again and hold him close.
“You don't have to say it back. I don't expect you to. I just need you to know. It’s okay, I promise.”
You are afraid that you have gone too far, scared him away, but nothing between the two of you changes. He is still the same he was before, makes his stupid jokes, holds you close, kisses you like your lives depend on it.
You are terrified to bring it up again, so you just don’t. Maybe this is just the limit of your relationship and maybe that’s okay. You don’t mind. You understand why it is so hard for him to open up and to let himself feel all of those difficult emotions and you know that pressuring him won’t get you anywhere.
One day you are at his place, having spent the day with him. You are cuddled up to him, head resting on his chest. He is being extra quiet, he must think you have fallen asleep already and you are on the verge of doing so. He is just so comfortable and you feel so safe with him.
You can tell that he is looking at you, his hands running through your hair.
His voice is quiet, but you hear him clear as day anyway.
“Love you too.”
S1 Soulmate Au prompt inspired by @subbaculture 's prompt wherein "Eddie learns Tengwar just to be special and so Steve's been kicking around with "What's Kickin', Sexy?" on his body
What Tommy Hagan hadn’t been blessed with in terms of intelligence. God - in his allegedly infinite wisdom - had seen fit to redistribute into shoulder width.
Tommy, in turn, swanned around Hawkin’s High shoulder-checking every freak, geek and nerd into nearby lockers; with the kind of wingspan better suited to weirdly proportioned monkeys.
Hellfire members were no stranger to it. Two weeks ago Hagan had run into Gareth hard enough to leave a bruise. A “bump” with enough force behind it that he’d bounced off the lockers and landed on the floor.
Which, fine, two could play at that game. Even if Hagan could barely get his hand off Carol’s tits to realize there were counter-moves to be made at all.
A grade A dick move, even if it was also incredibly boring and pedestrian. The kind of thing jocks who barely had two braincells to rub together saw as peak comedy. Giggling like a cross between a group of cavemen and a flock of pre-school girls whenever their ring-leader du jour started herding freaks like a neurotic border collie.
“Watch it, freak.” Hagan hissed, skirting around Eddie without bothering to shove him at all. Giving a wide berth to whatever zone of contagious freak cooties being Eddie Munson brought to the table.
Behind him, Gareth - blocked from the rest of the hall by Eddie’s leather jacket, in a way only freshies were short enough to pull off - buried a laugh in a cough, muffled into the heel of his hand. Not missing the way that even Hagan - the most infamous asshole of them all - looked ready to bolt as soon as Eddie waved him off in a jaunty salute.
Victory tasted sweet and electric. Fizzing under his skin the way Wayne’s Miller Lites would bubble in the back of his throat, whenever Eddie stole a sip from the half open cans in the back of their fridge. It made him stupid in a way those brief tastes of beer hadn’t managed to yet.
Being The Freak came with perks. An untouchable radius that left Eddie drunk with power. Riding the high of knowing that maybe Highschool didn’t have to suck all the time. That he could play at being a rabid guard dog for the lost little sheep of the world, rail against dickheads like Hagan and win.
Maybe he could use it to plead temporary insanity for what he did next. Riding the high into a really, spectacularly stupid idea.
Everyone had their words.
Eddie’s were tucked away, hidden along the curve of his rib. A curly chicken scratch that mixed print and cursive into a barely legible mess.
‘Is that like, yiddish?’
A weird-ass question, until Eddie had pulled an all nighter on a now infamous school night, falling in love with Middle earth. Head filled with nothing but the dark halls of Khazad-dûm, the sweeping boughs of Lothlórien.
Speak friend and enter.
Pedo mellon a minno.
He’d traced the words over and over. Thrilled by the lilt, the cadence, the beautiful rise and fall of consonants no one else would understand.
Setting his heart there and then on the dorkiest greeting anyone could have come up with. But hey, it was original, which was half the battle people went through when picking soulmate greetings.
He’d gone through several variations. Always in Sindarin, because why the hell not.
People usually saved them, tucked them far away from casual conversation. Bizarre phrases, always non-sequitour, brought out only for special occasions. That lightning strike of instant attraction. People you could see yourself connecting with. Hoping they would be a part of you as much as you were theirs.
He couldn’t see himself connecting with Tommy Hagan in a million years. Not even if they waited in that hallway until the heat death of the universe.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t terrorize him with the possibility.
“What’s Kickin’ Sexy?”
He yelled after Hagan’s retreating back, with its fuck-off wide shoulders; elvish mangled, but passable. Enjoying the rictus of horror on his face, going from anger to fear and back again.
He shifted on his heel, pushing Gareth further behind him in case things got ugly. Herding him back towards Jeff with little bumps, as both of them tried to muscle down their cackling. Nerdy enough to piece together the gist of what Eddie had been hollering about. Even if Jeff was better at Quenya, because he was a weirdo and a purist about that kind of shit.
All in all, a job well done, assuming Hagan didn’t flip his shit and start throwing punches to assert dominance.
Or at least, it felt like it, until Harrington - trailing behind Hagan - sucked all the air out of the room. Hands on his hips, a furrow on his brow, blurting it out without even thinking about it.
“Is that like, Yiddish?”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Panic clamped around Eddie’s throat like a vice. The same way Gareth’s hand, tiny and tense - he had yet to hit his growth spurt - wrapped around the edge of Eddie’s leather jacket. Pushing past the waistband of his jeans to claw at skin.
The side that mattered, one they both knew had those words that wrapped around Eddie’s chest. Curving towards the sternum.
Whatever face he was making gave it away instantly.
Harrington’s face shuttered and fell. A whole host of micro expressions that passed through in a second before he scrubbed them away. A pair of shaking hands that rubbed at his eyes and dragged down his face. Peeking at Eddie through a gap in his fingers.
“Jesus Christ it’s you; isn’t it?”
Behind Eddie, Gareth tugged him half a step back, nails digging into his hip. Little half-moon crescents he barely felt now, but would find later.
“Steve?” The waver in Hagan’s voice would have been funny if it wasn’t nauseating.
Terrifying, when Steve waved him off and stepped towards Eddie. Jerky and halting, like a puppet with half it’s strings cut.
“I can’t fucking believe this Munson. You gotta tell me if it is.” Steve bit out, with a wobble that sounded too trembling and confused to be anger. Even if it would come later.
It was probably coming later.
Anger always got there in the end, with boys like Harrington. Sharp comebacks and sharper right hook always winning out, spurred on by that bone-deep, animal fear of losing your place in the social food chain.
King Steve didn’t seem worried it yet though. Adding to the bizarre hilarity of the situation as he undid his belt and untucked his shirt to the concerned shouts of everyone left in the hall, witnesses to this trainwreck.
If Eddie hadn’t been convinced he’d died and gone to purgatory a minute earlier. He would have been convinced there and then.
As Steve Harrington turned around, bunched his striped polo up high and his khaki’s down low. Stripping down to show the athletic curve of a hip. The dip of a waist that looked small next to his swimmer’s shoulders - almost wide enough to rival Hagan’s - a scattering of moles that dusted across his lower back, framing his mark.
There, on King Steve’s back, bracketed by dimples, low enough to count as a truly slutty tramp stamp sat Eddie’s words. The swooping curves of Tengwar branded into his skin.
“What’s kickin’, Sexy?”