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indouloureux · 2 years

Text

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤)

summary: steve picks you up when you crash your car after your break-up. and you both realize things you wish you realized sooner.

warnings: 7k. smut 18+ mdni, blood, car crash, angst, fluff, allusions to smut, accusations of emotional cheating, idiots in love (based on the song 'flower in the dark' by fiji blue). slight sub!steve, facesitting, less dirty talk, small smut beCAUSE, creampie? cum eating, kinda sucky

a/n: takes place several months after s4, meaning this takes somewhere early 1987, which explains the INXS song. hope you all enjoy!

MASTERLIST

It happened so suddenly.

One minute you’re listening to a-ha, the next you’re swerving your car tremendously to the side to avoid a crossing cat. Your car hits a tree, hard and unforeseen, hurling you almost onto the dashboard and through the windscreen had it not been for the airbag. Your forehead meets the hard leather of your steering wheel, hefty enough that it makes you bleed just beneath your hairline.

There’s loud ringing in your ears, your eyesight fooling you into thinking you might be underwater. The hood of the car is bent, bunched in uneven folds and dark smoke seeping through the unhinged bumper, full of dents and thrown onto the ground. And fuck, your head hurts and your nose is bleeding. You know damn well the car might explode in a couple minutes, but you’re too weak to move.

Along with the faint memory of the cars screeching against the uneven asphalt road, there’s panicked chattering behind your car. With a hand on your forehead, you weakly reach over to open the door, but a stranger beats you to it—the woman keeping her arms stretched out to keep you from falling before you feel her hands around your waist, dragging you up from your slowly burning car.

It’s a cluster of are you okay? What happened? Someone called the ambulance! (you almost snapped at the second question. “I hit my car, dipshit. The fuck does it look like?”).

In that blurry haze, you remember being sat down in someone's car, someone saying that a truck’s coming to pick your car up, and if you wanted to be driven to the nearest phone booth.

You end up being dropped off at a phone booth right outside Hawkin’s Post. The woman had been kind enough to give you a cold beer for your forehead, and some rag she found in her glovebox to wipe the blood off your face. You hear how quick she left when the ringing left your ears, the way her wheels screeched the same way yours did before you hit the tree; you’re stumbling your way inside the confined box and picking up the phone, only to stare at the numbers blankly.

You’ve got no one to call.

No one knows where you live other than Robin, who doesn’t have a license and you couldn’t take the risk; Dustin, who’s not of age yet and god knows how he’d drive; Max…absolutely not. Nancy? With Jonathan on a date. Mike? You’d actually prefer having your face smashed into a windscreen than him driving you home. Lucas? Can ride a bike but almost crashed your car one time.

Five of them don’t even have cars.

Which leaves you to one last person.

Your heart pounds at the thought of him. Minds visibly debating if you should be petty and walk yourself home, or if you should suck it up and call him and just let yourself dwell in his passenger seat in this pity blood puddle as he tries to talk to you.

There’s sweat coating the thin epidermis of your hand, the material of the phone buttons burning beneath your fingertip as you dial his numbers. Your head aches, still even after the cold bear that’s now warming on your other hand, and you feel like your nose has been dislocated. And with the bottom half of your face crossing the border of numbness, you could faintly feel something drip down your nose.

Eleven digits pressed ten seconds later, the phone rings. You rest your head on the switchhook with the receiver hot against your ear as you hear the loud ringing. You wait, maybe ten seconds. Until it turns twenty to almost thirty before you hear the sound of a phone being picked up.

“Harrington residenc… ah, screw it. Hello?”

You don't speak, nervously twirling the handset line in your index finger as you stare blankly at the number pads, wondering what he might look like right now. There’s a statical silence filling your ear, and you try your best to let out a hushed deep breath.

“Hello?” he repeats.

Finally, you blink. “Steve?”

It’s his turn to stay quiet, like he’s processing whose voice he heard. You hear his soft huffs through his nose, and you squeeze your eyes shut to get rid of the headache.

“(y/n)?”

You smile a little. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You hear shuffling before he speaks again. “Hey. Um- what’s up?”

“I…” you suck your cheeks in, gnawing on your bottom lip. “I crashed my car.”

“What?!”

“I’m fine!” you reassure him. “Just…can you pick me up? I’m- I’m outside Hawkins Post and I can't really walk to where I was supposed to go. It’s too far…”

There’s a second of silence. An entire second that he’s given himself to decide. And you don't expect him to immediately say, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

He came in five minutes.

You wonder if he’s passed the speed limit, ran through red lights and ignored speed bumps just so he could get to you. And the thought of it makes your heart ache — in the worst way. ‘Cause now you’re thinking if he’s that eager to see you, or that eager to help you, or just to get this over with. And just the thought of him being excited to see you?

It sets a confusing flame in your chest.

Steve exits his car. Striped shirt and tight dark blue jeans in all his disheveled eminence. You push yourself away from the phone booth, the lack of shade straining your eyes, but Steve jogs up to you and blocks the sun with his height.

“Hey,” his eye squints, hair not large enough to block the sunlight. “Jesus, (y/n), you’re bleeding.”

His hand comes up to touch gently on your forehead, where you wince at the contact of his fingertips on something raw. Steve tuts, muttering an apology before he’s fully cupping your face, but his apology doesn’t matter.

Not when he’s touching your face like it’s a normal thing for him to do. Like he used to back in those forgotten summer mornings and winter nights, with the way he cradles your face like a vase full of wilting flowers. But Steve doesn’t look into your eyes. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he’s looking at the laceration on your forehead. And it feels familiar.

(Maybe when Billy Hargrove had almost beaten him to a pulp. And you remember Steve laying unconsciously between your legs at the back of Billy’s car, his face in your hands, slipping between the gates of consciousness.)

“What happened?” he asks, his hair falling over to cover the worry lines on his forehead.

“Saw a cat,” you murmur, cheeks flushing from his touch and you hope he doesn't feel it. “I swerved and I crashed into a tree. My car’s done for and- and my head hurts.”

“Course it does, ‘y crashed your car,” he mutters. And when Steve finally looks into your eyes, the worry shifts into a quick wave of realization that he’s still holding your face so casually. You see him swallow thickly, dropping his hands to his sides where he palms the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve got um, tissue. And water in the back of my car. We should get-get in. It’s getting hot.”

You follow him, watch as he opens the door for you and guides you in. Steve pushes his hair back as he crosses, walking over to his side until he’s sat beside you and slams the door closed. He doesn’t look at you yet, like he’s still preparing himself to look at you as he reaches behind to pull out two water bottles. Steve hastily gives them to you before he’s opening the glove box, pulling out a box of tissues and a bottle of alcohol, as well as a small box of bandaids.

Pointing at the tissue box, you furrow your eyebrows. “You still have that?”

The box of tissues he bought specially for Eleven. He’d complained to you before, how she always used her sleeve instead of buying a handkerchief to carry around so she’d wipe her blood off. And when you’d told him to do something about it himself, he bought everyone tissue packs — “Just in case one of you is with this kid and she starts bleeding again.”

You still have yours dug deep in a bag hidden in your cabinet. Dusted and unused.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Kid’s back in Hawkins. God knows what might happen again. Even though the gates are closed now,”

“Dunno. Maybe the Russians are opening a gate again. We weren't so sure last time, right?”

“Only because some burnt middle aged man with powers decides to terrorize teens and open four huge gates,” Steve reaches over to swerve the AC to your direction, taking a bottle from your lap to open it. He shoves it in your hands, elbow on the steering wheel and he finally looks at you. “Drink up. You might get a heatstroke. Or you might pass out.”

You grimace at him.

Steve eyes you like something he’s lost his entire life. That wonder of unexpected reconciliation that makes his heart beat unwinding, because you’re talking to him. You called him for help; and even though Steve knows he’s not exactly your first choice for help, there’s a candle of hope offered to him. He watches you drink from the plastic bottle, trembling hand grasping it tight against you as you drink with heavy eyelids.

He takes it from you when you’ve finished the entire thing, tossing it behind him before he looks back at you with wary eyes. “More?”

You shake your head. “No,” you smile a bit.

Then he points to your forehead, side of his finger grazing the bridge of your nose. Steve’s other hand rubs his chin. “What about those? Need some help?”

“Do you even know how to?” you quip. Steve scoffs, reaching for the box of tissues in your hand and unscrews the alcohol.

“I think I’ve learned. From getting my ass handed to myself three times.” he pours alcohol on the folded tissue, eyebrows raising everytime he speaks. “I think we just got lucky last time. Minus the choking part.”

Steve’s hand raises on the side of your face, hesitant in taking your cheek into his palm once more. When he nods for permission, you allow him; ignoring the way his touch ignites something heavy in the pit of your stomach that causes the butterflies to leave their cocoons and storm your belly.

His touch is benign, delicate, conscious in the way that he knows he’s holding your face unlike earlier. He mutters instant apologies when you wince from the alcohol against your opening wound, the feeling of his thumb stroking the supple skin of your cheek was somehow an amelioration that he hopes would work.

The blood blends with the alcohol infused tissue, staining the soft paper. He wipes a bit harder on the dried morsel of blood surrounding your wound, until a small cut appears once all the blood’s gotten rid of. Steve takes the box of bandaids from his lap, you watching as he clumsily opens it and pulls a yellow bandaid with purple stars around the oval-like bandage.

Your eyebrows raise, bemused. “Cute,”

“Dustin wanted them,” he’s quick to defend. Steve removes the plastic from the bandage, spreading apart until he raises it to your wound and carefully places the pad on top of the cut, thumbs pressing it down until it sticks to your skin. “Or I think Erica did. Dunno. Kids love to take advantage of me.”

“Rich teenager who spends his time with a bunch of kids? Who wouldn't?” you snort. “I’m surprised they haven't asked you to buy them Nintendo.”

“Why? Do you want one?” his brow raises, fingers moving down to press on your nose, a slight throb as he does so.

“Pretty please?” you jut your bottom lip out. “With Ghosts N’ Goblins?”

Steve shakes his head, massaging the bridge of your nose. “Take advantage of me, why don't you?”

You laugh. “You know what this reminds me of?” you murmur. Steve looks at you, hands in a momentarily halt on your nose. “Billy. When we had to carry you to the back of his car and we had nothing but alcohol and bandaids. You know, Mike was actually thinking of stitching the cut,” you reach up to graze the ever faint scar on his jaw, and his face softens when you do so, “right here. But all we had was a fish hook and we couldn’t risk it.”

His chuckle’s short, faint and wilting off into the silence in his car as he looks at you, your hand muzzy on his jaw as your tracing stops, your eyes flitting to his. And Steve’s so close, with his breath fanning your face and the tip of his nose grazing yours; his eyes searching like a sailor on sea, an undulate curve of his thick hair covering his forehead when he dips his head down the slightest. You drop your hand back to your lap and turn your head away, making all his hope break and Steve sinks back to his seat, swallowing thickly. He screws the cap of the alcohol back on.

“So, where were you going?” he turns the key in the ignition, pushing his hair back before they settle on the steering wheel. You hm, an unsure ‘um’ that battles between telling him the truth or not.

“Home,” you lie. “Just, uh, take me home.”

The aether sky disappears behind the cluster of thick, dark clouds; like how paint water would topple over an artwork as it slowly washes over the dull sky of Hawkins, all that optimistic cyan glory replaced by a caliginous silver as its tears slowly fall down to the cracked ground. Your fist on your cheek, the radio quiet, and Steve’s contemplating whether you had told him the truth or not. He heard the slight hesitation in your voice, the avoidance of eye contact and the uncomfortable shift in your seat.

And so as he turns the corner, opposite to where your home was that you surprisingly didn’t notice with your dazed staring, Steve rubs his nose. “Hey, uh. Where’d you crash your car?” your head turns to him, cheek leaving your fist to straighten your back. “Just wanna see if the truck’s gotten it already,”

“I’m sure it’s still there,” You pull nervously at your seatbelt, staring ahead at the windscreen. “But just, um, past Warzone.”

“The one Eddie told us all the illegal shit were?”

“Yeah.”

“That- That’s where you were heading?”

You grimace. “I said past Warzone. Not before or at the Warzone.” your top lip curls in exiguous agitation. “And this is not the way to my fucking house, Steve.”

“Yeah, because we’re not going to your house,” his hand raises to point in front of him, driving past empty houses and rundown buildings that lead outside the town, the rain that forms little puddles beside sidewalks as the windscreen wiper starts moving.

“This is kidnapping!” you gawp silently, incredulous. “Take me home, Steve.”

“No, I wanna know where you’re going that you crashed your car past Warzone,” though loud, Steve’s voice is calm and patient, waiting for your reason. His sudden curiosity is unneeded, you think. Because why should he care where you’ve been? “Tell me so I can…drive you there.”

You sigh, back slumping on his leather seat as you look back at the window. “Illinois.”

The car slows with the way Steve’s foot weakens, eyes taking a double look on you. “Illinois? What- what are you gonna do in Illinois? See Murray?”

“No,” you say. “I was-...I was going to see my new apartment.” you look at him, seeing the way his hands tighten around the wheel. “It’s a couple miles farther from Murray’s, I think.”

It’s like his ribcage shrinks and squeezes his lungs, an ache that spreads throughout his chest as Steve’s mouth parts, head turning between the rode and you. He fixes his composure, the cat killed by his bothering curiosity as he says, “Apartment? You’re gonna move to Illinois?”

You shake your head. “Not forever. Just…indefinitely. Like, like a vacation. Or something.”

“Why?”

“Why?” you repeat. “We’ve nearly gotten killed, like, four times. Do you not think about, I don’t know, taking a vacation to rest? Leaving Hawkins after you got your ass handed to you for god knows how many times?”

Steve lets his shoulders rise into a shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I can’t just leave them, you know. The kids,” his hand motions behind him. “Especially now that Max’s in the hospital and Eddie’s healing. It’s not like Robin’s the most reliable babysitter- don’t tell her I said that,” he turns to look at you. “And, with Jonathan back, the kids are gonna need you, too.”

“They don’t need me,” you squirm a little in your seat. “They have you. And Robin, who can do well with babysitting. And they’re not kids anymore, Steve. They don’t need babysitters. There are no more monsters slipping out of gates, or people randomly dying. I can- take a vacation if I want to.”

“Yeah, indefinitely,” he scoffs. “You’re just gonna leave everything behind?”

“I’m not!” you almost yell. “And besides, I’m always gonna call. Everybody's got phone’s now. So what if I don’t come back? They’re gonna be fine without me, Steve,” you think it’s the truth, with the way you said those words. Because they had each other: Max had Lucas. Eddie had Dustin, Will had Mike, and Steve had Robin. You? You’re just this random crayon drawn onto a piece of paper that disparities its colors. You didn’t have your own contrast, your own someone. Not after what happened with Steve.

“Why,” you continue, licking your lips. “Why do you care, anyway?”

You look at him, see the way everything behind him moves in a fast blur; trees fragmented by the raindrops coating his window. His nose wrinkles into a quick sniff, his eyes trained across the wet road. “You’re leaving—”

“—indefinitely—”

“—yeah and still, I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” his voice softens into a whisper, his cheeks turning pink at his confession, maybe also because you’re staring at him. “I mean, you’re moving to Illinois for god knows how long. What if you decide that you’ll stay there forever? How will the kids reach you when they need your help? What about Robin, or- or Nancy?”

Nancy’s name makes you wince.

His reason veils what he truly wants to say, even though what he said was a genuine concern of his. Steve gives you occasional glances, sees the way your eyes get clouded as you lose yourself in a thought, hears the way the song switches to the new released song Never Tear Us Apart.

You can’t read his mind, but you’ve got his tones and body language memorized like the entire map of hawkins. But maybe you’re wrong, because his tone is new and confounding — misleading in his words. You know he’s using the kids to mask up what he wants to say. And you, with your overthinking mind that has been giving you suffocating trepidations and agonizing maybes and what-ifs, your mind bears on a fact you refuse to believe but makes you scoff out loud in disbelief, anyway.

And despite its dubiety, you say it out loud anyway. “Yeah, Harrington. Go act like you care, why don’t you?”

In that snarky tone that puts a rock on your heart, Steve glowers slightly. “I always care about you, (y/n).”

“Well, you sure did a lot to let me know,” you roll your eyes, sinking into your corner. “Sure. Go flirt with Nancy Wheeler in front of me. Maybe in front of Jonathan, too! That totally shows how much you care, Steve.”

“Jesus Christ,” he runs a hand down his face, the pattering of the rain getting louder the farther you go out of Hawkins. “What’s this got to do with Nancy?”

“Really? You’re gonna act like you didn’t just almost tell Nancy you were still in love with her two weeks after we broke up?” Steve furrows his eyebrows at you. “Do you know how anxious and hurt I was to see you act like that around her? Thinking about how what if Steve was in love with Nancy the entire time he was my boyfriend? What if he just used me to get over her so that’s why he didn’t care that I dumped him? Didn’t even fight or ask why, like- like we were nothing. And now you’re telling me that you care? Did it even occur to you that maybe you’re the reason why I’m moving to Illinois because seeing you just hurts?”

There’s nothing but the turbulent radio and the loud rain hitting the roof of his car that fills the thick silence. Your chest heaves, now unburdened with the weight of your premonition. And his mind registers your words slowly — Because no, it hadn’t occurred to him that he’s the reason you’re moving; it hadn’t occurred to him that you had a sense of doubt tribulating you even as you prepared to kill Vecna back then. ‘Cause he’d been too worried to think about how to make it up to you, all while he tries to rekindle his friendship with Nancy. To the point you’d mistaken it as flirting with his yearning stares and lingering gazes.

“You really…felt that?” his voice is small, like he’d been yelled at by his own mother for his stupidity. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to not look at him, afraid of breaking down when you do.

“Yeah,” you rub your nose with the side of your finger. “I mean, I guess it’s a sensible reason, right? Seeing as I didn’t exactly have the truth to confirm my thoughts; we got together a week after you and Nancy broke up. I don’t think a week’s enough to move on, yet we went on a date. And, I don’t know, I guess maybe I thought you’d only gotten with me because I was there, and we were both healing, and we both kinda needed some anchor. Except I really did like you and, it’s- It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.” you laugh sadly. “So what’s the point? Why would I stay here if I didn't have my own anchor anymore? I could just…float.”

It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.

There’s a rip on his heart when you wipe a tear away, pushing your hair behind your ears. Steve feels a lump on his throat, getting heavier and threatening as you continue.

“I cried a lot. When I broke up with you. Maybe because I saw the way you didn’t care. You didn’t even ask why. You just…said ‘okay.’ With your hands in your pockets, watching me leave your house. And- and then Vecna happened and I didn’t have time to grieve until- until you told Nancy about this dream of yours that I thought was really fucking stupid. And I said, well Steve Harrington totally is a douchebag because what are you doing telling your ex-girlfriend about your future like you want her to be there?”

A hand leaves the steering wheel as he scratches his head. Steve is an idiot. A man who’s shit at communication, a man who acted like he didn’t care when he broke your heart, a man who shamelessly gave Nancy stares that he used to give you when they were together. A man who’s nothing short of obliviousness to what you feel, who thinks that you were okay this entire time when really, you’d just been digging yourself a hole to hide yourself into. A hole that’s three hours away.

And despite his naivety, he’s appalled that he ever made you feel like he only liked you because you were there. Someone who’d been near and available to him. Steve wonders what else could you have felt that hurt you, that made you move to Illinois after what he did.

Steve slows down much to your dismay, just a few minutes after he passed the Hawkins sign. He parks beside the empty road, the ones passing by filled with boxes and eager families that don't seem to care about the both of you as he pulls on his gear and faces you with a hand to the back of your headrest.

And he sees you: the way you’re silently hurting while relishing in the relief of a confession. When you take a quiet inhale when you realize he’s leaned closer, your eyes widening the slightest because this was the third time he’d unabashedly leaned closer to you.

“Well, I am an idiot,” he finally spoke. “Because I never told you that I loved you,”

Your heart pounds, loud and hard, almost painful with it. contact against your chest. And you eye him suspiciously, staring deep into those umber eyes of his, searching for any kind of fathomless reason for him to use this opportunity for a sadistic joke just to hurt you. But alas, you knew Steve. He was never the type of man to hurt a woman’s feelings over an insensitive joke, let alone hurt a woman with cruel words other than ignorance (speaking from experience).

But still, you’re left befuddled. Why now, out of all the opportunities, has he decided to tell you he loves you? Is he using this to make up for all the pain he’s caused you? Or because he thinks you at least deserve to know that he does love you, just not in love, and now he’s got the opportunity to say it to you.

And why, out of all times, do you feel bile rise up to your throat?

“Steve…”

“Babe,” he reaches over. But you squirm away from his touch that makes his face fall, eyebrows raised into a small melancholy hill of pain when you flinch by the faintest touch of his hand. “(y/n), come on,”

“I think I’m gonna throw up,”

Steve pales. “Fuck,” he looks behind him, hand rummaging over the random shit on the floor before he looks back at you in panic. “I don’t have bags—”

“Fucking hell,” you unlatch the door, hurling it aside until your feet hit the wet asphalt and rain starts to pour on you. Steve stares at you in disbelief.

“Where are you going?” he yells, but he follows right after you slam the door shut, tracing your footsteps as you walk away from his car and hunch over the side. “It’s raining! Just, puke in the trunk or something!”

You shake your head, gasping as you place your hands on your knees, heaving. Steve walks over to you, raindrops falling on the tips of his eyelashes that make him blink rapidly. “Stay there, Harrington. Come any closer and I’m hurling at your shoes,”

His hands raise, scrutinizing you out of worry. You compose yourself, straightening your back and running your hand through your hair that’s been dampened by the heavy rainfall. And Steve — Steve looks so desperate, even more now that the rain has fallen upon him and makes him look like a sad puppy. With his eyes twinkling and his hair fallen into a thick mop that he slicks back, lips parted to breathe.

“You’re not sick, aren't you?” he says softly in the thunderous impact of rains on road.

You shake your head, finding the courage to walk over to him and pull on the shirt that sticks to your chest. The rain on your wound hurts, but it doesn't matter anymore.

“Let me rephrase my words then,” Steve readjusts himself, finally letting his whole body turn to face you. “I love you, and I’ve been in love with you since you told me that I deserved being called bullshit by Nancy. I love you because you’re the second person to give me that bump in the head right after she did and that made me realize that you were it for me. I love you because you put me right on track. You actually told me that I was an asshole and if you hadn't, maybe I’d still be that asshole till this day,

“The thing about my future? The six, stupid little nuggets that I told Nancy?” He takes your chin into his hand, rubbing the skin below your lips. “I always saw you in there. It was never her. I thought it was her until you hit me in my goddamn head. It’s always been you, (y/n),” Steve murmurs. “All it took was three bumps to the head for me to realize all that. And — and I’m sorry if I acted like I didn't care when you dumped me. But I’ve always cared.”

“Then why didn't you?” your bottom lip wobbles. “Why didn't you care when I broke up with you?”

“I was pretending,” Steve reaches over to push the hair sticking from your face, rubbing your eyelids with his wet thumbs so you’d see clearer. “I just- I was an idiot, okay? When you broke up with me, I thought it was for the best because both of us were just processing things. I had work and you had to go back to school and we’d drifted apart after Starcourt. I wasn't there for you. And you deserve someone who’s going to be by your side everyday. Not someone who… can barely finish a fight they started.”

Steve Harrington, a man whose language was dipshit and the surnames of his kids, astounds you with his lengthy confession. Steve Harrington, who thinks cheesy rom coms are full of unrealistic scenarios and shitty plot lines, tells you he’s in love with you with the rain pouring down on your trembling bodies, like a scene from a movie he hates. Steve Harrington, the man you swore to forget and to never look back to when you leave this town, has his face in your hands and his lips pulled to yours.

His mouth’s hot, familiar and welcoming like it always was. Like a missing puzzle piece found beneath the couch, his lips locking with yours in a kiss so tender and balmy it puts the cold rain to shame as it warms you. Steve puts his hands on your waist and pulls you closer to him, drowning out the sounds of passing cars that honk at the both of you and the thunder that claps in the grey sky.

You pry your lips apart, wet with the rain and the slick of his pink mouth. And you push the thick strand of hair from his face, Steve slowly opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours.

“You don't have to say it back,” he mutters. “Not now. Only when you want to.”

“I can't believe I kissed you,”

He smiles a little. “Me neither.”

“That was kind of stupid,”

“... I liked it.” He takes your hands off his face, running his thumbs along the little scars scattered all over. “Let me make it up to you, please?”

He kisses you again. And again. And again; making up for all those sleepless nights he hadn't kissed you and curled to his side instead. Making up for all those times he made you feel like he didn't care; making up for all those times he wasn't there when you wanted him to. A kiss, although almost futile to rid of the pain he’s caused you, brings you to cloud nine and makes you putty in his large hands.

Steve walks backwards, taking you with him until he blindly hits the backdoor of his car, a hand leaving you to grasp its handle.

“Steve—”

“Let me—” his eyebrows furrow, words muffled with the touch of your puffy lips, “—make it up to you. Come on, babe.”

You nod against him, your own hand finding his to pull on the door handle. Steve dips his body and falls onto the leather seat, taking you with him that you land on top, your chest smushing against his, your clothings dripping to the carpet and onto the leather of his car.

“We’re gonna get your seats wet—”

“I don't care,” he sits up, making you straddle his lap as he reaches behind you to close the door. “Can just wipe it off after.”

“But what about our clothes?”

Despite this, you pull on his shirt. Steve discards it swiftly, a rip faintly heard before dropping it onto the floor with a wet thump. “You’re really concerned about that right now?”

Scars from the bites. Brazen and threatening, bumpy when your fingers traced its uneven and cruel mark left on his skin. At nights, Steve would stare at them. Think of how hideous they were, thought about how they'd ruin him forever. But with your admiring, soft touch, he feels as if its a reminder that he'd survived because of you. Because of your persistence despite the pain he's caused you; you look at it as if it's that perfect flaw in every painting, uncanny, grotesque, but beautiful.

You place your hand on his chest, feeling the hair damp against your palm as you break away from him. Steve grasps your waist, bunches the wet material of your shirt in his hand as he looks at you with the dusk of arousal blooming his pupils. Eyes wide in anticipation and lips puffy for more, he slides his hands beneath your shirt to warm the coldness of your flesh.

“You sure about this?” he finally whispers. You push his hair behind his ear, giving him a chaste peck.

“We’re here now, aren't we?” you tell him. Steve smiles, bright like the lightning that hits the road. He kisses you again, his hands grasping at your shirt from beneath until he rips it apart. The tear makes you gasp, agape as you watch him throw it aside. “I bought that from The Gap, you know? It was kind of expensive.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he starts kissing your neck, nipping and sucking the rain off your skin. And when he sucks harder, there’s a light prick that stings your neck, only to be soothed by his warm tongue that he lathers over, his teeth grazing your flesh but never biting.

Steve’s hand comes up to toy with the clasp of your bra, hands positioned to push but he never does. Not when you’re holding his face against your neck like he’s feeding off you, stuffing your nose in his hair and inhaling his rich cologne drowned out with the smell of rain.

“Jus’ take it off,” you kiss his temple.

“Alright,”

He does, untroubled as he easily unclasps its tiny hooks and lets it fall to your sides. Steve’s hand cups around your shoulders, hooking his fingers on the lace strap and pulls it down your arms as his lips stay planted on your neck, watching as they fall off flawlessly and onto your lap.

Leaving one last kiss to your neck, he moves down to wrap his lips around the skin of your bare breasts, throwing your bra to the passenger seat. You gasp, head throwing back with your hands grasping at his hair.

“Fuck, Steve,” you whimper, moving your hips on his thick crotch with the guidance of his hand, the other massaging a tit into his mouth as he suckles at your buds, looking up at you adoringly.

“Baby I want you to,” he kisses you again, slowly laying down but his hands keep you in place. Steve looks up at you with heavy eyelids, grasping at your tits as you grind down onto him. “Want you to sit on my face.”

Your grinding slows, hands palming at his chest. “Really?”

“Yeah— fuck, honey. Just want you to. Please,” Steve pulls on the waistband of your jeans, unbuttoning them. “C’mon baby.”

“Okay,” you raise your hips, a foot coming down to the carpet to remove your jeans, head bumping slightly onto the roof of his car. Your back hunches awkwardly, embarrassed that Steve’s seeing you struggling but he doesn't care, not when his tongue darts out between his lips in anticipation as you bring your panties with your jeans.

Steve pulls you immediately to him, until your knees are on either side of his head and his hands hard and heavy on your thighs to keep you levitating above him. He’s kissing stars on your thighs, knows with the way your hips jut impatiently that you want more other than sorry, coaxing kisses. With your hand on the backseat and one on his hair, he leans up to take a whiff of your leaking arousal, groaning when he smells the sweet honey.

“Christ, (y/n),” he kneads your ass. “Don't be shy. Just sit.”

And you do, carefully lowering yourself onto his mouth opens and his tongue darts out to lap at your dripping hole. You moan loudly, looking down to see him dig his nose on your clit and his hair all disheveled from your pulling. “Oh, Steve,”

He hums against you, dragging his tongue on your folds until his lips wrap around your clit. You grind on his face, small pants and whimpers leaving your mouth when he groans. “You taste amazing. Like fucking— fucking amazing. Sweet little pussy stayed the same.”

A finger prods on your wet entrance, tracing your small hole until it slips in, incessant until his pointer’s buried knuckle deep. And when he pulls out with a slick gush, he puts in two without warning, stretching your hole open with two of his thick limbs, scissoring them as he laps up at your swollen clit.

“That’s it,” he growls, sucking harder on your bud with a little head shake as his fingers begin scissoring at a pace so tantalizingly slow it drives you insane. “Ride my face, baby. Use me.”

He finds himself falling a bit more harder when he looks up to see your face scrunched in all your heavenly glory as you lose yourself in that rainstorm of rapture with your eyebrows joint and your jaw slacked to emit its euphonious moaning. Finds himself submitting more than he expected as he digs himself deeper into you, your own taste marking him more than he’d marked you when your slick coats half of his face.

Your hand finds itself using his stomach as leverage, leaning back to give Steve a better perspective. And the other remains on his hair, tugging deeper when he removes his fingers and continues using his tongue instead, taking your hand off his hair to lace it with yours.

“Shit,” you puff, hand tightening around his. Steve opens his eyes, the tip of his nose glistening as he flicks his tongue up and down between your folds. He uses his other hand to spread your petals with his fingers shaped into a v, prodding his tongue in your tight hole until it’s fully fucking you. “Ngh—ah, oh god, your tongue feels so good,”

A taste of forbidden fruit, has him drunk and fucking his tongue deeper to venture more of your sweet walls. You squeeze around his thick muscle, mewling louder that you worry you’re heard amongst the continuous roaring thunder. Steve groans against you, his own stomach clenching beneath your hand, tongue exploring everything that’s wet, flicking it against every spongy spot. He’d suck at your swollen nub, lap at your hole like some faucet, knead your ass to urge you harder on his tongue.

“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I wanna cum, Stevie.”

“Then cum,” he untucks his tongue from inside you, licking up from your hole to your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Come on.”

And when the thick substance of your sweet cum smears his tongue, he swallows and he swallows like it's the last water in this world. And he’s greedy for more, pushing his tongue in until he’s milked you and dried the cum off your walls, lapping up at the juices of your sticky cunt until you pull yourself away from him.

You hover on his lap as Steve slowly sits up, chasing your lips as if your pussy wasn't enough; but you let him kiss you, nonetheless. The taste of him and your cum evading your mouth as you sit on his lap, soft wet clicking made by your lips every time your mouths closed on one another. Your hands find the button of his tight jeans, toying with it.

“I want you,” he whispers. “Please, baby. You can have me now. Make up for all those times I haven't been there.”

Steve lifts himself to untuck his jeans, stopping only below his knees so you’d rest your cunt right on his thick, hard cock that slaps against his stomach. You run your palm through your wet heat, using it to jerk him off that makes his forehead fall against yours from its sensitivity.

“I have you now, right?” you position his tip at your entrance.

“You’ll have me always,” and when he looks at you devotedly, like the moment wasn’t so unsanctified, you find yourself kissing him again. Like you’d found a place with someone to escape like a flower in the dark, blooming in the twilight just by your palliating touch. That hesitant love you’d felt blossoming from the broken ground and grows in the uncut grass, just enough for him to pick up and cherish.

You sink down to him, hole gaping for him to slip inside your tight walls. Steve moans against your lips, hands tight above your ass as you go down on him.

“Slow down, hon,” you shake your head. You hate being told what to do, deciding to just drop down onto him until your ass slaps against his heavy balls full of cum. “Jesus Christ—”

“So big, Steve,” you slur, head falling to his shoulder. “Cock feels so good…”

“Yeah, baby?” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This cock’s made just for you. Use it babe, come on.”

And you do, slowly grinding on to him, his thick cock stretching you more, his hands guiding you and urging you to a pace you wish to move on.

You don't know how long you’d been riding him. Alternating between teasing grinds and greedy bounces that has your walls squeezing around him. And god, Steve finds himself submitting more to you, despite the amount of marks he’d left on your neck and chest that muffles the loud moans threatening to leave his throat.

Steve wraps his mouth around your nipple, his cock disappearing from your cunt, the wet squelching turning him more to the edge whenever you’d slam down onto his balls. You moan in his ear, soft and small, almost innocent. But it’s not innocent at all — not with him balls deep, or his mouth on your tit, or the wet sounds created. Steve looks at the reflection from the window, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he urges you faster.

Everything felt familiar. Everything felt the same; everything felt like he never stopped loving you. Not with those gentle, lascivious touches. Not with the way he kisses you. You find yourself back in his arms just a year ago, being comforted in this heaven of his that keeps you from what hurts you, right before he'd pushed you off the clouds (and before he'd caught you himself).

“I missed this,” he huffs. “A lot. Touched myself to the thought of this. Then I’d feel so guilty. But now I don't have to,” you push on his shoulder, bumping your nose with his. “I missed you. And this tight little pussy. And your sweet, dirty sounds — ah. Fuck. Missed the way your cunt would just squeeze around me. Always using my cock hm?”

“Shut up,” you furrow your eyebrows, mouth parting. “I’m close again, Steve. God, you’re such an asshole,”

He chuckles. “What did I do?”

��You and your— your words. Fuck!” you squeal, clutching hard on his shoulders. “Are you close?”

“I’ve been close since you sat on my face. Think I even came in my pants while I was doing it,” he chuckles. “God, I’m gonna cum.”

You both do. Without warning but simultaneous. When both your seeds would mix when you kept on pushing his cum deep into you with every slow bounce you’d make. Steve exhales into your sweaty skin, both your hairs dried but slick with sweat.

When he looks at you again, like a star he’s found in the polluted sky of Hawkins, like a miracle fallen onto the palm of his hand, your heart flutters and builds itself again right in his touch. And it’s filthy, the way your cums would slip down to his thighs and onto the cushions of his car, but his touch’s clean and innocent in its intentions. A promise of never letting go; a promise of always being there to love you and being enough.

—

“I’m still going,”

The storm's gone. Left with nothing but the light rain that taps gently on his windows. The smell of Steve comforts you, despite the sticky smell of sex and sweat stings your nose from the leather you lay on.

He wraps the blanket he found beneath the seats around the both of you, your head on his chest and your hands linked together. Your squirming doesn't bother his concerns, but your sudden declaration does and Steve lifts his head to look at you.

Your eyebrows raise, legs tangled with his and your chin on the bush on his chest. “I’ve got a lovely apartment. A job that I found. I’m gonna work at the record store,” you trace the slope of his nose, sculpted by the hands of gods who’d given him all this sweet handsomeness. “And… It's got a lovely view, too. I need this, Steve.”

His hand runs through your hair, twirling your drying strands in his fingers. “I won't stop you. But I don't want to watch you leave again,”

“Then come with me,” you whisper. “It has a huge bedroom. And a kitchen, Steve. A pretty kitchen and a huge living room. A TV for when the kids would come and visit.” he chuckles at your pout. “Only when you want to.”

Unhesitating and prepared, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” he kisses you. “I’d follow you anywhere. Robin has Vickie now, anyway. I can— I can work at a coffee shop. Wear a cute little apron and drink coffee.” he smiles softly, deep lines decorating his tan skin. "And I'll be there when you get home. Smother you with love."

“Wouldn't be opposed to that," you smile at him.

reblogs and feedback are appreciated <3

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joshsjipple · 3 months

Text

Brother's Best Friend, pt 1

JOSH KISZKA X FEMALE READER

A/N: Hey guys! Happy Valentine’s Day! For those of you (me) who don’t have a Valentine and need a little spice, here's a two part series I'm gonna do:) I've had this idea forever and I'm so glad with the way it turned out. As always, this stuff is unedited.

Word Count: 4.9k

WARNINGS: 18+ this is very very dirty! graphic sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), LOTS of dirty talk and praise bc I love it, oral sex (m/f/ rec), face riding, fingering, slight hair pulling, slapping, slight choking, language, cum play if you squint, some degradation, minor cock warming, small daddy kink, p in v, dom (m) sub (f), fluff. Sorry if I missed any!

┗━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━┛

Your feet splash through the puddles of water resting on the cement. Rain drizzles down from above you, thunder crashing around you like drums in a rock n’ roll song. You cross your arms over your skimpy top you had been dying to wear for weeks and choke back another sob.

It’s late, probably around midnight. You left the party ten minutes ago after a run in with your older brother, Henry. You two had always been close growing up. But the older you got, the more controlling he became. You had only had one boyfriend your whole highschool career. Even though Henry was three years over you and graduated long before you did, he still managed to scare everyone off. Even tonight, even though you’re a twenty year old woman, he still glared at every guy who came remotely close to you.

“Men only want one thing.” He’d say after you’d beg him to stop interfering with your life. “As your brother, it’s my job to look after you.”

That’s how every conversation went. Every conversation up until tonight. Tonight, you’d finally had enough. After Henry shooed off your pursuer for the night, you’d marched over to him, anger bubbling in your blood.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you started.

“Y/N, what?” He played dumb.

“Why do you always have to control my every move? I’m a grown adult, I can fuck who I want!”

“Yeah, clearly,” he snorted.

“The fuck does that mean?” You raised your voice.

“Oh yeah, as if I have no idea about what happened on your senior prom night.” he took a drink from a can of beer in his hand.

You pause. “How-”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever. I was trying to protect you from this kind of stuff, but seeing you’re a fucking slut anyways, what’s the point?” he growled.

His words slashed through the temporary walls you had built on the way over to talk to him. This man, your brother, who you had grown up with and loved your whole life, was slut shaming you. You could barely stand as your knees began to womble. Without another word you rushed out the front door.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea, seeing it was storming and you came to the party with Henry. But at the time, nothing was worse than staying there and facing his hurtful words. With his friends around him, you felt outnumbered and solemnly betrayed. It was better this way, although, you were pretty sure you felt worse about the whole thing than he did.

Now, the rain picks up again and drenches your already shivering body. Your hair is a wet mess on your head. You rub your eyes, smearing mascara even further. Fuck it. You don’t care.

You jump as you hear a car approaching behind you. Your heart pounds in your chest as you tell yourself it’s just passing by. When it slows, your body freezes in its place.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice strikes into the night. You turn around to see Josh, your brother’s best friend, driving behind you. His head sticks out the window, a worried expression on his face. “I thought that was you.”

You stand in silence, unsure of what to do. You’ve known Josh since you were a kid. But he’s only been a side character in your life. He was always there, but he never did anything significant. Occasionally, he would drive you to places because you were too scared to get your license. He’d help you with your homework and eat dinner with your family at least once a week. But you’d never really considered yourself friends. Especially after he started dating your mortal enemy his senior year. But that ended soon after it started. You never hated him, your feelings for him were the exact opposite actually.

Like any younger sister would, you developed a crush on your big brother’s best friend. There was just something different about him. The way he talked about stuff he enjoyed and remembered the little things that mattered to the people around him. It didn’t hurt that he was good looking as well. Your crush only intensified as you got older. It went from a harmless crush to an ache in your lower abdomen. Of course, nothing ever became of it as you were a few years younger than him. Once you turned 18 you were anxious to tell him how you felt, but as his band grew, you overheard him and his twin discussing.

“No distractions, Jake. If this is what we want, we need to put all of our energy into it.” Josh said, his hand carefully resting on his brother's arm. “That means no women.”

It was never meant to be, and you accepted it. Things got easier as you both gradually went your separate ways. Slowly, he stopped coming to dinners every week. It became a holiday tradition for him to appear, smiles on his face and gifts in hand. You started college and soon, your feelings for Josh weren’t as evident. That was, until you saw him again. Then, all the feelings and reasons on why you loved him came rushing back.

It happened every time, so you weren’t surprised to feel everything again when he came to the party tonight after his six month tour. He looked refreshed and well rewarded. All it did was remind you how happy he was away from home, and admitting your feelings would only give him a reason to stay.

“It’s me.” your voice shakes as you snap back to reality. You squint your eyes at the beaming headlights and pray you don’t look as bad as you feel.

“Sorry, I probably scared you. I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted to find you.”

“It’s okay.” You say, feeling a bit awkward.

“Can I take you home?”

“Don’t worry about it, Josh.” you shake your head and start walking away again. Josh only follows you, driving right beside you.

“Really? I have heat.” he says in a tempting voice.

“I wasn’t going to go home. I was just gonna walk around for a bit.” you admit.

He thinks for a second. “Okay, come to my place. Everyone’s out so you don’t have to worry about disturbing us. I know you always do.”

You pause and he slows next to you. He’s right, actually. You hate to make people go out of their way for you. Turning to him, you give him a soft smile and tug on the passenger side door. He was right, he did have heat.

The ride to Josh’s house was quiet for a while. The air was stiff between you two, which is odd because usually you two had no issues. It felt different tonight. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something changed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing to talk about.”

“Okay,” he says. “But you can, if you want.”

You turn your attention back to the road ahead of you. “How was your tour?”

“Oh, you know. Lots of drinking, smoking, drugs, and women.” he says sarcastically, but for some reason it strikes a cord in you and you stop talking entirely. Josh notices and responds quickly. “Oh. I was just joking.”

“Yeah.” you say, rubbing your chin.

The radio plays quietly in the background, some old bluesy song fulfilling the silence. You turn to watch Josh, who has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his thigh. You stare shamelessly at his hand. It’s large and veins protrude from the skin. Your eyes shift up and focus on his arms, the slight muscles and tones skin. You run your tongue over your bottom lip and glare at his side profile. His hair, once long, was now cut shortly on the sides with curls resting on the top. His jawline is sharp enough to cut your skin, his lips plump and full. If his nose didn’t have the familiar bump on it, you would have thought he was an imposter.

“See something you like?” he asks. His tone is both serious and joking.

“Yeah,” you sigh, a wave washing over you. “You’ve changed a lot.”

“Me?” he laughs. “You’ve changed. I mean, you used to have-” he stops and swallows.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. You’ve just filled out. Like every woman does. Not bad-” he stutters nervously.

“So you’ve been checking me out?” you smirk. His eyes meet yours briefly before returning to the road.

“Uhm. Well. Your top doesn’t hide much.” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’s right. You look down to see the lace corset that is pushing up your boobs just right. Still cold and wet from the rain, your nipples press against the fabric. The view makes you shift in your seat, searching for friction.

“Yeah.” you agree and unbuckle yourself.

Josh’s hands grip the steering wheel, his eyes watching both you and the road ahead. You don’t know what has come over you, but the image of Josh looking at your tits makes your pussy throb. He’s changed alright, and his newfound muscles and hair has your mind thinking some inappropriate ideas.

You crawl slowly over the center counsel and watch his breathing hitch. He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. As your lips drag across the warm skin of his cheek, he lets out a breathy moan. Delighted with the sound, you tug on his ear.

“Jesus, Y/N. What are you doing?”

“You, hopefully. Unless you’re scared of my brother’s warnings.” you tease, your hand palming him through the black leather pants clinging to his legs.

Josh turns down the nearest gravel road and parks on the side, turning his lights on. He faces you in a haze, his eyes hooded and lazy. His hand finds your cheek and he runs his fingers over the soft skin.

“Oh baby. The devil himself couldn’t keep me from you.”

And with that, his lips slam into yours. You freeze for a second but soon reciprocate his actions. His hands tangle in your hair, yours in his. His tongue drags across your bottom lip, an invitation under seductive cover. You grant him access, allowing his tongue to dig into your mouth. You moan, and he quickly swallows the sound, supplying you with his own set of whimpers. He pulls back, his eyes filled with a mischievous glare.

“Are you a virgin?” he simply asks.

“I’m not a prude.” you scoff, taking offense.

Josh shakes his head. “Being a virgin doesn’t make you a prude. All it does is alter the way I’m fucking you tonight.”

You swallow harshly and squeeze your legs together at his words. “No, I’m not a virgin.”

“Okay.” he says before pulling the lever that keeps his seat up.

It reclines quickly so he’s almost horizontal. You smile and giggle as he smirks at you.

“Well, darling?” he asks in an accent.

“Maybe the back seat would be better?” you question.

Josh shrugs and opens his door. You do the same, meeting him in the back seat. You share the same goofy expression as you crawl to each other. His hands find your waist immediately and he hoists you onto his lap, earning a surprised gasp from your lungs. With your knees on either side of his legs, you connect lips. He tastes like alcohol and sugar and you grind your hips into him. He groans, and you can feel him hard between you. The few pieces of clothing between you two is all that keeps you apart. You rock against him again, your skirt riding up your thighs. Josh takes notice and pushes it up farther with his hands. As you bite and tug at the skin on his neck, his hands squeeze your ass. The gesture is strong enough to know it will leave a mark.

You let out a pitiful moan you didn’t know you had in yourself. He twitches against your leg, obviously finding it very attractive. Letting out a shaky breath, he distributes a soft smack to your ass. You jump and suck harder onto his neck, trying to muffle the sounds of your pathetic moans. Josh feels your vibrations and you can feel the smirk on his face.

“I think I have you figured out, doll.” he seductively says before smacking your ass again, this time, more firmly. You cry his name into the crevice of his neck. “Yeah? You like it when I smack you?”

You can feel your panties grow damper by the second. You had no idea you were into this. Or that he was.

“Answer me,” he hisses.

“Yes! Yes, daddy please!” you cry, the name leaving your mouth without thinking.

He whimpers and thrusts himself into you. You cry at the friction and find his lips again. You grind against his leather pants, desperately searching for friction. Josh watches you, his teeth biting his lip.

“Take this off, mama.” he tugs at your skirt. You unzip it and throw it up front. “Red lace? You filthy girl.”

He grabs your ass and lifts you up so all your weight is on your knees. He kisses your stomach and plants a kiss on the hem of your panties. His fingers that dig into your ass wander between your legs. The feeling of his digit sliding over your dripping core makes you shudder above him.

“So worked up, and for what?” he teases, enjoying the show above him.

“You.” you say weakly.

“How long?” he asks.

“Since I’ve known you.” You admit, feeling no shame considering you’re half-naked in front of him.

“What a slut, baby. And all for me?” he whispers, his finger dipping into you. “Take these off.”

You crawl off of him and do your best to gracefully pull the drenched material off your body. Once it’s off, Josh pulls you back onto his lap. You’re shocked and confused, but the look in his eye makes you ditch your expectations.

“You want me so bad? Fine, show me how bad and fuck yourself on my leg.” he spits. “While you’re doing that, you’re gonna tell me how long you’ve waited for this moment.”

You move to straddle his right leg, immediately working yourself onto him. He tears off his shirt. It’s dark in the car, but the full moon shines just right, showing you his soft skin and sculpted chest. His fingers move to your corset, toying with the back.

“As much as I love how little this top covers, I want the full view.” he unties the strings in the back. “Talk, or this is over. Tell me how bad you’ve wanted it.”

“So bad.” you cry. “Since you started tutoring me.”

“That long? You were what– a junior?” he slips your top off and leans back.

You pick up your pace, your arousal soaking into his leg. “I was so jealous of all those girls you would hang out with.”

His eyes absorb your breasts and how they look bouncing in the faint light. He brings one of his callused hands and teases the nipple. “So jealous of the girls who got my cock, huh?” He leans forward and begins to suck on the bead of your nipple.

“So jealous!” you say in a high-pitched tone. Your stomach tightens and you feel the familiar feeling grow in your stomach. “Fuck, Josh. I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it, mama. All over my leg like a good girl. Make a mess.” he encourages, moving to the peak of your other breast. “Bet you did this all the time. Fucking yourself with your fingers, imagining it was my cock.”

“I did, I did.” you say as your eyes fill with stars. You shake at the feeling of your release.

“Fuck. That’s so hot.” he breaths into your chest. “You’re a blessing.”

Pulling yourself off of him, you grab his face and pull him in. Your teeth knock together as you run your hand across his raging erection. He groans at the contact and fucks up into your hand.

“Suck my cock. I know you want to.”

You do. So, you pull away from his mouth and work at his buttons. His cock springs free as you pull both layers off his body. It rests on his stomach, glistening precum decorating the tip. You drool at his size, the length and thickness. Without another word, you dip your face between his legs and take him into your mouth. He shakes beneath you, giving you a sense of power you enjoy.

“Holy fuck. Just like that. Wrap your pretty lips around it.”

His hands find your hair and he forms a makeshift ponytail with his hands. Using this as a handle, he pushes your head up and down. You bob on him, hot tears streaming down your face. You take him as best as you can, gagging on him as your tongue messes with whatever area of skin it can find. He sounds so pretty above you, his breath hitches and sweet profanities being whispered to you. In one swift motion, he pulls you off of him and wipes your lip with the pad of his thumb.

“You take me so well, better than any other girl I’ve had. But I want to cum later, mk?” You nod. “I want you to ride my face.”

“Wha-”

“Please. I’ve waited for this too. I have dreams of you and I wake up so fucking hard, baby.”

His confession has you placing both knees on the side of his head.

“Tell me if I’m crushing you, okay?” you say seriously.

“Fuck that. Ride my face, hard.”

He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you onto his face. His tongue runs between your folds and circles your bundle of nerves strategically. He sucks on your clit pulling it between his lips and letting it go again. You grind into him, your hand smearing on the window like the Titanic. You’re a huge mess above him, crying his name and cursing. He groans into your core, the vibrations unleashing a whole new kind of moan from your lips. You pull yourself off him slightly and when you look down, you see two giant brown eyes staring back into you.

“You look so pretty between my legs.” you breathe.

His eyes stay burning into your soul as he slides a finger into your heat, his tongue flicking once over your sensitive bead. You cry out once. Then again when he slides a second finger into you. As if he's an expert, he finds your G-spot immediately. His fingers pump in and out of you at the same rhythm as his tongue. Rockstars are the fucking best.

Completely lost in the feeling, you grind into his face, your hands tugging in his perfect curls. You ride his face, chasing your own high. “Josh. I’m gonna cu-” The words barely leave your mouth. You scream and thrash above him, his arms keeping you glued to his face as he continues to lap mercilessly at your throbbing clit. The adrenaline and heat floods your bloodstream, making you extremely dizzy. If he wasn’t holding you into him, you probably would have fallen over.

After a few seconds, you detach yourself from your brother’s best friend’s face. It’s soaked with your cum and arousal, but his smile lets you know there’s no other way he’d have it. Crawling off of him, you straddle his cock. It’s pulsing between your legs. Having enough, Josh flips you onto your back. He leans over you wearing a shit-eating smirk proudly.

“Ready, baby?” he asks as he lines himself up. “Gonna fuck this tight little pussy and you’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

He pushes into you, not all the way, but enough. You cry at the feeling of being stretched, your hands clawing at his back. You both moan as he rocks his hips into you again. You’re dripping all over him, making a mess in his back seats.

“God, look at you. It’s barely in and you’re fucking withering.”

“Give it to me,” you beg. “Treat me like the slut I am.”

He pulls back before thrusting completely to the hilt. Your back arches, a cry leaving your mouth. It fucking hurts, but it feels like heaven.

“You feel like velvet.” his hips snap again. “Such a pretty, perfect pussy.”

Josh tucks his head into your neck, kissing and sucking across your collarbone. You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to keep him deep inside you. He snaps in and out of you at an insane pace. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, your mouth hanging open.

“So big,” you whisper. “Filling me up.”

With every deep thrust, you’re overcome with ecstasy. He twitches inside of you, causing you to squeeze around him. He cries in your ear, his lips tugging at the skin. His rough hand dances between your bodies, settling on your sweet spot. The pad of his thumb circles aggressively across your bundle of nerves. Your whole body is aching and arched at his touch.

“Do it, mama. Cum for daddy. Cum all over his cock, Y/N. Give it to me.”

Your body tightens as you cry his name like a story. Your nails dig and scratch at his back, surely to leave a thousand tiny cuts. As you pulse around him, he rolls you both over so you’re on top. You sink into his skin, the feeling of his cock still hard inside of you making you tired. As it twitches, you shoot up, you eyes wide open.

“You didn’t cum-” you hiss.

“Shh baby. Ride me?” He kisses your forehead.

The idea makes you smirk. You never did much with your first, or second. They weren’t into anything besides missionary and you giving them head. Josh wanted it. All of it.

You line him up and sink onto him as he throws his head back. With hands gripping either side of your waist, he pulls you down into him so you’ve taken every inch. His mouth hangs open as he watches you slide up and down slowly on his length, taking him as best as you can.

“I’ve never done this.” you admit in a sloppy tone.

“Like any of this?” Josh pauses and stares at you.

“I’ve had sex, Josh. Just not positions. Can you tell me how you like it?” You ask.

“Fuck. We don’t have to-”

“No. I want to. So bad. Just talk me through it.”

Josh, with both of his hands on your hips, guides you. You get the memo and roll your hips against him. “Yes, just like that. Ride it.” His words make you pick up your pace. As you figure things out, you add a few tricks to it. He’s whimpering below you, cursing your name as you fuck him just how he likes it. His hand harshly smacks the fat of your ass cheek and you cry his name. He twitches inside of you, letting you know he’s close. With one rough thrust, you collapse onto his chest. Your hands tangle in his curls, your rhythm matching his thrusts. “Your tits are so hot. Could watch you like this forever.”

He plants a sloppy kiss on your lips, the sound of wet skin filling the car. You feel yourself close again, noticing how your own body reacts. You squeeze around his length.

“Gonna cum again?” he teases. You mumble under your breath. Your hair is glued to your red, fucked out face as you take every inch. Josh wraps his arm around your waist to keep you from moving and his other hand connects with your clit. You’re done for. “Yes! Fuck yes!” he cheers as another mind blowing orgasm rips through your body.

You tremble above him and buck against him as you come down from your high. Your foreheads connect and stick together from the sweat. He leans up and kisses you softly, tucking hair behind your ears and wiping a few stray tears from your eyes. His cheeks are flushed and you cup them with your hands, admiring his state.

Once again, he flips you onto your back, his cock leaving you. You squeak in slight disappointment. “I can’t cum again, Josh.” You admit, eyes still closed.

“Wanna stop?” he asks sweetly, cupping your face.

“No.” you say honestly.

He flips you on your stomach in one solid, swift motion. “Good. I’m not finished with you. Stick your ass up, sweet girl.” He smacks it as you lift it off the wet seats.

You watch him from over your shoulder, his fingers toying with your entrance. He looks so pretty in the light you just want to fuck his face again. He fists his cock, stroking it while staring at your leaking pussy. He curses under his breath and circles your hole, oblivious that you’re watching. When he sees, he circles the head of himself over your sensitive clit. You shudder as he sinks himself back into you, this new angle unlocking a new level of pleasure.

He doesn’t move which makes you grow impatient. “Josh.” you cry, elongating the ‘o’ in his name. You push yourself against him, searching for movement.

“Awe. Pretty girl is so hungry for me even though she’s already came twice.” he mocks. “Show me how bad you want it and fuck yourself on it.”

With another crack at your ass, you bounce onto him, your boobs brushing against the seats below you. The friction makes you bite your lip. Eventually, Josh can’t handle it and he meets your bounce with a thrust of his own. You wither from under him, sweet noises dancing around you. He’s pounding into you at a vicious rate. Not a single thought circles in your head at the moment.

“Who’s pussy is this?” He growls loudly.

“Yours.” you whisper.

“Louder.”

“Yours! It’s yours.” you give in pathetically.

“Yeah it is. I’m fucking it like it’s mine because it is mine. Got it?”

“Mhm.” you cry, feeling his thrusts become sloppier by the second.

“Sorry, what?” he smacks your cheek and pulls you up so your back is pressed against his chest.

“My pussy’s yours, daddy!” you shake.

One hand wraps around your neck as the other cups your aching heat. He splits his fingers, feeling his cock pound into you. You tremble against him, your breathing quickening. “Josh, wait. I can’t. I can’t cum again, it hurts!”

“Poor little baby,” he bites your shoulder and squeezes your neck tighter. “Wants to play the game until she loses, huh? Not here, mama. Take it.”

His words have you bucking against him, using your own hand to circle your clit. He smacks it away and replaces it with his own. You both let out unearthly sounds as you approach your climax. With one final thrust, he spills into you which sends you over the edge yourself. You scream as your lips connect, his cock still spasming inside you. You fall flat on your chest and Josh pancakes you to the seat, his cock still buried inside of your walls.

“That’s my good girl.” he kisses your hair. Pleasure still floods through you, your brain barely processing a word he said. With hands planted on either side of you, he pushes himself off your body and pulls himself out. You feel the strands of cum fall from him and onto your thighs. “Jeeeez.” he says.

You flip onto your back, your chest still heaving. Josh is between your legs on his knees, throwing his shirt over his head before placing another kiss on your cheek.

“Does daddy just fuck you so good you can’t even get dressed?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The aggressive act is gone and replaced with the loving Josh you’ve grown up with.

“So good.” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss.

He falls onto you, his curls brushing across your face. Using your tits as pillows, he lays comfortably. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”

You sigh and giggle. “You’ve already fucked me Josh, no need to be a suck up.”

He lifts off of you again. “I’m not sucking up. You’re perfect, and I want this.”

“What?” the words tumble out of your mouth. “What about tour and the girls-”

“It’s you, Y/N. It’s always gonna be you. They mean nothing to me. They never have and never will. With you it’s real, and I want it.”

“But, Henry.”

“Fuck Henry. I was done with him the second he called you a slut. Only I get to call you that.” he jokes, kissing your nose.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“Are you?” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem too sure.”

“Josh I’ve been in love with you my whole life. You just fucked me so hard I won’t be able to walk for a few days and now you want me to be your girlfriend. I’m sorry if it’s going to take me more than a few seconds to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” he apologizes and lays back on your chest. “We have all the time in the world, darling.”

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #jake kiszka #sam kiszka #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka smut #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet smut #josh gvf #jake gvf #sam gvf #gvf smut #gvf #gvf fic #gvf fanfiction #danny gvf #sam kiszka gvf #josh kiskza fanfic

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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers.

chapter one: enjoy the silence (9k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. eddie sings 'be quiet and drive,' (#1) and shares 'enjoy the silence' (#2). chapter songs are in order and the rest are randomized.

Vows are spoken

To be broken

Feelings are intense

Words are trivial

Enjoy the Silence — covered by Lacuna Coil

You should've figured it would end up like this. It was inevitable, written in ink and smoke the first time you saw him on that stage.

The bar Steve has chosen for your date tonight is one you've never visited before, and you tuck yourself a little tighter against his side as you eye the crumbling brick façade and the skeletons of dry, brittle weeds that poke through the fissures in the asphalt. Despite your apprehension, you sway with a giggle as he guides you around a puddle frozen at the edges, high heels clicking as your eyes meet warm hazel.

"I know it doesn't look like much," Steve says, accurately guessing what you're thinking. "But my buddy's band is really good." He grins, cheeks pink and breath puffing in the cold. "I think you're gonna like it, babe."

Even the warmth of Steve's side isn't enough to shield you from the gust of bitter wind that cuts your bare legs as you approach the front door. He'd insisted that you both look nice tonight, which meant wearing a dress despite the cold. Though, when Steve’s eyes lit up with approval at the way the tight white fabric clung to your curves, it made it all worth it.

Now, you're only half in agreement with that sentiment as you cross your arms, gooseflesh pimpling even underneath your puffer jacket. Steve pulls open the front door, and the wave of heat that hits you as he ushers you inside is such a welcome relief that you sigh audibly.

You pass your driver's license to one of the bouncers, turning to Steve to ask, "Is that the friend we're having drinks with after?"

He runs his fingers through the length of his hair as the other bouncer checks his, flashing a grin when the guy hands it back. "Yeah," he says, taking your hand once your license is safely back in your clutch. "Him and his girlfriend."

"'Kay," you reply, but the word is swallowed up by the sudden swell of guitars, erupting through the hazy darkness of the room beyond. Steve guides you forward by the hand, weaving around bodies as he searches for an unoccupied table. You let him pull you along, eyes darting between gaps, trying to catch sight of the lit stage. You only manage to see a flash of pale skin stark against jet-black jeans before Steve is pulling out your barstool for you, holding out his forearm so you can brace against it and hop onto the tall stool in your heels.

Rather than settling across from you, Steve leans close, cupping his hand around your ear. "Want a drink?" He has to half-shout to be heard over the music, and you mirror him to ask for a vodka soda. He flashes you a bright smile and a thumbs up, hair flopping as he bounds away. A fond smile curves your lips as you watch him go, hand on some guy's shoulder as he shimmies by.

Alone and settled at your tiny table, the room's warmth, which had at first been welcome, is already making you sweat in your jacket. You shuck it off your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is looking at you as your body emerges from the thick outer shell. That familiar prickle of self-consciousness rises as you know— with that constant, unwavering awareness you have of your body— that the clingy fabric of your dress is bunched around your midsection. You fold your arms to cover it, cradling them in your lap as you wait for Steve to return.

A sudden voice, amplified over the driving beat, has your eyes snapping right to the stage.

"This town don't feel mine," the voice sings, its smoky rasp raking down your spine like a caress. "I'm fast to get away, far."

You sit up straighter in your seat, elbows planting on the sticky tabletop as you crane your neck to see who's singing like that. From your spot on the right side of the stage, you can see the bassist clearly, his forehead glistening with sweat beneath short bristles of black hair. His sizeable body blocks your view aside from the thin mic stand and the occasional glint of shiny red as the singer sways forward, a corner of his angular guitar peeking from beyond.

"I dressed you in her clothes. So drive me far."

You frown, planting your palms against the table as you leverage yourself up, heels balanced against the bottom rung of the barstool, body stretching for a peek—

And as you do, the bassist steps back as the singer steps forward, and you see him.

He's a study in black and white with a gash of red. Combat boots and tight dark jeans, rips in the knees revealing pale skin beneath; long dark curls, wild and whipping sweat-damp around his face as he presses his lips to the mic, chin tipped up and adam's apple bobbing as he sings; deft pale fingers adorned with chunky silver rings, fingers that strum that blood-red guitar furiously as he gazes out at the crowd; and behind the red, a pale, glistening torso, branded with a tapestry of dark ink that smatters across his chest and sides and travels down his arms like body armor.

"It feels good to know you're mine," he croons, and it feels like that voice is reaching inside you, pulling at something deep in your belly, something buried so far down you didn't know it existed. "Now drive me far."

"What're you doin', babe?"

Steve's amused voice in your ear nearly makes you fall off the barstool, and you plop down heavily, eyes wide and cheeks pinking. "Just trying to see," you explain, cradling the glass he's brought you in your hands and sucking bitter alcohol muted by cold, flavorless soda through both tiny straws into your mouth. The burn helps distract you from your embarrassment.

Steve slides into the seat across from you, angling his body sideways to see the stage, beer glass balancing casually against the high barstool back. When he looks at you again, a smile crooks on his lips, his hazel eyes warming as he leans his elbow against the table.

Even though you can't hear Steve over the guitars, over the drums and the bass, over that voice singing, "I don't care where, just far," you know what he asks you.

"Yeah," you reply, eyes darting back to black, white, and red. "They're really good. I like it."

You've sucked down two vodka sodas by the time the set is over, and your head swims a little as music begins to pump over the wall speakers, a pale comparison to what you've just listened to. With Steve's help, you hop down from the barstool, fingers tapping against your thighs as you sway, mind still on those husky vocals that taste like cedar smoke and barrel-aged whiskey on the back of your tongue.

From the corner of your eye, you see Steve perk up beside you, facing the bar’s entrance. You follow his gaze, eyes tracking peony-pink satin just peeking from beneath a thick coat, thick pearls hanging around a slender neck, fine strawberry-blonde bangs, and a megawatt smile. Steve waves and the girl waves back, dainty fingers wagging in the air, her other hand clasped around a tiny, heart-shaped shoulder bag. She hurries the last few steps forward, blue eyes wide and eager and locked on you as she exclaims, "Oh my gosh, hi! It's so nice to finally meet you!" She glances toward Steve and back to you, a sweet smile stretching across her pink lips. "I'm Chrissy."

You can't help but smile back as you tell her your name. You expect a handshake, but she opens her arms, pulling you in for a light hug instead. You're hit by a puff of expensive perfume as she embraces you, shoulder blades sharp underneath your palms even through her coat before you pull away. Steve slings an arm around your waist as she lets you go, and his fingers are warm and grounding against your hip. "This is Eddie's girlfriend," he explains, and you nod, quickly connecting the dots— Eddie must be the buddy he'd mentioned, and you’re going to have a drink with him and Chrissy now that the show's over.

"Speaking of," Chrissy says, tilting to glance around Steve. "have you seen Eddie?"

Steve chuckles wryly. "Probably gone backstage to find a shirt," he jokes, and the words make you blink. There was only one guy in the band not wearing a shirt, and that was the singer with the smoky voice.

Chrissy sighs, rolling her eyes fondly. "Typical. Well, at least it won't be all sweaty when I hug him." You realize then that Chrissy's still wearing her jacket, and sure, she might be skinny, but it's still too hot in here to keep a winter coat on for very long, even with minimal body fat. You're blurting the question before you even think about it.

"You didn't watch the show?"

You realize as soon as you ask that it could be considered rude; regret prickles in your chest as your mouth pops open, ready to apologize and make excuses. But Chrissy just laughs, the sound like a tinkling bell as her nose wrinkles. "Well, I mean, it's metal music. Not really my scene." She nudges you with an elbow conspiratorially. "If you've seen one show, you've seen 'em all, right?"

You realize quickly that she's waiting for an answer, eyes locked expectantly on you. You swallow, only one split-second to decide how to respond: say what you really think or say what she wants to hear.

"Oh, yeah, totally," you agree, smiling as she beams brightly.

What you want to say is, How could you say that when you've heard the way he sings? How could you believe that when you've seen him up there, pouring out on stage like it's the only thing keeping him alive?

But you don't. Because you never would.

Chrissy turns then, surveying the hazy bar, eyes scanning tables crowded with bodies. "Come on," she says, beckoning you and Steve to follow her. "Let's go find Mr. Rockstar and get out of here."

She takes you backstage, shuffling down the tight hallway in her stiletto heels as you and Steve follow, your jacket and his draped over his arm. She peeks into a couple of rooms, shutting the doors after her when they turn up empty. At the third one, she grins, pushing it open further as the shaft of light from inside envelops you and Steve.

"Hi!" She chirps, and you can't see anything but Steve's back as he enters the room ahead of you, but you can hear that smoky timbre as the voice replies.

"Hey, Chris." You can hear his smile, and you chew your lower lip as you shuffle in after Steve. "Hey, man." That voice speaks again, inflection shifting as he greets Steve. "What's up?"

You're staring at the back of Steve's wavy, tousled hair and broad shoulders, eyes tracing the navy fabric of his button-up shirt as he replies, "Nothin' much, man. You guys sounded great up there—" Steve half turns, glancing back at you with an encouraging expression, silently inviting you forward. You release your lip and take baby steps, peeking from behind Steve as he introduces you. "This is my girlfriend, y/n."

The shield of Steve's shoulder leaves you as he shifts out of the way, and then wide brown eyes meet yours, warm and long-lashed. As your gazes meet, an easy grin crooks on full pink lips. "Hi, y/n," he says, tilting his head and shoulders sideways and raising his hand in a jaunty greeting, dark curls spilling over one shoulder. "I'm Eddie."

"Hi," you say, suddenly shy as you feel like everyone is watching you, and you aren't quite sure why. Still, social graces don't entirely escape you, and your expression brightens as you add, "Steve’s right— you guys were amazing. Like, really good. Your voice, it's…" You scramble for an accurate description, coming up empty and settling for honesty instead. "I've never heard anything like it before."

Your sincerity makes Eddie's easy grin widen, his eyes crinkling with what you can tell is genuine happiness. "Glad you liked the show," he replies, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels. Chrissy wraps her elbow around Eddie's, leaning her cheek against his bicep. He's no longer shirtless; pale skin is now covered by a long-sleeved black t-shirt, white lettering and graphics blazing across his chest. You don't recognize the band, but you do notice that it's bunched at the bottom around a handcuff belt buckle like he's just recently pulled it on and hasn't bothered straightening it out yet. You find your eyes drifting back up to the thin ball chain around his neck, to the blood-red pick that matches his guitar, right in the middle of his sternum.

You realize then, as your gaze drifts back to Eddie's face and you see that he's still looking at you with those dark eyes, that all is quiet and that you've been staring.

Your cheeks heat immediately, eyes darting to Steve's face instead. You find him looking at you, too, though he isn't annoyed. Nor is he amused. Instead, Steve just glances at Eddie, and as their eyes lock, the hint of a smile dances on your boyfriend's lips.

"All right, then," Steve says, taking your hand in his smooth palm. "Let's go."

Eddie and Chrissy bring you and Steve to a nearby bar rather than drinking where he performs since, as Eddie tells you both wryly, "I don't wanna spend any more time in my place of employment than absolutely fuckin' necessary." Chrissy concurs, her nose wrinkling as she decries the lack of vibes in the bar Eddie plays at.

"This place is much better," she announces, flouncing into her seat across from you as Steve slides in beside you, his jeaned thigh warm against your bare skin as it presses to yours.

"It's nice here," you say, watching as Eddie stretches his arm casually against the back of the booth behind Chrissy, fingertips skimming her shoulder. It strikes you then, as Chrissy's bouncy blonde waves brush the chunky rings on Eddie's fingers and her pink satin dress presses up against his leather jacket, that, by all appearances, they make a very strange couple.

Steve distracts you from your observation by asking, "You want another vodka soda?"

You tilt your head, fingertip trailing along the menu in front of you. "Mmm," you hedge, lips pursing in thought. "Maybe a margarita?"

"Ooh, that sounds good!" Chrissy smiles, leaning back against Eddie's arm as she looks at him. "I want that."

"Sure, babe," he replies, smiling down at her, and when their eyes meet, you think they suddenly don't look so mismatched after all. Seeing their obvious affection for each other makes you want to hold Steve's hand, and you thread your fingers between his where his hand rests on the table.

You look at Steve to see him looking back at you already, hazel eyes soft, brown bangs curling roguishly above his eye. When he raises your intertwined fingers to his mouth, pressing a dry kiss to the back of your hand, warmth blooms behind your sternum, flowering outward into a sweet smile that brightens your face.

Drinking with Chrissy and Eddie is a lively affair, and you thoroughly enjoy the time you and Steve spend with the couple. You learn a lot about them: that Chrissy uses her high school cheerleader flexibility to teach classes at the yoga studio on Wentworth Avenue, only a few blocks from the apartment you share with Steve. That Eddie spends his daytime hours elbow-deep in the underbellies of cars at Gearhead Auto before moonlighting as 'Mr. Rockstar.' Chrissy often refers to him as such, a giggle coloring her voice when he boops his nose against her cheek with a grin. You learn that Chrissy is just as sweet as she looks, all powdered sugar and blushing cheeks, all caring blue eyes and soft voice until she gets excited— and then she's reaching across the table, clasping your wrist and shaking it in dainty fingers as her smile goes wide, revealing slightly crooked teeth that only serve to make her more charming. And you learn that despite his mean exterior— aggressive ink, long frizzy curls, pierced ears, leather jacket, denim vest, and jangling chains— Eddie is brimming with frenetic, infectious energy, all easy grins and wide gestures, all eager passion that lights those brown eyes from the inside.

You're surprised to learn they're from the same small town in Indiana— Steve, Chrissy, and Eddie— and had gone to the same high school before moving to the city. No wonder the conversation flows so easily, you realize as Steve chortles at a story Eddie tells about another mutual friend, complete with emphatic hand gestures and manic smiles that flash his eyeteeth as Chrissy collapses against the side of the booth in giggling hysterics. It's easy to be swept along by their mutual comfort, to sink into a sense of familiarity coaxed by Steve's hand on your bare knee and the sweet salt of your margarita that you lick from your lips with tiny swipes of pink tongue.

"I think I've only been to Indiana, like, once," you remark, and Steve chuckles.

"Trust me," he says wryly, sharing a look with the others. "You're not missing anything."

Though it feels like you've been sitting there for hours, you still find yourself a little disappointed that the night is over when Steve pays the bill, waving his hand in dismissal as Eddie pulls out his wallet. "I got it," Steve says confidently, closing the black book over his credit card with a decisive snap. "My treat."

You smile at him, leaning into his warmth, heart brimming in the presence of his generosity. You love how he's always ready to give of himself without hesitation, whether it be time, money, attention, or what-have-you. It's one of the things you admire so much about your boyfriend— one of the things that had drawn you to him when you'd first met.

The cold is still bitter and biting as you all toddle out onto the sidewalk as a little cluster, huddling close for warmth as gusts of wind tousle your hair over your faces. Despite your earlier regret that the double date is over, you've now pivoted to the comfort of Steve's car as you shiver in your high heels, thinking about the warm bath that awaits you at home. So it takes you by surprise when Chrissy turns to Steve, saying, "Hey, is now an okay time to talk about that, um, 'demand elasticity' thing…?"

You frown, brow wrinkling in confusion as Steve's eyebrows raise. He nods quickly. "Yeah, yeah, of course—" He turns to you, explaining, "Chrissy's gonna open her own yoga studio—"

"I hope," she interjects, cheeks blushing prettily. As her blue eyes dart shyly between you and Steve, you shoot her a small, genuine smile of encouragement.

"So," Steve continues, "she's taking a microeconomics class right now, and she asked me to go over some concepts before her midterm on Monday." His head tilts slightly, voice imploring as he checks, "That okay, babe? Do you mind?"

You blink as you consider it. The request does make sense since the class is undoubtedly in Steve's wheelhouse— he'd majored in finance in college and now works in a bank, so he's probably the best person to ask about it— but it's nearly midnight and freezing outside, so the timing seems kind of inconvenient. Still, Chrissy and Steve are looking at you expectantly, so you smile quickly.

"Yeah, of course," you say, voice entirely pleasant, shifting on your feet as you cross your arms underneath your breasts, mentally preparing to stand around in the cold.

Steve's broad smile is a reward for your acquiescence. "Thanks, honey." He leans in, enveloping you in the scent of citrus, mint, and saltwater as he presses a thankful kiss to your lips. His dry lips are slightly chapped but so warm, and you breathe him in, smile growing as he lingers close for a moment before stepping back. "Why don't you and Eddie go for a walk?" Steve suggests. "Better than standing around here, bored out of your minds."

As you look at him, Eddie shoves his hands in his front pockets, a corner of his lips quirking in a crooked smile. He tips his head as if to say, 'why not?'

You shrug one shoulder, letting it fall as you look to Chrissy for confirmation. She smiles brightly, blue eyes clear as she shifts towards Steve, leaving you and Eddie standing across from them, a small gulf between you.

"Sure," you say, glancing at Eddie again as he turns on his heel, streetlight haloing frizzy curls and glinting off dark eyes as you walk together down the sidewalk, the figures of your partners receding into the distance.

In the moment— in the face of Steve and Chrissy's approval— it had been easy to say yes to a walk with someone who was little more than a stranger. But now, as your footsteps crunch in silence along the sidewalk, you start to feel awkward, that familiar feeling constricting your chest as you wonder what to say, your brain a little scrambled in the cold. You peek at Eddie, and he looks significantly more relaxed than you, hands still shoved in his pockets as he lopes leisurely in step with you. He doesn't seem to mind the cold despite the breath puffing from his lips like a dragon and the pink flush of his nose and cheeks. You imagine, absently, what it would look like for those long eyelashes to be dusted with ice crystals, for frost to collect on those dark curls and shoulders, on that upturned face, skin like some pre-Raphaelite statue carved from pale quartz.

His eyes cut to yours then, one dark eyebrow quirking slightly as you turn your face down quickly, watching yourself put one high heel in front of the other, stepping around loose stones on the sidewalk. It's awkward enough that you were staring at him again; you think the ground might swallow you up if you were now to fall on your face—

"Let's get ice cream."

The way he breaks the silence is so sudden you nearly jump, eyes darting back to his face in surprise. His expression is open as he jerks his head to the side, indicating the building you're approaching: Miss Mindy's Ice Cream.

"Ice cream?" You blurt, bewilderment entirely unfiltered from your voice. "In the middle of February? That's…" You trail off, not wanting to offend him.

That brow quirks again, lips stretching with a slight smirk as Eddie replies, "What? Weird?" He chuckles. "Didn't know ice cream became illegal once the temperature dips past forty degrees." He leans closer, pretending to regard you seriously, though his eyes twinkle with hidden amusement. "You know what? You're right. Better not, or else we'll ruin your good girl reputation with such illicit activity."

You purse your lips at the light teasing, zipping your jacket higher, almost up to your throat. "Fine," you retort, "We'll eat ice cream in the freezing cold." You lead the way, glancing back with narrowed eyes. "But you're forfeiting your walk. I'm not willing to lose my fingertips," you declare.

Eddie throws his hands up in surrender, bending slightly at the waist as he dips his head. His wild curls sway as he jerks his chin back up to look at you, amusement clear in the curve of his lips at the corners. "Whatever the lady wants," he concedes, running a tongue along the inside of his cheek. You look away then, high heels tapping decisively up the steps.

The inside of the shop is empty, which is entirely unsurprising. It's also only slightly warmer than outside, though the absence of the wind is a relief in itself. The bell jangles as Eddie slips in behind you, letting the door fall closed; the sound summons someone from the back, a young, pimply teenager who looks entirely bored to see you.

"What can I get you?" She asks, tone flat but not altogether rude.

"I'll take a vanilla cone. Soft-serve," Eddie says, not missing your skeptical glance as you wonder why he'd choose something so… well, vanilla. He shrugs nonchalantly. "Believe it or not, I'm a simple guy," he answers your silent question.

"Underneath all the leather and chains?" You ask dryly, looking quickly away as his broad, manic grin dimples his cheek at your hint of sass. It's brilliant, his smile, almost too much to look at all at once when it’s directed at you. Like the sun.

"Yup," he replies easily, voice warm and not at all offended. He nudges you lightly with his elbow, and the brush against your puffer jacket brings you back to the current moment. "What d'you want?"

You scan the menu board. "A chocolate milkshake," you tell the girl, watching as her half-lidded eyes swing from Eddie over to you.

"What size?"

"Small."

She nods absently, scooping chocolate ice cream into the large silver cup as Eddie mosies over toward the register, taking his time. You trail after, looking at the back of his vest, at the giant Dio patch and its rich reds and yellows and blacks, such a contrast to the light denim. It makes you wonder whether he made the vest himself— whether he chopped off the sleeves of his denim jacket, cut the patch from some oversized t-shirt, laid them out on the ground and lined them up, double-checking before he sewed it by hand, persevering through pricked fingers. You've been wondering this for long enough that it isn't until Eddie's passing the styrofoam cup into your hands that you realize you didn't pay.

"Oh!" you exclaim, eyebrows crinkling in regret. "You didn't have to pay for me." You dig in your coat pocket, fingers slipping past gloves to find your wallet. Eddie halts your movement with a wild shake of his head, curls whipping.

"Nuh-uh," he says dismissively, motioning you over to the tables butted up against the far wall. "Come on. It was, like, four dollars."

When you don't move, fingers still shoved in your pocket, he goes without you, sliding into the seat on the left, lanky legs sprawled underneath the tiny table. You trail over, hesitant and still wanting to argue. Eddie looks up at you through his bangs, slumped comfortably despite the rigid chair.

"Are you sure?" You ask, voice high and hesitant.

Eddie huffs a chuckle, jerking his chin toward the chair decisively. "Just sit down, sweetheart."

He says it with this kind of long-suffering amusement that somehow keeps the endearment from feeling uncomfortable. You sit, perched primly on the edge of the chair, watching as Eddie appraises his cone, twisting it this way and that as if deciding where to lick first. Only once he does do you take the first sip of your milkshake, finally accepting that he isn't going to let you pay him back. The milkshake is rich and flavorful, and you lean back against the stiff back of the chair, knees together, high heels resting daintily beneath your seat.

There's a moment of silence as you indulge in your out-of-season frozen treats. Eddie is the first to break it, asking conversationally, "So, you like metal?"

"No," you answer honestly, and his eyes dart to yours, eyebrows jerking at the plainness of your response. "Not really. I'm more of a…" you shift your shoulders, eyes darting as you search for the words. "Like, folk-pop person, kind of?"

"Like who?"

"Like, newer Taylor Swift. Evermore," you offer. "Midnights is pretty good too." You pause there, but he prompts you with a jerk of his chin and a twitch of his eyebrows, the '...and?' implied. There's a flash of doubt as you list more artists you figure he hasn't heard of, but you press on. "Phoebe Bridgers. Lizzy McAlpine. First Aid Kit?" You resent the way the last one comes out like a question. Your eyes avoid him automatically, waiting for his confusion. You suck thick, cold chocolate through your straw as if you can avoid the inevitable.

But when you look back up, Eddie just smirks knowingly. "So, sad-girl music."

You huff at the simplified explanation, unsure whether you would've preferred confusion or this pseudo-judgment instead. "I guess," you concede, scratching at the corner of your fingernail painted robins-egg blue.

Eddie tilts his head, asking lightly, "But you liked the show?" The question is searching, skepticism implied, and a swipe of his tongue follows, gathering vanilla as he twists the cone.

You nod immediately. "Yes." Conviction swells as you remember distorted guitars, driving drums, smoky lyrics filling you inside, billowing thick and rich as he croons, 'So drive me far. I don't care where, just far away.' "Especially that one song that was like, 'It feels good to know you're mine, so… drive me far?'" You twist your fingers in your lap, sheepish as you repeat his lyrics back to him. "I hope that's right, but anyway. I really liked that one."

Eddie nods, burying a pleased smile in his ice cream, tongue snaking along the side of his cone again. But when he pulls away, there's a dollop of white on the end of his nose. "Cool," he replies, brown eyes blinking wide and innocent.

You glance down and back up, lips twisting against an amused smile, voice small and cordial. "You have—" You gesture vaguely toward his nose, the soft end coated with ice cream.

Eddie seems to feign ignorance. "Oh, what?" He tries to look at the end of his nose, fighting valiantly against the smile threatening on his full lips as you finally giggle. "Got somethin' on my face?"

"Yes." You pull a napkin from the silver holder against the wall and pass it over. "There's ice cream on your nose," you clarify, though judging by the twinkle in his eye, you suspect he's already aware.

"I was just saving that for later," he quips, swiping at his nose with the napkin, rubbing with a kind of absent disinterest before crumpling it in his ruddy-knuckled fist. He tosses it lightly to the table, paper skittering towards the wall. "You should check out Lacuna Coil," he suggests casually. "They're like sad-girl metal. Best of both worlds."

Slowly, you nod, brain scrambling to remember the unfamiliar name as it already starts to slip from your mind like sand through your fingers. You want to take him up on his suggestion, but you're too embarrassed to ask him to repeat it. "Okay," you say, a little wrinkle forming between your brows as Eddie chuckles at you.

"You already forgot what I said, didn't you?"

You consider lying, but his eyes are so warm, and he's not quite smirking— the smile is softer than that. "Yeah," you admit, and he holds out his hand, chunky metal rings gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Here," Eddie says. "I'll find it on Spotify for you."

After only a second of hesitation, you're unlocking your phone, pulling up the app, and passing it into Eddie's waiting hand. His nose scrunches as he peers down at the screen, thumbs tapping until he passes it back with a cheeky grin. "I added their best album to your library," he informs you, and you snort.

"Thanks," you say, half-wry and half-sincere, pocketing your phone and picking up your milkshake again.

You let comfortable silence fall, now gazing evenly back at him as you each consume your treats. It's getting easier to do that now— your eyes don't want to immediately dart from his when they make contact, and you lean back further against the chair, stretching your legs comfortably in front of you, skin finally warmed from the cold outside. As you relax, you realize you're too warm now for your heavy winter coat. You unzip your jacket, shimmying your shoulders to let it fall against the back of the chair behind you, taking a bracing breath as you shuck that outer shell again. Your gauzy long sleeves cover your arms, but your decolletage is bare, the white fabric of the dress clinging to your breasts and your midsection, the hem short as it rides up your bare thighs. You try to dismiss the self-consciousness that rises automatically— try to keep yourself from glancing at Eddie's face to quickly assess his reaction. But you can't help it; you glance anyway. You always do.

His gaze darts over the white of your dress for a moment before returning to your face, and even though his expression is pleasantly neutral, those wide brown eyes make your skin heat nonetheless. They make you want to squirm in your seat, to wring your fingers in your lap, to draw your feet back underneath your chair. Because you have that feeling again, like when you propped yourself up against the barstool, straining to see him as his husky voice reached inside you. Now, his dark eyes are doing the same thing: pulling at something buried deep, tugging it into the light where it can't be hidden.

"You like your milkshake?" Eddie asks suddenly, and the tension inside you is blessedly broken.

Relief floods to replace it, and to compose yourself, you suck another sip before answering, rich chocolate bursting on your tongue. When you swallow, your reply is decisive. "It's really good." You don't know what possesses you to ask, but you do anyway, words popping impulsively from your mouth. "You wanna try it?"

Immediately, you want to take the words back as he blinks, eyes darting from your face to the end of the red straw. You feel your cheeks prickle with embarrassment; you've only just met each other tonight, and now you're offering to swap spit via straw? What if he feels obligated to say yes when he really doesn't want to? Way to make it awkward.

Oblivious to your mental berating, after a beat of silence, Eddie responds. "Sure."

His reply is casual enough to put you at ease, so you nudge the cup closer to him, withdrawing your hand as his ringed fingers clasp around it. You hear him suck through the straw, though your eyes are fixed on your blue nails again, waiting for his feedback. It comes enthusiastic and brash.

"Shit, that is good." You glance up as you hear Eddie slurp again from the straw, taking a second cheeky sip, lips pursed tight as your mouth falls open indignantly.

"Hey! Don't finish it!" You reach across the table, grabby fingers extending for your cup of frozen chocolate goodness. Eddie doesn't offer it, but he lets you take it from him, his fingers loosening as you pull the straw from his mouth, settling back into your seat with an indignant huff. Your lips descend pointedly over the end of the straw, and you cup the styrofoam with both hands as you take a long drink of your milkshake.

A puff of air from his nose lets you know that Eddie is both amused and entirely unbothered, broad tongue licking the top of his ice cream, trailing traces of chocolate in its wake. "Wasn't gonna," he replies, mouth thick with cold vanilla.

Eddie crunches the cone as you reach the bottom of the cup, straw sucking up air. You shake it in your hand, peering down through the straw to see if there's enough left to try again.

"So…" You glance up to find Eddie with his mouth half-open, one finger scratching at his cheek. "Ah…" He trails off again, seeming sheepish himself for the first time tonight. You watch him expectantly, intrigued at the way his brown eyes flick uncertainly away from you and then back. "So, actually—"

He's interrupted by the resonant buzz of his cell phone, and he digs hastily in his jacket pocket, pulling it out and glancing at the screen before swiping across with his thumb. "Hey," he answers, voice strangely high, pausing at the warble of someone else's voice on the other line. "We're at Miss Mindy's. Nah, it's fine. We're ready to go." He lowers the phone, eyes wide and darting to yours as he stumbles, "I mean, you're ready, right? Are you ready?"

You nod, the hint of a smile forming on your lips as Eddie wedges the phone between his shoulder and his ear, scooping up your empty cup and the scraps from the table— the crumpled napkin and the paper ring from his cone. "Yeah, we'll meet you halfway. Bye." His chair grinds as he pushes back, unfolding himself awkwardly from the seat, forced to keep the phone pinned against his wild curls as he carries the trash in both hands to the garbage. The way he's suddenly so gangly, walking like a newborn colt… it strikes you as endearing, and you're smiling fully now as he spins back around on his heels, shoving his phone in his pocket and wiping his hands on the seat of his dark jeans as he walks back toward you. To your utter surprise, his cheeks start to pink under your even stare, brown eyes wide like he's been caught out.

"What?" Eddie questions baldly, and you just shake your head, standing and tugging your dress further down your thighs where it's ridden up high. You grab your puffer jacket from the back of the chair, pulling one arm on. You dig around for the other armhole, lips puckering in a frown as you fumble.

Suddenly there's a tug on the back of the collar, and he's there, hand pulling the material taut, holding it out as he mutters, "Here—"

It's the closest he's been all night, and what hits you most isn't the faint heat from his body or the tiny freckle under his eye you can suddenly see in high definition. It's Eddie's scent.

Smoke, smoke like that husky voice, but real; it's sweet and acrid in your nose, mixed with the herbal skunk of weed and, inexplicably, the delicate scent of apples. Your breath catches as though you're afraid to inhale more, to suck it down into your lungs; you search harder for the opening, finally shoving your arm through with triumphant relief.

"Thanks," you say, nearly breathless as you tug the bottom edges of your coat together to zipper them, eyes trained on your fingers.

"Sure," he replies, retreating back a step as you pull the zipper up all the way to your chin, fortifying yourself against the biting cold awaiting you outside. "Ready?" He asks again, and your eyes flick to his face, just for a second. You don't know why, but you're looking for it again— that glimpse of bashful pink on black and white. But it's gone now; Eddie's expression is a perfect mask of ease as a corner of his lips lifts in a crooked smile.

"Yes," you say, the door jangling its tune as you pull it open. "Let's go."

Your after-dinner bath was just as relaxing as you'd hoped it would be, and now you're sitting on the bed you share with Steve as he flicks out the bathroom light, laying on top of the covers next to you, the side of his face illuminated by the glow of his bedside lamp. Your flannel pajamas are soft and cozy, the heat from Steve's shoulder and hip comforting, like your own personal radiator. You sigh happily, bare toes wiggling against the smooth sheets as you pull your legs cross-legged.

"So, did you have fun tonight?"

"Yeah!" You grin, popping your birth control pill from the wheel and taking a swig of water to wash it down. "Chrissy is so sweet, and Eddie was really cool. I thought he'd be, like, kind of scary? But he wasn't at all. I really liked them."

As Steve watches you, a smile grows on his lips. "It wasn't awkward taking a walk with him? Sorry to put you in that position," he adds, and you glance at him to find his expression contrite.

"No, it's fine," you assure him, and you find that you genuinely mean it. "At first, I thought it might be weird, but he's easy to talk to." You turn back to your bedside table, picking up and cradling the water glass in your hands as you settle back against your pillow so that you're leaning up against the headboard with your legs still crossed. "We talked about music, and he bought me a chocolate milkshake." You leave out how you'd unthinkingly offered to let him try it, unsure how Steve would take that.

"I'm glad you had fun," Steve says, running a hand through his bangs, touseling them further. "Really glad, actually, because…." He takes a deep breath, hazel eyes catching yours. And just as you take another sip of your water, he says, entirely casually, "I was thinking we could swing with them."

You choke on the water, and Steve looks instantly alarmed as you cough, water burning in your lungs. "Babe, you okay?" He grabs at your shoulder as you hunch, hacking, trying hard to push out the word on the tip of your tongue.

Finally, red-faced, you sputter, "What?!" Your mouth works soundlessly, chest still hitching with little aborted coughs. "You— what?"

The 'what' comes out more helpless that time, and Steve's eyes soften as he rubs soothing circles into your shoulder, murmuring your name with a tiny chuckle. "It's not as out there as you think," he says, expression never changing even as you turn wide, incredulous eyes on him. "Tons of people do it." He strokes your hair back, tucking it behind your ear. "Plus," he points out, "you just said you really liked them and that you had a good time."

You're still reeling, but you manage to say, "I thought you meant, like, in a normal way. Like, 'Hey, honey, what'd you think of my friends?' Not, 'Hey, honey, would you wanna have—" You break off, heat rushing to your cheeks. You can't even finish the sentence.

Steve's expression is calm in the face of your incomprehension. "Well, are you attracted to him?"

Your face falls, your expression dumbfounded as your mouth goes dry. "W-who?" You try to swallow, tongue suddenly thick, voice several notches higher as you add incredulously, "E-Eddie?"

Steve looks back and forth between your eyes, examining your face as your shoulders drift up toward your ears. Your gaze darts to your lap, hands running over your thighs as you try to distract yourself with the soft flannel under your fingers. His voice is mild when he replies. "It's okay if you are, y/n. I kind of hoped you would be." He chuckles lightly, lips tilting with amusement. "I mean, it wouldn't work if you weren't attracted to him."

Your mouth works soundlessly again as searing, squirmy discomfort races through you. This conversation is utterly surreal. It feels like it's happening in a dream, and this is dream-Steve using dream-logic on you. But no. This is your boyfriend of three years really asking if you're attracted to another guy. And he's really okay with knowing that you are. More than okay if you're to take him at his word.

You take a second to compose yourself before asking carefully, "Is this something… you wanna do, Steve?"

Steve takes your hand then, soft fingers wrapping around yours. "Yeah," he says quietly, thoughtfully. "It's kind of always been a fantasy of mine." His fingers squeeze yours a little tighter as he adds, "Plus, I figured… since you told me about how you've always wanted—"

"Yes, I remember," you squeak, shifting uncomfortably against the bed at the reminder of your drunken confession from several months ago: that you'd always fantasized about being with two guys at the same time. But that was all it had ever been— a fantasy. It was one thing to think about it, to talk about it. It was quite another thing to… actually do it.

Steve's voice is still gentle and coaxing. "I still need to hear you say it, though. I don't wanna make any assumptions." He shifts more towards you, knee brushing yours so he can face you directly. "Are you attracted to Eddie?"

Your nostrils flare with the effort it takes to keep looking into Steve's kind face. Your mouth opens to answer, but it takes a moment for sound to come out. "...Yes," you finally whisper, the confession like a lead weight sinking in your gut as if you're ready for Steve's facade to crack, for him to grimace with disgust as he spits, 'I knew it, you stupid whore.'

But that doesn't happen. Instead, Steve's smile broadens, his eyes shining with genuine relief. "Good." He nearly sighs the word. "That's good." He pats your knee, looking not the least bit pained as he reveals, "Eddie's attracted to you, too."

That piece of information hits almost like a physical blow as you feel yourself blush to the roots of your hair. "R-really?" You squeak again, and Steve can't help but chuckle as you draw your legs up to your chest, hiding your mouth against your knees. "He is?"

"Yeah," Steve replies easily, eyes flicking over your pajamas as if he can see through them. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest, honey." Steve has never made it a secret that he enjoys your curves, but the reminder, evident in how his hazel eyes heat as they rake over your frame swathed in shapeless flannel, is welcome all the same.

You remember, then, how Eddie's eyes had scanned over your white dress and your body when you shed your puffy coat. The glance holds a different meaning now, and despite the lingering awkwardness of this conversation, you feel your belly flutter low, delicate moth wings swirling smoke. "How do you know that?" You have to ask, needing to hear it confirmed again, not quite daring to fully believe it yet. Maybe Steve is just making assumptions.

"Because he told me," Steve replies plainly, expression open and earnest. "I called him while you were in the bath."

Yet another shock, though not as severe as the others. "You called Eddie to ask if…." Your voice is faint and weak until you sit up suddenly, legs falling back into a cross as your head whips to Steve. "Wait. How do you even know they'd be interested in…" you falter, lifting your chin and steeling your nerves to continue, "in swinging with us?"

For the first time, Steve glances away from you, running his fingers through his hair somewhat roughly before letting his hand fall to his lap. "Well, we'd kind of already talked about it before tonight," he reveals, and it's like all the pieces finally fall into place.

It explains why Steve insisted on you both dressing up tonight to go to a seedy bar. It explains why everyone stared at you when you and Eddie first met. It explains why Chrissy asked Steve to talk finance with her in the middle of the freezing night so that you and Eddie could spend time alone.

It explains why Eddie suddenly got bashful right before he was interrupted by that phone call.

You can't help but feel your stomach fall, the sickly film of betrayal coating your gut as you realize that everyone except for you had been in the loop tonight. Steve can read the hurt on your face, and immediately he looks contrite, one hand taking yours again, the other gently lifting your chin until your gaze meets his, and you can see his remorse.

"Please don't be upset, baby," Steve murmurs, fingers shifting on your chin to cradle your cheek. "I just didn't wanna overwhelm you. I wanted to make sure they were even on board before I mentioned anything."

When your eyes remain cloudy, he sighs, letting his hand drop to his lap, and the lack of his fingers on your face makes you feel suddenly bereft. You swallow, throat thick as you soften. "So I guess that means they're on board?"

Steve latches to that shift, hopeful eyes darting to you. "Yeah, they are," he says, voice cautiously optimistic. "Look, all I'm asking is that you give it a try. And if you don't like it, we never have to do it again. Okay?"

Your eyes scan over him then: Steve Harrington, your boyfriend of three years. And Steve is a good boyfriend. He really is. You'd known it since your first date, when he came to pick you up in his old maroon BMW, jogging around the front of the car to pull open the passenger door for you, hair flopping over his brow as he gazed at you starry-eyed, murmuring 'wow' to himself under his breath. He'd been there for you when your nana died, taking care of you as best he could— checking in every day, letting you cry on his shoulder, even offering to help your family— and you'd only been dating for a month and a half at that point. And he didn't do it to get in your pants. He did it just because that's the kind of guy he is.

Steve buys you flowers just because. He still plans out date nights even though you live together, yet he's just as happy to cuddle with you on the couch, watch trashy television, and rub your feet after you've had a long day at work. He's always been considerate, affectionate, and unwaveringly loyal. He's the man you'd given your virginity to; he's the only man you've ever lived with.

Probably the only man you've ever loved.

Steve tucks his hands between his knees as you look at him silently, head bowing, hazel eyes turning from your stare. You soften even further as his expression falls, and he prepares himself for disappointment. This isn't the first time Steve has wanted to spice things up in the bedroom. He's the one who'd introduced you to toys, after all. This was just… a little more intense than his typical requests.

But is it really that unreasonable to ask you just to try it?

You suck in a slow breath through your nose, letting it out as a whoosh through your mouth. And then you reach over, covering Steve's hands with one of yours.

Steve peeks through his bangs at you, broad shoulders still slumped. With the other hand, you brush them back out of his eyes, a corner of your lips curling as they flop back into almost the same exact position. "Can I think about it?"

Instantly he's nodding, hazel eyes bright as his brows raise. He rushes to assure you, "Of course, honey. Take all the time you need. There's no rush."

You smile then, lips curving sweetly at his considerateness. "Thanks, Steve," you say softly, and he leans closer, fingers cupping your cheek gently as he kisses the corner of your mouth, lips lingering and making you sigh. He then presses a kiss to your temple before drawing away to meet your eyes.

"I love you," he murmurs, voice warm and sincere, and it strikes you then how boyishly handsome Steve Harrington is.

"Love you too," you reply, shimmying down as he lifts the covers to tuck you both in, clicking off his bedside lamp before wrapping his arm around you. He holds you close as you both drift off to sleep.

Except, you don't drift off to sleep. Instead, your mind churns with the events of the night, with flashes of tiny moments:

The clasp of Chrissy's fingers on your wrist as she shakes it in her excitement, blue eyes kind and eager.

The flash of Eddie's teeth as he barks laughter, throwing his hands wide as he tells a theatrical story.

The ease and comfort you felt as you drank your margarita, sweetness coating your lips.

The bitter cold on your legs as you skirted around loose stones on the sidewalk, walking in step with leather and chains.

The shedding of your coat in the ice cream parlor, revealing white fabric underneath.

Eddie's dark eyes and husky voice reaching deep down inside you.

Slowly, so as not to disturb Steve, you open your bedside table drawer, rooting around blindly until your fingers close around your earbud case. You slip them into your ears, face lit by blue light as you unlock your phone. You wait for the little trill in your ears to confirm the Bluetooth has connected, and then you pull up Spotify.

The new addition is easy to find in your library, and as you open up the album, you stare at its artwork for a moment: a figure, pale against a blood-red background, holding his detached face as if it's a mask, bandages revealed underneath the skin. You choose a song at random, guitars and synth echoing a haunting melody as soon as your finger taps the screen. It's a familiar song, one you recognize: a cover of Depeche Mode's ‘Enjoy the Silence.’

As you lay back down, tucking your hands underneath your cheek, the heat from Steve's sleeping body radiating against your back, you let the song wash over you, searching tentatively for that billow of smoke, for those fluttering moth wings. For that buried place you didn't realize existed, for what's concealed beneath it, now newly awakened.

And when, in your seeking, you find it, you know then what your answer will be.

#TKYM #blueywrites #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #hellcheer #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction

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anqelically · 3 months

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IKIGAI | OSAMU DAZAI X FEM!READER

003. THREE INVITATIONS

CHAPTER SUMMARY: The agency receives a case in which they must protect a certain man from an old prophecy

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Descriptions of dead bodies, the prophecy inspired by the tv show “the originals”

WORD COUNT: 2K words

SERIES INTRODUCTION | CH2 | CH4

OVER A MONTH HAD PASSED since Dazai joined the Armed Detective Agency. Although Y/N hadn't gotten the time to work with Dazai on a case directly, she was sure that he would be one of the greatest detectives the agency would have.

Just from some of the reports she'd read and the times they'd talked, she could tell that he was incredibly intelligent. He was quite a character sometimes, but that didn't hinder his brains one bit.

Three of the cases he and Kunikida handled could've gone wrong at any moment, but Dazai managed to outsmart the criminals. He and Kunikida were a great pair when they worked together.

Today at the agency was just another day of sorting through paperwork for Y/N. She thought the day would end with her doing the same, but she was mistaken when Fukuzawa called in all the detectives for a meeting.

In the meeting room, everyone sat around the long table. Y/N and Yosano sat on one side, Ranpo and Dazai on the other, Fukuzawa sat facing the board, and Kunikida was the one standing in front of it.

Meetings like this before the agency is even involved in a case usually meant everyone was working on it.

"So, what's going on?" Y/N decided to be the one to ask.

"Well, the agency has, obviously, taken on a new case. So far, 5 deaths have been accounted for." Kunikida hung up different photos of each of the victims. They were both their license photos and the photos of their bodies. "Here, the victims were all successful business owners in the Kansai region. Specifically, they ran their businesses around Kyoto and Osaka. You can see that each of their deaths is different."

The picture of the first dead man was in a fish tank. The water had turned red and his body pruned. His eyes remained open as the pictures were taken. Any person walking by must've felt like he was staring into their soul.

The second body was found in a pond in the middle of a flower garden. The woman, in this case, had her insides taken out. With the space, vipers slithered around her body.

The third victim's body was set up in a similar fashion in a dirt bed. Instead of his insides being removed, the lower half of his mouth was. Larvae were found all over his body and inside of what remained of his mouth.

The fourth died with countless bullet-sized holes in his body. Though, there were no bullets left at the scene. His body was wet, lying in a puddle of water when it was discovered.

The final victim, the fifth business owner, died by burning alive. His body, crisp and charred, was tied to where he passed away, which was in a meeting room. Alcohol flooded the floor at the scene.

Yosano grimaced, "How disgusting."

"I agree," Kunikida pushed his glasses up.

"So, how were you sure that each death is connected? Excluding that they were all found in unique circumstances," Dazai questioned.

"Each of them was found by multiple employees, and all of them saw the messages that were left with the bodies."

"What messages?"

Kunikida put another photo on the wall and Y/N read it out loud, "'And if each event shall be passed, may the end of the cursed be fulfilled.' The cursed?"

"If that was on each body, then I assume there's still more to come," the doctor guessed.

Ranpo finally spoke up, taking his cherry lollipop out of his mouth, "There's going to be one more, actually."

"How did you figure that out?"

"These killings... they're based on some prophecy from a long time ago. It was hard to find about online."

"Was this prophecy real?" Y/N then asked.

"Nope," Ranpo shook his head and answered, bored, "not at all. The culprit just wants it to seem so. It's easy to see through, really."

"So, how does it go?" Dazai sprung up, "Oh, is it a song~? Maybe we can all sing it right here and the culprit will come right to us."

"As if it would be that easy," Kunikida sighed. He recited, "'With each event that passed, the more light was revealed. Thou should know the signs of blood from water, vipers from the rivers, larvae from the soil, ice rain from the skies, fire across the water, tsunamis from the sea, the death of the cursed firstborn.'"

"A man found in a tank of his own blood and water, a woman with vipers all over her body, a man in the same condition but with larvae, a man with holes in his body on top of a puddle of water, and another guy who was found burnt to a crisp. Hm," Dazai released a breath as if he were tired, "the prophecy sounds about right. There'll be one more victim, and they're going to be killed by a so-called tsunami from the sea."

"That is where you are wrong." Everyone looked towards the president, who was the one to speak. He continued, "We, the Armed Detective Agency, will put our effort into preventing this final murder."

No one had to utter a word to express that they agreed. However, preventing the final murder required a few things. The first was to know who the final victim was. Y/N expressed this concern, and Fukuzawa said they had an answer.

The final victim, according to Ranpo, was going to be a man named Kei Yoshikawa.

Kunikida had no doubt that Ranpo was right, considering that it was Ranpo and they had the image of Yoshikawa in the files. "How'd you figure that out, Ranpo-san?"

"Well, their goal is to kill this cursed firstborn, right? Yoshikawa here fits that role perfectly. The business owners that have already died may have run their buildings separately, but this guy is the man at the top. He basically owns them all. From almost nothing, he built this life for himself. But with the recent killings, some people have begun to see the company as cursed— Yoshikawa as cursed. He's also the first and only child of his family. Hence, he's the cursed firstborn."

"So, how do we plan on preventing this anyway? Are we having Yosano-sensei stick by as we follow him?" Dazai tilted his head.

Kunikida sighed, "Yoshikawa is hosting a party in celebration of the company going 10 years strong. It's probably also to keep everyone's minds off of these brutal murders. It's tomorrow, here, in Yokohama. Due to the Armed Detective Agency's connections, the president was able to acquire us invitations.”

"So we're all going," Yosano took her chin off of her hand. "That makes it easier."

"The final plague can easily happen because Yokohama is right by the ocean," Dazai pointed out. "If it happens-"

Y/N interrupted, "We won't let it, remember? We'll stop whoever's behind it. We are the agency, after all."

"Stop a natural disaster?" Yosano quirked her brow.

Dazai cupped his chin, "But it's not going to be a natural disaster, is it? It's an ability. If we get the ability user, we stop the disaster. They'll most definitely be there because there's no way they can set up such a death without being in or near the building."

"Newbie's right," Ranpo commented. "One of you will always stick by Yoshikawa, as Dazai said. President wasn't trying to give us away, so he was only able to snag us 3 invitations.”

Fukuzawa slid 3 envelopes onto the table space in front of him, "Y/N, Yosano, Dazai, you three will work the case from the inside."

| 生きがい |

WITH HER FINGERS RUNNING DOWN HER CURVES, Y/N looked at herself in the mirror. Y/N donned an outfit that didn't have much color. She decided to wear a black v-neck dress that stopped shortly above her knees. As for jewelry, she adorned her silver necklace with a crescent moon pendant.

The following day had arrived and the time of the celebration was near. At Yosano's apartment, where Y/N used to live, the two women were getting ready. They were practically done, just adding a few touches to their looks.

"Oneesan," she called, "I don't know what to do with my hair. Do you think putting half of it up will look good?"

She looked towards Yosano, who was putting on gold earrings. She wore a violet dress, silk like Y/N's, that was off-shoulder. A simple necklace was wrapped around her neck, in addition to a similar bracelet. The doctor wore her hair like normal, the metal butterfly clipped to the side of her head.

Like how Yosano always wore the clip, Y/N always wore the red ribbon she had in her hand. After she would tie her hair back, she'd tie the ribbon around it. A gift for her 17th birthday, the first one she spent with the Armed Detective Agency. As long as she had it and the other ones she received, she'd wear it.

Yosano slipped behind Y/N, placing her hands on her shoulders, "Let's tie your hair back like normal. It'll make things easier if they go south."

Fukuzawa slid 3 envelopes onto the table space in front of him, "Y/N, Yosano, Dazai, you three will work the case from the inside."

The said trio stared at the president in silence, being the only ones that weren't notified. Yosano, however, had a feeling that she'd be called. After all, it was her ability that saved the lives of many.

"Fukuzawa-sama," Y/N raised her hand politely, "is there any reason for us specifically?"

The older man gestured to Ranpo, who only huffed. He answered, "Yosano-san can heal, that's obvious. However, she can't nullify abilities like you or Dazai over here. His ability nullifies other abilities. But if you're fast enough, you can do the same by taking them into your ability."

Dazai, the only one clueless about the full extent of Y/N's ability, darted his eyes toward her. The young woman was talking with Ranpo thoughtfully. Another person who can nullify abilities... Dazai wouldn't have guessed.

Though, Ranpo made it clear that there was a downside to her ability nullification.

"That's all that happens, isn't it?" Y/N weakly joked. "But even so, we can usually handle it. From what I'm sure we all heard, Dazai-san is plenty capable."

"I just want you to be careful with him, okay?" Yosano smiled at the younger one.

Y/N pouted, "Oniisan first, and now you? You guys make it seem like something bad will happen."

"I'm just saying, darling. Don't rely too much on someone like him." Yosano grabbed her heels and sat down, "In the end, we've only got ourselves. You two may be paired up specifically, but don't count on Dazai. He's too mysterious, that one."

Y/N looked at herself in the mirror once more. Her hair was slicked back into a sleek ponytail, thanks to Yosano. Behind her, she could see her flats sitting on top of the empty shoe box.

Her eyes dropped down to her hands, "Understood. Though, I don't think I'd ever fall into a ditch because of Dazai-san. I agree that he's actually pretty mysterious for being someone who jokes a lot, but that doesn't change anything. He's a member of the agency, a member accepted by Kunikida-san and Fukuzawa-sama. I trust their judgment, so I trust Dazai. But like you said, I'm not going to rely on him."

Yosano hummed, "Good thing, Y/N. If you did fall into a ditch because of him, I have the feeling that it won't end well for either of you."

The 19 year old made a confused sound, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not totally sure myself. But if he ever does hurt you, trust me when I say he'll get that pain back tenfold."

WRITTEN: 03/12/2023

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

i love protective!yosano okay 😔🫶🏻

@seneon @chuuyrr @kentopedia @cloudwisp @aureatchi

#୨୧ [ ikigai ]#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd x you #bsd #bungou stray dogs

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xoxoskai · 4 months

Text

Things that got overshadowed in RKverse.

Alternatively, things Rina Kent characters still haven't gotten over completely.

I was thinking about Rina glossing over the very traumatic experience that Cole went through at the end of Ruthless Empire, and it got me thinking. So, I wrote a little something to show that yes, love conquers all, but sometimes you still struggle with battles where you've been defeated too many times.

I won't exactly say these were things that were overshadowed as much as these things being experiences one doesn't simply get over in a couple of months. Experiences as traumatic as the ones some of these characters have faced might take years- if not, decades, to get over and I just wanted to bring them to light a little bit.

Silver can't look at dolls.

Ronan probably used to hide in his closet, trembling and shivering, and hated physical contact for a long, long time.

Cole sells his family's mansion and buys the rights to his mother's books so he can unpublish them.

The marks on Kim's wrists still give her phantom pains sometimes.

Jonathan and Aurora always make sure Alicia's grave has her favorite flowers.

Somedays, Teal feels so dirty that she spends hours in the bath trying to scrub herself clean of the demons of her past.

It takes Cole a long time to be able to enter a pool again and whenever he has a nightmare of his mother trying to kill Silver, he drains the pool out and leaves it dry for months.

At some point, Asher and Reina take their sons bungee jumping but after Asher nearly loses his mind when Gareth and Killian are getting geared up, the family decides to go home and indulge in other fun activities.

Sebastian develops claustrophobia after he loses Naomi for seven years.

Gwyneth makes it a point to hug both her parents as much as she can. She needs reassurance that it won't be the last time she gets the chance to hug them.

Kyle obsessively keeps track of his children after Mia's kidnapping. He has cameras installed everywhere near the twins' apartment and Nikolai's penthouse after they move to Brighton. He knows it's unhealthy, but he does it for his peace of mind.

Knox has days when he's away from Anatasia that he functions on autopilot to repress his demons.

Daniel still can't eat food on selective occasions. He prefers munching on peach flavored lollipops instead.

The first time Lia is teaching Annika different ballet stances, she has a breakdown and curls up on the floor and cries. Yan has to take Annika away and Adrian holds Lia and rocks her back and forth for a while.

It takes Sasha a while to not flinch at loud sounds/noises that are like a prelude to bombs blasting.

Anton has a hard time looking in the mirror because he stole someone's identity and hasn't made peace with it.

Jayden wakes up in cold sweat, scared that his father will finally catch up to him at some point. Once he's of an acceptable age, Daniel sits him down and tells him why his father will never show his face around them again.

It takes Astrid some time to get her driver's license. She mostly prefers to have someone else drive her around.

Xander has recurring dreams about waking up in a puddle of Kim's blood for years on end.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

Thank you for reading! It hurt my heart to write this, but it was still exhilarating in a way to shine some light on the not-so glamourous parts of some of our beloved characters.

#legacy of gods #royaleliteseries #rina kent #cole nash #silver queens #teal van doren #ronan astor #xander knight #kimberly reed

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afreakingdork · 1 year

Text

Crush Too Much - Part 7

RotTMNT Donatello x GN!Reader

Warnings: Light Angst, Fluff, Embarrassment, Overbearing Siblings, Aged-up Turtles

Synopsis: So you met a customer three times at work and that made a pretty big impression on you? That’s nothing to necessarily get worked up over, but when you’re all prepared to ask for his number the next time you see him and his brother gets involved instead, you might be in for something more than you bargained for.

FIRST 💜 PREVIOUS

“This would happen in New Jersey!” Donnie griped from underneath the van.

The street it had broken down on was desolate so you sat beside him on the road leaning against the large rear all-terrain tires. “How did you get your driver’s license?”

“Like anyone else.” He responded in time with the soft clicking of something being tightened.

“It’s hard to picture you standing in line at the DMV.”

“Oh, you meant legally?” Though you couldn’t see him you could tell he was joking. Kicking your leg out, you tapped your shoe against his ankle. “Ow. Oh. Oh no. I have been mortally wounded. Now you’re stuck in this tragic place.” His dry wit brought a lazy smile to your face.

You leaned your head back against the rubber and looked up at the sky. “We’re not gonna make it.”

“Time.”

You pulled out your phone. “Almost 8.”

“A surprising lack of faith from the individual that asked acquaintance to trust them before dragging them to arguably one of the most seedy restaurant fronts in the city.”

Staring at the lock screen photo of the two of you from your rooftop rendezvous, heat pooled in your cheeks. You wouldn’t have asked just any acquaintance to do that. The eventualities had been on the fringes of your thoughts since your meeting with Leo. For now you’d change the subject. “Tell me more about the van.” You shuffled your legs into a straight line and clicked your sneakers together. On the quiet road, you could just hear your aglets clatter against one another.

Donnie slid out from under the vehicle and posed on his side in a French girl manner. “I acknowledge that by changing the subject you are avoiding an admission of guilt, but hoo boy!!” He shouted and jumped to his feet. “I’ll take any opportunity to talk about the Dream Van!”

He held out a hand to help you to your feet and you took it. As soon as you were righted, he released you in favor of hugging the car. You tried to curb your smile by biting your lip.

“I spotted her like a glittering jewel in the desert of Repo Mantis’ scrap yard!” He ran a hand along the side door. “Still mostly intact, though obviously broken down, she called to me in a sweet language only I can hear.”

You were so glad you were already chewing on your bottom lip. “Purple?”

He stopped and shot you a scandalized glare.

The distant streetlight just barely illuminated the pearlescent paint job in said shade. “You mentioned restoring the original color when I complimented her earlier.” Tipping to one side you let your shoulder bump up against the vehicle.

“Hey!” Donnie pried himself off the van to shoo you away. “Insult the Dream Van and you don’t get to touch the Dream Van.”

Maybe it was the relaxed boredom, but you just wanted to press his buttons a little more tonight. You took a step back, hands raised in defeat. He gave a curt nod and just as he was about to return to his explanation, you reached out a single digit toward the van.

“Don’t…” He warned, throwing up a challenging finger of his own.

As soon as your pointer made contact with the cold steel, you were both off. You kept a hand to the vehicle as your rounded the rear. Donnie forwent the obvious straight chase line and lept straight over the van, cutting you off on the other side. His smug smile turned to dismay as the worn tread on your sneakers skidded on an unknown sidewalk puddle. The two of your unceremoniously collided. You waited for gravity to take over, but the world didn’t seemed to rotate around you. Blinking you looked up to find Donnie had reflexively caught you and was staring at your with a self-satisfied smirk.

“I’m starting to get the feeling that you don’t actually want to hear about the van.”

From your current proximity, you had a clear shot of the just barely marred shred of sadness in his otherwise deadpan gaze. “No, I do!”

He raised a single brow in question.

“I-“ You started and sighed, your eyes cast down from your delinquency. “It’s just we’ve been here for about an hour and I’m no help when it comes to this.” You nodded a head toward the vehicle and Donnie blew a relaxed puff of air out his nose.

“’Idle hands.’” He shook his head. “I have 3 brothers or did the prospect of an exciting night of science distract you from that?”

“You’re used to it.” You shook your head, parsing out his meaning. “I would say I’m a normal amount of excited for LSC After Dark.”

“It’s true.” Donnie tipped his head to the side with mild dismay. “If the Gilder Center had an afterhours event, that would be better suited to my tastes.”

“Are you telling me the science speakeasy and dance floor with a touch of science aren’t your speed?” You put on your best puppy dog eyes knowing full well Donnie had shot down the third Thursday party transformation at the Liberty City Science Center over text.

“Maybe if it actually had a modicum to do with science.” He rolled his eyes, but a thought seemed to strike him. “A techno rave where the beats per minute were set in a way to mimic heart rate.”

“Oh, it could be a five senses sort of thing!” You brightened, catching wind of his idea.

“A full body experience manipulation of one’s faculties.” You watched as he seemed to already be creating a mental map. “The ultimate implementation of jams!”

“Club owner has now been added to Donnie’s to-do list.”

“As if it already wasn’t.” His brows wiggled in a way that said he thought of everything. You smiled cheekily and felt a hum in his chest as his brain switched gears. That exact sound made you realize that he was still holding you. You cursed yourself for not taking the proper time to appreciate the moment. On the other hand, it was jarring that it’d felt so natural you hadn’t noticed it was happening at all. “Most of tonight’s events are placating stunts for masses that’d like to portray themselves as having scientific prowess. I’m more interested in gaining access to the planetarium and picking the brain of tonight’s Space Talk speaker.”

“Which we will miss if you don’t get the van running again.” Any hesitation you had about shifting his attention was immediately eclipsed by the guilt of causing him to miss the events he'd listed. He’d been willing to come all the way out to New Jersey to attend and that said more than enough about his excitement.

“Yes, of course.” He released you and brought a hand to his chin as he rounded the vehicle to gain access to the hood. “I regret having not installed a monitoring system!”

“Why didn’t you?” You followed him at a much slower pace.

He shot you a quick look that said you didn’t need to bother before scouring the engine.

You deserved that. “I wasn’t lying. I did want to know more about the van.”

He made a sound of wry sound of uncertainty, but spoke anyway. “It took many hours of negotiation, but I got the van and fixed her up.” He leaned back and you watched him disappear around the passenger side. “The Turtle Tank is my true baby, but her and Shell Cycles are more team oriented vehicles.” The back door slid open and you watched Donnie through the driver side window as he climbed in. “This is for my own personal use only. As such I retrofitted the interior with a miniature lab, but I left the exterior and major components street legal.”

“The dash certainly has a spaceship vibe.” You mused, turning your window attention to said lights and knobs.

“Mostly street legal.” He corrected himself and disappeared into the very back of the van. “I would have needed to rehaul the suspension to add a monitoring system!” He raised his voice to compensate for his distance. “The frame is basically just flat steel so the weight of the tech would have overtaxed the current build!”

“But because it’s an older car it was able to survive being junked to get into your hands, right?”

“Absolutely.” The vehicle shook as Donnie shuffled back out the door and rounded to the engine once more. “As Michael described it, I trend toward the ‘shiny and new,’ but there is a slew of merits to certain older technology. The first of which, in our current case, is there’s only so many things that can be wrong…”

You nodded, having not quite followed all the checks he had done so far.

Planting one hand on either side of the engine block, Donnie huffed. “The battery isn’t dead because the lights work, I tightened the terminals so those are fine, no sign that the alternator is bad, it turns over so ignition and starter work, and no sounds indicate timing belt or distributor…” He trailed off, clicking his tongue.

“So what’s left…?”

“That’s just it.” He lifted and smacked his hands down in frustration. “With my own two hands, I put every single part in this beautiful creature. I know where they’ve all been and where they all go-"

You watched as his face froze up. You blinked rapidly, making sure your vision was still good. Everything else seemed to be fine; it was just Donnie that had gone statuesque. “Uh…” You moved to his side. “Donnie? Earth to Donnie?” He was unresponsive so you waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello?” You were just about to touch him when his left eye twitched.

“That…”

“Wha-?”

“AbsolUTE IGNORAMUS!!!!” He roared back to life and you stumbled backward. Your heel caught the sidewalk and you sputtered to keep from falling. Donnie moved in an instant, snatching both of your wrists. You would have thanked him, but the look on his face said he had not done it for you safety. “Vacuum cleaner.”

“Vacuum cleaner?” You probably looked as pale as you felt.

“I was intensely focused on building the engine block!” Releasing you, Donnie whipped around and all but flung himself back into the van. The car bounced comically until he emerged with a small tool in his hand and dove straight into the engine. “Mikey had just finished his first whittling project and Raphael offered to vacuum up the saw dust.”

“Uh huh…?” You stared, mouth slightly agape. You had no idea what he was talking about, but you could hear something pop and the sound of a little trickle of liquid.

“It’s delicate work!” Donnie growled, pieces moving out of your view. “It takes a lot of focus!!”

“You rebuilt an engine from scratch…” You could only affirm what you knew for sure.

“They know how focused I can get! Which is why-" Donnie emerged with a small cylinder in his hand. “-when I was asked if the vacuum’s new filter had come in, I just brushed it off. Anyone of them is more than capable of opening packages!” He growled and held the cylinder out for you to see. As he jostled it the top popped off. “It’s not supposed to do that!” He hissed.

“What is-?”

“I had to special order some parts because of their age.” He reached down and grasped the lid of the object. “One such item was a fuel filter.”

“Which is…” You brought a feeble finger up. “That?”

“The filter that goes into the vacuum is cylindrical also.” He pulled the top off and blackened gunk clung to the ridges of the filter inside. “But why…?” Donnie dropped to his knees and held the object out in front of him in dismay. “Why did Raph think you had to saw through metal to get to a filter?! Why did he presumably put it in the vacuum, use said vacuum, then take it BACK OUT, PUT IT BACK INTO THE METAL CASING, AND INTO THE BOX FROM WHENST IT CAME?!”

You stared in twisted awe. You had never seen Donnie both this mad or this distraught before. “P-probably because it didn’t work…?”

“It didn’t…” Donnie’s voice had dropped down low along with his head. You leaned in slight. “OF COURSE IT DIDN’T WORK, IT’S FOR A CAR!!!” He screamed at you while snapping to his feet.

Now under the direct fire of the fury, you froze.

The fear must have translated to your face because Donnie dropped out of the snarl and you watched his eyes dart around your features. He pulled back and closed a hand around the filter. “I apologize. I’m not mad at you… I just…” He hung his head and went silent.

Still coming off the frightened adrenaline rush, you shifted your shoulders. “It’s… ok…”

“No, it’s not.”

“Donnie…” Tightened restraints wrapped around your heart as you realized he was distraught in a different way now.

“I’ll order you a ride home.” With his free hand, he unearthed his phone from his hoodie’s pocket.

“Wait!” It wasn’t just your mouth for once. Your whole body moved before your mind could process it. You leapt forward and covered his phone with your hands.

“It’s probably better for you to go home. I’ll wait here with the Dream Van until an auto shop opens up and get the part.”

You might have let him get away with it if had he moved even a muscle. Instead, he continued to keep his head down, staring at your hands. “Worries was one of the things we promised to discuss, remember?”

He was quiet, but gave a single tight nod.

“You were really excited for tonight.”

Another nod.

“Do you want to ship me off and let it end like this?” You wished so badly that he would look at you,

“It’s already 9, we really weren’t ever going to make it.”

“What did you say before?” You put force down on the phone. Like a pulley system, as his hands went down and his head lifted up. “Changing subjects was admitting guilt?”

“Incorrect.” His gaze was guarded.

“Ok, I didn’t get the exact words you used…”

“No.” He shook his head. “Incorrect as in I was not admitting guilt. I don’t want the night to end like this.”

“So, you just want to ship me off?” You didn’t mean for it to sound bitter, but maybe it was just the inherent content of the sentence.

“Absolutely not!” You were taken back by his sudden sternness. “I just…” He turned his head away. “I find it hard to look at you right now because when I do I’m reminded of the face you made earlier.”

You weren’t sure what to say.

“I snapped at you and you were scared of me.” You could feel the slightest tremble of his hands through the phone. “Your easy going temperament means you’re quick to forgive, but the same can't be said about me.”

“I don’t know if I would call myself easy-going…” The notion seemed ridiculous given your ever present anxieties.

“You put up with me.” He turned and gave you a serious glance. His tone dripped with scornful sarcasm.

“Is that what you think?” You pushed his phone down all the way and stepped right into his personal space so he was forced to look at you. “I love spending time with you. Our banter, discussions, even when you just come in to pick up your weekly pizza order! Did any of that seem like I was just dealingwith your existence?”

It was a logic query that you knew he had no chance of rationalizing himself out of.

It took several moments, but the creases in his brow softened. “Emotions tend to be a grey area for me. When I feel them, I am often swept and bested.”

You tilted your head. That was familiar. “You must be joking.”

He was taken aback, but before he could protest, you continued.

“Yes, this time you got too heated, but this whole situation is beyond frustrating!” You swung your arms in a wide gesture. “It’s a very normal reaction.” He was so close you could see your reflection in his eyes. “I have never once thought of you as emotionless. You’re not heartless; you just struggle with articulating your emotions sometimes.”

He stared down at you with such intensity that you thought you might wilt under his gaze alone. Just as the speed of your heart rate was reaching critical levels, he took a step back and centered himself deep breath. “Since, and you won’t hear me often admit this because it almost never happens, but I am not in my right mind. What do you propose we do now?”

You cleared your throat to get ahold of your own emotions before looking at him ruefully. “We make the guys, specifically Raph, pick us and the Dream Van up. When we’re on our way home, explaining what happened, you should show him the part without letting on that you know what happened.”

You watched as some life was breathed back into the otherwise limp hero. “Make him stew?” Donnie craned an eyebrow up in tentative curiosity.

“Just this once I thought I’d take inspiration from someone.” You rolled on the balls of your feet while giving him occasional side eyes.

“Finally.” He rounded the van and closed the open door. You were about to follow when he hopped on top of the vehicle and looked down at you. “I was wondering when I’d rub off on you.”

You smiled up at him and he offered his hand. Curious, you took it and squeaked in surprise as he hoisted you up onto the van with him. “Is it ok to be on top of your second baby?”

“She’s reinforced.” He noted and collapsed back onto the roof. He then held his phone above his head and appeared to be typing something out.

You folded your legs up against you body and rested your chin on your knees. You listened to the soft pattering of fingers on a phone screen until there was a thump against the roof. You turned to find Donnie had let his arm collapse, phone in hand one hand and the fuel filter in the other.

“Our target will be here in T-minus 24 minutes.” He reported with his eyes drifting shut.

“When you say it like that I don’t know how long I’ll be able to play the part.” You chuckled lightly, your lids feeling a similar tug.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” A long swath of silence stretched out between you before Donnie broke it with a barely legible, “Thank you.”

In case that was some kind of sleepy comment not meant for your ears, you responded with a soft hum of affirmation. You thought he might have fallen asleep when another sentence slipped from him.

“This is just like when Jupiter Jim became stranded on Sectron…”

That name sounded vaguely familiar. “Jupiter Jim.” You whispered carefully. “Is that like a movie character?” You had truly meant it as a wonder for yourself.

“Yeah, you know.” He folded his phone hand over his chest. “Marcus Moncrief?”

“Huh, never seen it.”

Donnie snapped upright so fast the whole van shook.

“Par-DON!?”

You didn’t think you had ever been this tired in your whole life. The final scenes of the movie swam across your face. You tried to keep your eyes focused as Lou Jitsu tore his way through a sea of bad guys. Every time you lost focus, the image would start to blur. You squinted as suddenly the action stopped. You allowed yourself to blink for what felt like the first time in several minutes. When you opened them a snappy one-liner was quipped and then a big ‘The End’ card appeared. Sleep drunk, the room darkened as the only light source scrolled with credits.

“Did…” You own voice sounded foreign. “Did we do it?”

“Every-” Donnie’s speech seemed as affected as yours. You could hear him lick his lips, but it seemed like too much energy to turn and look at him. “Single Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu movie has been consumed. Congratulations. You are now caught up.”

“Hurray.” You couldn’t muster any emotion to the word. After his discovery the night of the failed museum trip, Donnie had been hyperfocused on getting you caught up on ‘all the good cinema you had missed.’ He was very lucky in several regards. The first was that it was now summer so your schedule had freed up. The second was you no longer had any summer classes to attend to with your internship on its way and, finally, that said internship did not start until the beginning of the next month. Based on Donnie incessant pestering though, you wouldn’t have lasted more than a week without succumbing to the movie marathon. In fact, you’d made it exactly three days and only had to trade one shift to squeeze the event in.

As if on cue, both of you collapsed back into the couch at the same time. When had you even started leaning forward? With only back support now squared away and lethally low energy in the tank, you body threatened to fall further. You were trying to calculate if you would hit your head on the armrest if you fell to the right when Donnie’s hand shuffled between you to unearth his phone. The simple movement bumped your shoulders and your body gave into the motion. With a soft thump, the side of your head gently plopped right onto his shoulder. You weren’t sure if it was pure exhaustion, but he didn’t seem to notice. From your new view, you could see he was now holding his phone in hand, tilted so both of you could see it. Staring at the dark screen, his thumb seemed to move in slow motion as he activated the device. It read the time and date against a glowing purple motherboard background.

“That’s…” You stared. It took so much effort to speak. “How long…?” You hoped and hoped that he understood.

“31 hours, 32 minutes, and 47 seconds…” He didn’t unlock his phone and you both watched as it went back to sleep.

“I… will never move… again…” You whined softly.

“When…” He trailed off and took a deep breath. “When do you normally go to sleep?”

That seemed like an odd question, but you couldn’t think of what a normal one would even be. “Around 2am?”

“Then we need to stay awake for 27 more minutes.”

“You’re joking!” It was so surprising that it gave you just enough energy to boost your voice.

“No.” You could see his reflection in the darkened phone screen and his face was the definition of neutral. “It’ll keep your sleep schedule on track.”

“How…?” You wanted to ask how you would stay awake, but the rest of the sentence was lost.

“I can’t... explain…” You watched his reflection close its eyes in defeat. You felt bad for mirror Donnie until it sunk in what he had said. You had to try harder, for his sake.

“No…” You shifted your head enough to just bump his. “How will we stay up… that long?”

“Oh.” His reflection’s mouth formed a perfect circle. His thumb moved again and the screen illuminated once more. He unlocked his phone and opened an internet window. It then sat there, static, with only suggested articles at the bottom.

“Donnie?” You wondered and his head flopped over atop yours.

“Thinking.” He responded weekly, his thumb hovering over the screen.

If you had a shred of your mind left, you would have screamed at your current contact. Instead you were left as a husk with no inhibitions. “I don’t think I can… make it home…”

“Sleep here.” If he meant literally right where you were on the couch, that sounded like everything good and perfect in this world. When you’d first arrived at the lair at 5pm the previous day, you’d been blown away by the short tour. His family had dropped in throughout the marathon in stages, but for the last 2 movies only you and Donnie remained.

“You say sleep…” Why were you wasting energy on this? “I say how high.” That didn’t even make sense.

“Dumb.” He responded, finally typing something into the search bar. Your eyes lost focus again. When it returned you were staring at a news feed.

“Nooo…” You whined. That was going to put you more to sleep.

“Don’t complain.” His voice was somehow flatter than usual. “You have 11 minutes and 17 seconds on me.”

“What… are you talking about?” You couldn’t see his reflection anymore in the bright screen.

“You micronapped during Punch Chowder.” He thumbed over the screen, scrolling.

“I did?” You wondered how he knew to the very second how long you were out.

“One fight sequence missed.” Another line of articles floated by.

“Did I miss… a lot?”

He shook his head and you could feel the motion as if he was settling down further into your hair. “We’ll discuss… later.”

“Many movie discuss…” You nodded also. You were really starting to lose touch with reality now that you had nothing to focus on.

“Pick one.”

“An article?” That seemed like so much work.

“16 minutes left.”

Was that an answer to your question? How had both so much and so little time passed?

With the phone balanced on Donnie’s right thigh, you managed to drag your left hand out from where it was squished between both your legs and plop it next to the device. Your index finger wobbled as you pointed at the screen and managed to flick through a few articles. A pretty picture of a starry sky caught your attention. “That one.” You pointed at the photograph while simultaneously opening the article.

“There’s a meteor shower next week…” Donnie paraphrased the headline. He then took back control of the phone and scrolled over the blur of text.

You swore an entirely different Donatello had talked about a planetarium.

“Wanna go?”

“Mm.” It was more of a hum, but it sounded like a confirmation. “Together?”

That was more concrete. “Yeah.”

“Ok.” He gave another nod and you were sure your hair was going to look like a nest. “New telescope…” There was just the tiniest dash of excitement to that. He was too cute. You wished you were more awake so you could enjoy how sleepy he was.

“It’s a date.”

His thumb stopped, but it was also at the end of the article. You watched as he moved to the back button, but hovered over it instead of clicking. Why was he hesitating?

“It’s a date.” He finally spoke after what had seemed like hours had passed.

“Think we’ll remember?” You could barely remember the last thing you said. There was a nagging feeling it was important.

Donnie made another inconspicuous noise and closed the internet browser. He then thumbed over to a calendar that was packed with dozens of multicolored notes. You had no energy to marvel at his efficiencies as he opened up a specific day next week and added a new event.

‘Meteor Shower Date’

You watched him thumb quickly through several reminders, but your eyes refused to focus enough to tell you when they were set. He closed the window and the home screen picture of both of you was marred by a atomic clock.

“Three minutes.”

“Can’t we cheat it?”

“No.”

You both fell asleep with one minute remaining.

A/N: What's the Dream Van you ask? It's a Donatello-themed Hot Wheels Toy I saw! The XGW is technically not a real car, except it is now.

So there’s like 8 Lou Jitsu movies named in Rise and in "Repo Mantis" Donnie says there’s 60 sequels to “Jupiter Jim’s Last Trip to the Moon” alone, but man there’s like only 40 Godzilla movies so… I used the number for when I did my own marathon which was watching every single episode of Ed, Edd, and Eddy in a row to the premiere of Big Picture Show so like… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#crushtoomuchfic #rottmnt donnie x reader #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt donnie #cartoons #fanfiction #my fanfiction #me

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wmarximoff · 2 years

Text

tear you apart | w. maximoff

summary: sometimes when your morbid interests turn out to be too much to handle, you need Wanda to calm your spirits down.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, dark!Wanda, graphic depiction of dead body, somewhat graphic depiction of dismemberment, graphic depiction of blood, praise kink, strap-on sex, somnophilia, degradation, kinda dubcon, slight corruption/innocence kink, manipulation, toxic relationship, bottom!Wanda, top!reader.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: btw this is my first time dealing with somnophilia so take it easy on me here ok!

༺ᱬ༻

Faced with the thick, damp, obscure darkness, you saw red. Warm crimson color vivid, flowing concentrated, or coagulated in extensive puddles located at specific points on the rough concrete floor of the low-ceilinged brick-walled basement permeated by a bochohornous climate, a stuffy, compact oxygen, difficult to breathe with the lungs.

You sighed, stagnant in a moment of deep latent esteem, like the artist who jokes about the final product of their masterpiece. Your will grew and sprouted and expanded. There was dark blood under your nails.

The metallic odor of hemoglobin and plasma rose higher and higher from the bowels of the earth like an invisible hand that entered your moist, half-open mouth, descending down your throat, consolidating itself into a single amalgamation of the aroma of lime and the compact smell of damp wood who took possession of the room lacking furniture, except for a small tin locker that could be pointed in one remote corner, or an even smaller scratched wooden table, smeared with heterogeneous streaks of brownish old blood, in another one.

Occasionally, gravity would trickle, from the ceiling straight down to near your left shoulder, particles of water from some probable plumbing that passed right over your head, over that scrawny, funneled yellow lamp that hung solitaryly from a dim and waning coloring that did not do much to brighten up the room that only seemed destined to be dark and excruciating.

Between the screwed-on fingers of both your hands pressed into fists (your knuckles covered in a grated layer of hot blood), your elbows dropped down from your hips like pendulums, stretching your forearms like the magnetism of a lodestone to the center of the earth as your palms pressed against the smooth wooden handle of a sharp-edged axe held just in front of your pelvic region, the metal plate of the tool's face soaked with red, fresh blood from a string of blows delivered voraciously against the hardness of the parietal bone of the human cranium.

Raising and lowering. Raising and lowering. Jets of blood sprayed up and to the sides, painting the walls red as hellfire. Moving your hips, your shoulders, your elbows; your knees bent, almost like a tennis match. Knead the skull. Guaranteed point.

You grunted like a predator tearing apart the carcass of your last prey when something bestial screeched primally in your degenerate core, returning to your untamed roots as you gave up your civilized goodwill to become something more, something beyond that; something beyond the experience of a human feel.

And the red, so clear and vivid and even sinisterly dangerous, was indeed alluring to your vision as it flowed in gulfs from a profuse cut on the back protrusion of the cracked skull, strangely deformed and crumpled, of a young girl with long dark hair lying inert on the dirty floor, locks soaked in that murky liquid that hardened the softness of those curls – her taut forearms drawn back behind her torso, her wrists clung irrefutably unpleasantly before her coccyx bone by a pair of silver handcuffs, face down like she fell there and dragged herself like a fish out of water away from you, like she couldn't get up before her head snapped in half.

The bloodied driver's license laid out on that little table in the corner said the name Jemma Anne Simmons. She was dressed only in a pair of matching underwear (the light lacy fabric splattered with dark blood and brain matter like red raindrops). The pupils of the dilated, brownish iris eyes seemed to want to pop out of their sockets; the forehead and face contorted in a tangle of expressions manifested by that faded stare (you could call it fear, but then also agony, pain, regret) that in the end no longer mean anything more.

A drop of sweat poured from your right temple and dripped to the floor between your feet, where the blood was already pooling. You held the oxygen inside your lungs before raising the blade behind your head once more, bringing it down fiercely against the back of the dead girl's neck. The sound was hollow and watery as the flesh split open, like a blade being driven into a pumpkin. Perhaps that was how Raskolnikov had felt when he hit the old woman in Crime and Punishment.

Taking them apart has always been the most exciting part. Disarticulating the bones from the joints, cutting the sinews, the skin, the flesh, the muscles, that would surely be a therapeutic monthly event for you (it was like quenching the dehydration of the thirsty, or the starvation of the hungry).

Ravenous doses of adrenaline laced your brain chemistry into a rush of emotions, and the compulsive dopamine instilled an ecstatic euphoria inside your chest. After all, cutting them off the limbs meant they were ready to be thrown away. So the job was done. It was the culmination of your actions in an outcome seen right before your eyes. And you got away with it – and that's where the fun lurked, an odd specter of pleasure that loosened your joints and relaxed your muscles.

Less than an hour was needed to do it with your resentful hands equipped with your egregious dexterity regarding the knowledge of the anatomical arrangement of the human body, clean and precise cuts made at the height of the joints – amputated limbs were bagged by rolled up black garbage bags by yards of sticky duct tape as Christmas presents for a homicidal maniac. Something morbidly comic about you has always reveled in the way your anatomy teacher flattered you so dearly in the classroom.

You looked like a Victorian poltergeist wandering the halls of your house after leaving the basement (leaving behind, in that unbreathable cubicle of dim, compressed walls, the pieces of the girl rotting in the dark), whose door opened into a scrawny little space below the red oak staircase, which grew in a diagonal line to the upper floor. It was a warm, sultry summer night.

You felt like a hunter in the woods as you headed towards the last door in the hallway, where the bedroom you shared with Wanda Maximoff, your girlfriend, was located about a year since she had broken into your house. The door opened with a long creak.

Facing the bed were ephemeral shoulders, the color of cold milk, to which the copious summit of a supple, soft back tucked into an old shirt of yours was cramped. Smooth back to the touch of fingertips, accented by long strands of brown hair. Between those expensive sheets there was the sharp look of a still young memory that echoed through your temples, that poured out its appreciation before the sleeping figure of your girlfriend, the nymph tenderness exhaled through her pores, Wanda's ether.

You snorted. Her stomach lying in the middle of the bed strangely reminded you of the body lying on the concrete where you had delivered the axe blows two floors below where Wanda snored so placidly. Something sparked in you.

You were studying her intently in a brief moment of darkness (your girlfriend, sleeping and fragile, had a childish lock of brown hair falling over her forehead and her dark brows furrowed, but her eyes were simple and rested, caught in a deep glint of sleep), drinking from her radiant red beauty as a drug addict does from their favorite drug – the female silhouette splashed by the ghostly bluish light of a streetlight outside and, in a way, even a synoptic veil of purity that accompanied your muse in the world of a utopian dream, like a poor helpless girl.

Covered by the fog of sleep as she was in that lapse of calm in the den of a messy bed, it was as if Wanda had never had her mental health even threatened by the ominous entities that surrounded her all her life since she was then a weeping young girl, like hungry vultures waiting for the death of a little wounded lamb in the pasture. She looked innocent. So, so innocuous. And, therefore, so corruptible.

Icy artificial lighting invaded the amorphous walls of the interior of the room, projected all by three specific points transverse to the serene countenance pierced by the sleeping extension of the pale face that Wanda possessed – from her eyebrows trimmed in their dark strands to the bridge of her nose and the apollonian cheekbones of her bucolic bone structure, clinging, in the moonlight, to the beaded bone of her powerful jaw. A mechanical innocence was imparted to her closed eyelashes.

Your heart fluttered, your pupils dilated with dopamine, when did you step onto the floorboards of the dark room and creeped your way to the bed that was just a puddle of rumpled sheets, where Wanda lay snuggled in the blandishments of the night. For brief seconds that together wouldn't even make up the whole of a minute, you watched her. You just watched her, plotting with yourself what you were going to do with her, how you were going to break her. She was naked down her navel, without any panties to be seen.

“You're so beautiful...” the tip of your right index and middle fingers swept the strand of unruly hair behind the shell of Wanda's ear, “I could just tear you apart.”

And then you fumbled for the strap-on of a long, thick scarlet silicone in an open drawer on a low shelf next to the bed, which you then proceeded to tie around your waistline after you got rid of your bloodstained jeans, your fingers quivering in euphoric anticipation as you did. Your desire to consume her swelled inside your stomach; you wanted to eat her alive, rip her skin, break her bones. You wanted to fuck her raw.

You then positioned yourself on top of Wanda on the bed, the mattress sinking from the unbalanced weight in just a single spot. With your lips parted, your pulps pink and split, you toke long bites to the contour of her milk-white neck, in the region of its junction with the left shoulder, by the hairline located in the gap between her ear and the neck, validating the traces of hickeys seated there, like clumsy strokes of dark paint on a blank canvas; since the bodies were close to the center of the vast bed, legs intertwined and warm hair tangled up in the pillow.

“Fuck, you're so hot, pretty girl,” was a quip breathed in hot breath against Wanda's lobe, your right hand guiding the length of the toy to part her moist pink folds, “So soft… so receptive... so submissive… you're perfect. My perfect girl.”

Wanda purred like a sleepy cat at the intimate sensation, her heavy lids still hooding her emerald eyes, enjoying the feel of your lips spattering bites over her ruffled epidermis. In an unguarded way, perhaps even somewhat needy in her core, she snuggled against your warm body above hers, tucking her tailbone between your hips.

A firm grip of your bloodied hand was strained against Wanda's hip with no explicit intentions of letting go. The silence, sharp and excruciating, came and went in a rather shy and awkward way. Tiny shriveled seconds that, together, took up minutes. One-hundred-fifty-seconds quiet.

Wanda's heart rumbled demeaningly in a sharp grip, for even if she didn't look you straight in the eye, she understood the fact that the woman who held her in her arms was nothing but lust and violence incarnate – even without being awake, Wanda's subconscious was well aware that your irises had taken on profuse and vicious hues, like sea water or a stormy sky. A rueful sigh of your exhaled warm and close to her ear.

And then you crept through her rosy slit, which inferred, from the frail Wanda held hostage to your diligent touch, a loud, strident growl, which dangled the base of her skull against the bone of your shoulder.

“Y-Y/n...?” Wanda's tiny voice resounded in a moan throughout the room that had once been engulfed in intrinsic silence, albeit a little sluggish and husky from her sleepy features, “What... what are you... what are you...?”

She moaned in a high-pitched squeal as you slid the entire length of the toy into her tight walls in one thrust with your taut hips.

“F-fuck-! Oh! Y/n, I- I don't-”

“Shut up and take it, okay?” you gifted her with a tiny deferred kiss on her scalp (artificial strawberry shampoo scent sweetening the sharp metal smell inside your nostrils), “I need to have you right now. I need you, Wanda.”

“I- I—” the shaven brows were, thus, wrinkled by the face as rosy as a peach; she sounded a little giddy in her rambling speech, pressing her fingers against the sheet, “I'm not sure if—”

“Come on, Wanda,” you whispered against her dark hair, “You're my good girl, aren't you?”

Wanda held her breath, “I’ll always be your good girl.”

And then, a smile blossomed on your part, the enamel of your teeth coming into contact with the sensitive skin of her pale neck, where you couldn't help but capture a rosy sliver between your lips and stick a mighty bite there – to remember her that while she was smoldering with pleasure, you were a powerful being who didn't even make an effort to push her buttons and drive her crazy. The insignificance of the human race at the hands of such a monstrous creature as you has never before been so exciting and aphrodisiac.

Your impassive left hand, passing under Wanda's ribs close to the mattress, touched her to the circumvallation of her rosy breast inside the material of the shirt, while your right index and middle fingers fingered her snatched clitoris in impetuous outlines. You moaned like an animal at the taste of blood sliding down the face of your tongue.

“I-it hurts,” Wanda whimpered airily before smiling in the dark, “Do it again. Fuck, do it again!”

The muscles in your abdomen stagnated as your bodily sensitivity acclimated when your hips snatched up Wanda's insides (exploring with the strap, opening and understanding; a new sensation brewed by each touch to ravage her insides), the hollow of your crotch going back and forth hard against Wanda's dripping center. A puddle formed on the sheets beneath her, the liquid running across the inside of her thighs. Wanda found herself reduced to a weeping, writhing, lost, helpless mess, but she couldn't even feel an ounce of shame inside.

“Fuck—” The pale hands, hungry for something to hold on to, screwed the curls of your head behind hers, seeking them just behind them; her head thrown back over your shoulder, a subtle vein popping under the epidermis of her neck, the scar with your initial pulsing on her right collarbone, “Fuck, Y/n, fuck-! S’s-so big-!"

“You're mine,” you kissed a sliver of skin down her clenched jaw, gripping her rosy breast tightly with the shrewd touch, “You're my whore to do with what I want with, Wanda. I’m gonna fucking tear you apart.”

The length inside her was like fire – just as strong and intoxicating. And Wanda felt full of gasoline. Before she could even ask for more, beg your like a believer before her god, you fucked her hard and steady all the way to her cervix, tying yourself to that deep and vulnerable spot inside her, and made to press yourself in her with irascible pumps. Wanda's plea, then, was cut short with a strangled roar, and from her emanated an inhuman shriek, trying and failing to open her legs to more of your touch.

A gulf of heat and wetness slid out of her pussy in response, and the bundle of nerves throbbing between her legs pulsed like a frantic heart against the ribs in her ribcage. And, for a couple of intangible moments, time became an abstract concept for Wanda.

You fucked her fast and primal, thrusting fast and hard into her insides soaked in a sticky liquid as it was - there was a firm intention behind every hard movement, every press of your fingers and every ghostly touch of your folded palm over her smoldering clit, which clamored for more attention with every touch given to it. The head of the bed slammed against the concrete wall.

You'd push Wanda forward and then mark her tight back muscles with bites and licks, pulling the sliding strap off and on from inside her vulva, toward the edge of a state of arousal that bordered on insanity; which, in such a way, ended up metamorphosing into a dance in synchronous partnership, like the symbiotic conception of a work of art by two artists of different styles. You leading and Wanda yielding to the rhythm you sentenced.

And, in such a way, Wanda diffused herself with every progression, even the smallest, so that she could beg, like an animal, for you to take her to a place she's never been before, for you to take her like no soul before had done it before her, so that you would fill her with what only a being such as you were in her eyes, (an inhuman deity) could supply her.

“Fuck, Wanda, I love the way your greedy cunt feel around my cock,” you muttered, dragging your lips down her shoulder, “You're so good to me, did you know that? So, so good...”

“I-I’m good…?”

She snorted, her chest heavy, lids pressed together over dark eyes, clouded with pleasure. Both brows furrowed in a lapse of voluptuousness, forehead buffed with a bead of crystalline sweat. She wanted to be good, and she liked to be recognized as such. She'd love to hear how good she was for you. She liked being flattered. You smiled in a husky voice in her ear.

“So, so good, slut. Good as fuck. You’re my favorite bitch.”

And in such a way you did it, as if only the praise given to her beloved's oratory was all it took to untie the knot of her primordial apex, woven just a hand below her secluded navel. Her body stiffened suddenly, her vision filled with a white thunder that stunned her senses into an electrical charge throughout her thighs.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck, Y/n, fuck! Fuck!”

Irises darkened in a veil of smoldering rejoicing dipped to the waterlines of her eyes, and an ethereal mist, showered with sublime delight, crowded within her, pouring from her pulsing center the sweetest honey down the length of your strap wedged between her twitching crotch as it was—a hot, viscous membrane that oozed across the sheets, the height of her release.

Wanda's head dropped to the pillow, gasping, drunk on the intoxicated heat of the climax that rumbled through her muscles and bones. And she screamed against the pillowcase when you sank inside her swollen and abused pussy without circumlocution one more time.

“I still haven't come, you spoiled fucking brat,” you muttered over her, “Now spread your legs the way you know how. This will only end when I want it to end.”

Wanda smiled lethargically against the pillow.

“Alright, Y/n. I love you.”

“Yeah,” you kissed her temple, “I know.”

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