#tried to explain that i feel like my brain works differently than the others but they just don't get it

[joelsgreys]

flutter

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner. 

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair. 

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?” 

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten. 

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home. 

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains. 

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

[tis-the-marmot]

Stuck in a very bad place both mentally and physically

When will things get better. will i get better

[girlscience]

contemplating the idea that religion and spirituality and supernatural beliefs might simply not be for me and it is a bit sad

[earthtooz]

I have this suddenly in my mind and I need to share it, rins the type of person whos like " stop giving me morning kisses" But the day you forget to do that hes like *cold sweat* "wheres my morning kiss"

sfw but suggestive, gn!reader sits on rin's lap, unedited bc i wrote this with my heart

rin rustles awake to the sound of the faucet running as you pull the handle of the sink and the stream clunks to life, and he can't think of a worse way to start the day.

for one, he did not need the harsh sound of water running to aggravate him.

and two, he didn't wake up to you beside him, all warm and comfortable tucked in his embrace, which is even more aggravating than the grating noise of water against ceramic.

today's an off-day that management issued; a real shame for rin because all he wants to do is spend time with you whilst fitting a quick workout in or two. it was a friday too, which is the perfect day to just relax and do nothing. however, you still have work and no matter how hard rin tried to subtly convince you, his methods did not work.

under the warmth of the covers, rin wonders if he can telepathically send a message to your brain and demand for you to come back into his arms. if you really were soulmates then you'd know, right?

as if it was scripted, you peek around the doorway of the bathroom, blinking in surprise when you see your boyfriend awake and grumpy. he feels a little triumphant when you smile at him.

but the feeling of triumph dies when that's all you do, greeting him with a 'good morning, rin' before turning back to do your skincare. blasphemy. do you even love him anymore?

feeling petty, he yawns loudly, the sound border-lining a groan in hopes of capturing your attention. nothing, you don't even peek around the doorway, instead, he hears the sound of a cap opening.

reluctantly, rin tosses the covers off and pads towards the bathroom, catching you off guard when you spot him in the mirror.

"bit early for you to be up, isn't it?" you question.

"what are you doing?" rin yawns, dodging your query completely.

"what's it look like, babe? my skincare."

he frowns. "that's not what i meant."

"then what do you mean?"

"i meant, what are you doing?" he parrots and you're only more puzzled.

"uhm... talking to you? getting ready for work-"

"you're not where you're supposed to be."

there's a beat of silence. "which is?"

"where do you think?"

"what's with the mind games this morning?" you ask.

once again, he avoids your question. "you should be in bed. with me."

at his admittance, you can't contain your laughter, turning around to cup his cheeks and for a second, rin thinks he has you right where he wants you. any second now, you'll relent and join him in going back to bed. you'll call in sick and you'll give him the good morning kiss he's been waiting for-

"-you're cute, rin, but i need to go to work today."

damnit.

"why?" rin persists.

"because i like my job, and there's big things i need to plan," you explain, turning around to face the mirror again so you can continue your morning routine but your boyfriend has other plans.

instead, he grabs your hips and spins you around so you're facing him again. this time, you see the uncharacteristic, albeit small, pout dancing along his lips. "won't you indulge me? you still haven't given me a reward for my match last weekend."

"i would beg to differ, your reward was more than satisfactory, you thought so yourself, you're just selfish."

rin grins lightly at that statement as he presses you against the bathroom counter. you're right; itoshi rin is selfish, particularly so when it comes to you. he should let you go to work, and he will, but he can't help but want to take up some of your precious time before your job snags you away from him, and he'll have to wait a laborious 8 hours before seeing you again.

"please? just a few minutes?"

exhaling through your nose, rin knows that you've given in before the words even slip out of your mouth. when they do, however, his celebratory smile is contagious as he drags you back to the bed. sitting down on the edge of it, he invites you to straddle him, the unmade sheets pooling around you naturally.

he doesn't mind living like this for the rest of his life.

"aren't you forgetting something?" asks the athlete.

you blink once, then twice. "no?"

rin holds back his groan. "kiss," is his only prompt but you seem to understand instantly with the way you throw your head back in laughter.

"you mean my normal morning kisses? i thought you hated them. always swatting me away," you lightheartedly mention.

"i do."

"fine then. no kiss."

he almost loses his cool for a second, but composes himself in the blink of an eye. rin's hands begin rubbing your hips, as if persuading you to give in.

"please?" tries the dark-haired.

relenting to the unusual softness in his icy gaze, you place a lingering kiss on the tip of his nose, but rin's got a look of displeasure settled on his expression, and you immediately know why he's upset- because you didn't kiss him on the lips like he was hoping.

"that was pathetic."

"excuse me?"

"another. do it right this time."

cute. you want to give in, but your normally stoic and hard-to-crack boyfriend is acting unusually clingy today, and you want to push your luck in this rare scenario.

"i don't want to kiss you though, you have morning breath," you murmur, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"what happened to in sickness and in health?" he murmurs, now tracing circles on your skin.

"we're not married."

"we should be, though."

you almost choke on your own spit, shocked by his boldness. "sure. let me go to work first."

his hold around you tightens as he buries his face into your neck, breathing you in as he cherishes the few minutes he has left. "hold on, i just want to be with you a little longer."

you pull him closer. "if you let me go i'll give you a morning kiss."

"a real one?"

"a real one."

he unwinds his grip ever so slightly and you let one hand trace his jaw before giving rin what he wants: his good morning kiss. he indulges in your touch and your closeness, taking whatever you provide because you always are so kind and fair to him when he's all rough edges and jagged ends.

eventually, you pull away, taking your warmth with you. you gave rin your part of the promise, now it's time for his to keep his. except it seems like he's having a harder time fulfilling it.

"i want you to stay," your boyfriend confesses, no louder than a whisper as he looks up at you through his bangs. "don't want you to go."

"i know, but i'll be back this evening and then i'll be all yours."

rin sighs, unwinding his arms and letting you climb out of his lap. a shiver runs up his spine at the absence of your weight and he doesn't like the empty feeling that fills him up.

"go back to bed, rin. you should rest." you mutter.

"after you leave."

"okay."

you give him one extra kiss before you go.

hope u enjoyed, anon! sorry i kinda deviated a bit HELPP but i loved ur prompt (evidently), thank you for dropping by :D

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[starwrighter]

1/?? Halloween prompt

I’ve got brain rot for creepy Deadserious content but only when it’s only seen as creepy by outsiders. (I know I’m writing a fic with a similar plot but it’s different I swear! Also my grammar is shit because I’m getting dental work done tomorrow and I’m nervous) Tw for stalker behavior

So Damian has a crush on Danny and immediately goes about acting on these feelings much to onlookers horror. Danny is swooning because someone made the effort to do a background check on him. Danny thinks Damian doing this is really smart because, he could be a serial killer for ancients sake why would you risk that? Others say this is a horrible invasion of privacy.

Damian not realizing he's being creepy (being liminal and being an ex assassin, turned vigilante wasn't doing him any favors) Plus Danny also not realizing it's creepy unless you relay Damian behavior towards him with different names.

Damian's just being a textbook stalker, breaking into his house and shit and Danny's all like "awwww he likes me" because this is just normal ghostly courting rituals! His dormroom isn't his lair so Damian breaking in doesn't feel like he's violating any sort of boundary. To him it's like a friend showing up at the coffee shop you work at to say hi.

Danny's had stalkers before, he's very cautious of his behavior to insure he never stalked anyone. Being stalked back in Amity was a horrific experience for him. From cameras in the locker rooms at school (wes) to cameras in his bathroom and bedroom at home (Vlad)! He couldn't feel safe anywhere! To Danny Damian's not a stalker, he's his protector. Nobody seems to understand when he tries to explain this though they just look at him like he's lost his mind.

Damian’s not subtle at all and Danny’s kicking his feet like a lovesick school girl who found out her crush likes her back. Overall it’s super cute from their points of view Damian’s planning an official confession to ask him on a date while Danny’s trying to figure out if Damian actually likes him or is just being nice. They’re just doing normal couple things but people just jump and attack Damian’s character while painting Danny as some kind of brainwashed victim.

The thing is… Danny’s become very good at appearing normal while Damian refuses to pretend to be a bumbling idiot like the rest of his family. He also refuses to dull down his personality for anything other than secret identity reasons. For these reasons since their relationship had become public, Damian had been painted by the media as a creepy possessive boyfriend who threatened Danny into a relationship. This infuriates Danny, the only one doing any kind of possession is him god damn it!

They want to be around each other all the time and that’s normal behavior for ghost/liminal couples! They live much longer than regular humans do they’re like elves, their perceptions of time are messed up. They still spend time apart they still have hobbies and an independent life, people just get hung up on the amount of time they do spend together. It’s normal behavior for them to know mountains of information about each others interests to the point they almost know more than each other. It’s normal to know each other’s schedules and background check the people they associate with. (The realms are very dangerous with shapeshifters and manipulators like spectra and Desiree who can ruin your afterlife in a matter of minutes) Their relationship is creepy to those who haven’t gone to extremes to survive.

Damian has taken to ignoring the reputation press has given him. He’s dealt with paparazzi and tabloids before it’s just frustrating to deal with. It’s when people start accusing him of hurting his beloved that really pisses him off.

(Bonus if Danny’s the one frothing at the mouth to maul a reporter while they try to paint him as a poor innocent victim)

I’mma end the prompt with this so everyone understands why Damian specifically being targeted by press. The more liminal you are the more creepy/uncanny you appear to other people and the more effort you have to put in to hide it. It’s why the bats are more believed to be Eldritch creatures than actual humans in suits. Surprisingly becoming a Halfa completely changes this effect to do the complete opposite. It’s easier for the human brain to look at a halfa and think “Innocent or normal,” Vlad and Danny were morons when it came to actually hiding their identity’s it was only their statuses as halfa’s that prevented people from comprehending them being anything other than normal.

In short Damian’s too dead to be perceived as normal while Danny’s too alive to be perceived as anything other than normal.

[wroteclassicaly]

She’s Trouble

(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)

Summary: Tired of trailing behind, feeling like you don’t matter much, you decide that 86’ isn’t only going to be your bestfriend’s year.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Word count: 16,185

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of drug usage, blood, NSFW, smut, drinking, Eddie is angry and sad in this, masturbation, slight voyeurism, breeding kink, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, angry sex, creampie, angst, fighting, rough sex, Dom!Eddie, and MORE!

A/N: I started writing this based off the scene of Eddie smirking at the cheerleaders he lets by after his cafeteria speech. And, well… it’s spawned itself a new life and turned into a whole lot more than I planned. But so is the life of an author, am I right? ;) Eddie is a dick in this, Reader is a lot more vocal than I’ve written before. I wanted to do something a bit different and I hope this accomplishes my mission?

I wanna thank @littledemondani for helping me out of my brain fart on which direction to take this! Also, do check out her masterlist, which is pinned at the top of her blog (it won’t let me link it here). She’s an incredible author and a fellow Eddie Munson slut, and one of my longtime best-friends! ♥️

Side note: I’ve also shifted a few things in the timeline of the show, for obvious reasons. The whole Eddie/Chrissy thing doesn’t happen on the same night as in the series. Chrissy and the reader have a good interaction and Eddie is a dickhead, but his reasoning will be explained. Also, while the reader is wearing a bustier top, this is an all inclusive fic, where the reader can be anything you imagine! I believe anyone can wear anything that they choose to—regardless of their size, so don’t let that bit of the story deter your perception, as I’ve left it open-ended! ;)

Enjoy! I’ve got a lot coming up soon! Part twos of multiple fics, prompts, plus other goodies! <3 - Kristen

~*~

You watch the way that he tries to be cute and coy towards them, attempts to impress with a dramatic wave through of his hand. Short skirts, tight little tops, bouncing ponytails, and a shitload of generic gossip on their painted lips—they pass by, everything included but those damned pom poms. Apparently they are giddy at his little show of calling out every group but your own in the cafeteria. Your eyes roll so hard that you feel a protesting sting, ignoring it to stab your fork into whatever creation is wiggling on your lunch tray. All the guys—freshman to seniors, and you—the only girl since founding, and Hellfire Club’s treasurer/manager to Corroded Coffin—make up the outsider table.

This year, however, you’ve felt so fucking off base with this group and their antics that you’re getting exhausted pretending to care about their shit when they don’t respect you or yours. Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are always the sweetest to you, even with Lucas joining a sport, he’s still quick to always give you a smile and a nod whenever you pass him in the halls. They’re young, unlike Eddie and the older guys. You’re finally a senior this year, but still behind your bestfriend by a year in age. All this used to be okay, Eddie multiplying how much he repeats the grade, you trailing behind him like a lost puppy without any brain of her own, but now—it’s unbearably smothering.

And thus, it’s been building. You’re over bringing chips that are from your personal stash and using your gas to go buy smokes with your small work paycheck, or clean equipment for Eddie’s band, or stay up all night just to design campaign posters for Eddie, only for him to be so fucking stoned that he doesn’t even appreciate it, nor remember it.

“Fucking fake losers,” Jeff mutters.

“So fake,” Gareth agrees, both looking towards Eddie as he settles himself back down, wiggling his brows at you.

It’s an unsettling pressure that boils inside you, crackling, and as soon as you look into your best-friend’s brown doe eyes—it all comes apart. “You wanna talk about fake?” Your chest pumps a rush of adrenaline, helping careen the words off your tongue before you can stop them. Everyone’s attention snaps quicker than you’re prepared for, eyes wide and shocked. Sure, you’re vocal and sassy, but never outwardly angry. “The fact that all of you will condemn the basketball players, but would give up any of your seats at our table for one of the bitches in a skirt that they chase, if they popped their gum or batted an eyelash. You’d all be a bunch of drooling, little horndogs.” You can feel your heart racing with each pronunciation of a word, rising from your seat, knuckles white from gripping the edges of your yellow tray so hard.

You hear Dustin whisper a ‘whoa’, but your vocal vomit doesn’t stop.

“Frankly? I’m fucking sick of all this.” You pick the tray up and slam it down for good measure, unwrapping your messenger bag from around your seat, and you leave the table of gaping young men behind you, not even indulging yourself in Eddie’s bugged out, concerned stare.

You don’t even have time to throw your bag across your chest, when Jason Carver shouts out from behind you, “Damn, look at Munson’s slut go!”

It seems your group aren’t the only ones taking an interest in your outburst. Your breath is engorged in jagged pants of pitiful air, a fire coursing through you faster than you can handle, your skin singing, prickling with goosebumps. Your cheeks redden in humiliation, your feet swiveling and carrying you, fast and quick to their table, you throw your bag off, body like some damned slow motion track. Everyone notices Eddie’s antics, but you’ve never garnered any attention. It’s a surreal high.

Your combat boots click across the cement flooring, your hair like a dead weight across your back. Carver and his entire group are expectant, chairs scraping across to get out of your way. It’s all such a blur that you don’t even know your fist has collided with Jason’s face until you feel the pressure bite into your knuckles, a crunch beneath your force. He shrieks, his friends jumping to his aid, your stance shifting, ready to take anyone on. Your ears are bubbling with a murky static, applause in some direction, shouts in others.

Your name is being shouted from two different directions, the one you see stomping angrily towards you belonging to principal Higgins. He’s calling for help, shoving his finger in your face, motioning to your shirt. “This Hellfire Club does nothing but cause trouble!”

You snort, completely coming off your hinges, shaking the ends of your shirt, before stepping back and flinging it over your head, leaving you clad in your jeans and a leather bustier top no one could ever picture you owning. You’ve always kept your shit to a minimum to draw less attention, but you liked the support it provided your breasts with. You spin around, hands in the air, using the shirt as a lasso, tossing it at your old table. You begin to giggle, honestly wondering if you should visit the school nurse, but uncaring. Higgins is literally sputtering, making you snort, waving a hand. “I’m a slut, I’m trouble. Anyone have anything else to add? No? Yes?”

You bend back over to snatch your nap sack up, motioning to Higgins. “Lead the way to your office, Sir! Please fucking do.”

The pep in your step as your principal is angrily leading you from the masses is such a euphoric feeling, you’re sure you’ll never feel again in your life. You can taste the drama on your tongue’s tip. You don’t even spare your friends a glance, not wanting Eddie to have a morsel of satisfaction. This is your moment. Not as Eddie Munson’s best-friend, not as his groupie. As Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.

~*~

Eddie Munson has been clutching your discarded Hellfire shirt, doused in your perfume that is brimming his nostrils full, damn near trembling for the past twenty minutes that finish up lunch. He can’t move, that swelling between his legs keeping him glued to his seat, all the images of your fist soaring into Jason Carver’s face, ripping off your clothing in front of Higgins and the entire damned school. He went from concerned, angry at how you acted, to so fucking turned on that his stomach knotted up, sucking him to where he’s seated, his cock throbbing in his jeans. He’s never seen you like this.

The guys are silent, unsure what to say, how to even go about comprehending the you they just saw, that even Eddie himself has never heard of. He knows one thing for sure—okay—two. He has to find out if you’re okay and what’s going on.

~*~

You roll your eyes at the lovely note, signature of a three day suspension secured by Higgins at the bottom. Crumbling it up, you slide it into your back pocket, rifling through your pin tattered bag for a cigarette. You already know where you’re gonna go, and it sure as hell isn’t home. No one is there and no one is gonna care about your minor indecency. You can forge your mom’s signature, much like you do every good grade you bring home that she’s never around to see, or every comment from a teacher about how your folks are missing out.

It’s quiet at your house, your space. You parents more or less sleep there when they’re not gone on business. Pinching the filter, you cup Eddie’s stolen Zippo, that ashy hiss helping beckon that sweet bitter taste in past your lips. You don’t desire that home front solace right now, craving different scenery.

Maybe I’ll get lost…

You feel like Hawkins is your oyster, and you’re eager to explore on your own terms, by yourself. You’ve got your smokes, your pocket knife, and a pen and paper. That’s enough for you to make a decision.

Skull Rock it is.

~*~

One thing about Indiana is the ever predictable bite of hot weather that March brings. Spring is automatically Summer in the Midwest, and this is no different. Your leather top had stuck to your skin in an uncomfortable crunching press, making you eventually discard it, leaving you topless, your only accessories a chain with your birthstone pendant and a thicker silver chain, with a cheesy little guitar charm (a present from Eddie) nestled between your breasts. Your form is shaped against the rock behind your bare shoulder blades, a cool sensation that has you tilting your head back, stretching your neck, treetops breezing above you—tall and luscious. You smile softly, undoing the flap on your bag and seeking out your Walkman and sunglasses.

In moments your eyelids are fluttering closed, shielded from sun rays, your Walkman clicking in place, readying Heart’s Barracuda to nick your ears, coasting in welcomed caresses. It’s not thick heavy metal, but it’s you. And in the serenity of these woods, another cigarette you allow yourself—you begin to drift off in a galactic solitude that is solely your own. You’d learnt how to count beats, read sheet music, even sing a few notes from Eddie, so getting into your song’s groove isn’t hard for you, your fingers wrapping around your chain, tapping underneath the swell of your breast along with the chorus. You’re off the precipice and gone, demolished to the point you don’t hear the familiar footsteps, the sound of your name, or leaves and dirt crunching beneath white Reeboks, nor do you hear a throat-deep groan at his discovery.

~*~

Eddie and you always share this in synch kinda shit, which creeps a lot of people in your circle out. Eddie, however, welcomes it today. When he couldn’t find you after abandoning his lunch, spent what was left of the day attempting, only for Henderson to tell him he’d heard you’d been suspended for a few days—he made it his personal goal to find you. Your parents are gone so he knows the times you do and don’t like to be at home by yourself. And with the way you lashed out at everyone, you won’t go anywhere he has easy access to.

That leaves one place. Skull Rock.

~*~

The drive feels shorter to Eddie this time, but the walk longer. He has to shed himself of his denim and leather, tossing it over his shoulder and clambering up the path towards finding you, keeping your club tee in his back pocket. The more he walks, the more he wishes he brought a drink or his smokes, which remain on his dash. If he’s wrong and you’re not here, he isn’t sure if this is reality anymore. This day has been one big mindfuck.

Thankfully, as he hears a loud tone droning over the clearing, a soft hum, his heart patters in his chest, nostrils inhaling sharply. He rounds the corner’s pathway, already calling your name, his eyes widening, jaw unhinged, fists clenching at his sides. You’re reclining against the boulder’s curve, black shades perched over your eyes, hair draped across your neck, your boot clad ankle crossed over the other, a cigarette perched into your puckering pair of lips, your layered chains swaying, slumbering against your skin, and fuck—your tits, Eddie winces, gripping himself to adjust—frozen.

He can’t not notice how your nipples are reacting to the air. He can’t not detail your shape, how your waist is formed, zeroing in on the baby bat you’d gotten to match his larger ones, inked into your ribcage, and he certainly isn’t forgetting your jeans that are settled over your hips. His eyes glaze over, heat prodding his flesh, shrouding him a veil of desire and raw ache. You don’t notice him, calls of your name falling on mainstream rock’s ears. He doesn’t think approaching you is smart, like a cat and mouse, your behavior for once—unpredictable.

Has Eddie just not been paying attention to you that much lately?

Suddenly, when he’s debating a cowardly retreat, baiting his internal monologue for an excuse, your audible gasp is heard, his name crushed between your gritted teeth.

Fuck.

~*~

In all of his glory—stands your best-friend. He’s balling and un-balling his fists, eyes darting rapidly, tongue sucking against his teeth, feet ready to carry him far away. And the more he avoids your stare, the angrier you get. So what, you’re not good enough to look at because your breasts are out? Modesty to a back burner, you take your crossed arms off your chest, scraping your smoke out on the rock, pushing your glasses into a perch upon your head, body facing Eddie as you stand.

I dare you.

Your eyes complicate a challenge—craving him in your proximity, and hating his grunge blanketed sight. Eddie’s neck is a really pretty thing when he tenses, his jugular agitated against a harsh gulp of air. He answers you by meeting you in the clearing, palms sweaty, scrubbing over his back pockets. It’s a cool damned drink of water, as if you’ve been without, making thee Eddie Munson squirm. But he’s still your best-friend, and you are half naked.

Covering yourself back up so he will look you in the eye, you tuck your arms into a push beneath your sternum, forearms shielding your nipples. It’ll have to do.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing here?” You snap before he can voice a concern or a question.

Tethered to deep breathing techniques, Eddie is insulted, and is biting back in his acidic response. “After your own personal talent show antics at school, I was worried about you. Excuse-the-fuck-outta-me, Y/N.”

A bitter laugh comes from you. “Oh, you’re focused enough on my shit to actually be worried about me? How kind of you, Edward Munson.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be worried about you?” Eddie is raising his voice, sizzling in a cautious rage. He’s usually happy-go-lucky with you, but you’re pushing these fucking buttons he isn’t aware he’s been hiding.

“You really need a list of reasons? Wait,” you say, moving to circle him, pinching your thumb between your teeth, “you’re probably, completely oblivious, because I’m just Y/N. I’m not your club, not your band, not one of your groupies that flounce around for an ounce from you, then leave your ass for their jock boyfriends.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie raises a hand, rings clattering together. “When the fuck did all this start, Y/N?”

Your arms fall back at your sides with a loud ‘thump’. The heating has settled, your high wearing off, truth remaining as to why you’ve been upset in the first place. A caverning hurt carves its place into your chest, igniting an anguish that drowns you. You’re defeated. “It started when my best-friend forgot that I’m my own person and not his servant. Or maybe it began when my person was so stoned that he barely acknowledged a test I fucking flunked to stay up and make his campaign posters—which, may I add—he also gave zero fucks about-“

“So all this is because I didn’t kiss the very ground you walk on for some posters that you practically begged me to make, and wow—your A+ average went to an A. Curse me into the deepest depths of hell, please.” His bracelet slides down his wrist as he palms his heart.

Maybe you’re not the only one who is changing. Eddie hasn’t ever disregarded you in such a crude manner. Your tongue is practically salivating in need to layer on biting and cruel words, things you won’t be able to come back from. You remain silent, mulling over what to say, glaring, docked, stinging prickles of tears. It’s an elating elevation when the words do come. “I’m your best-friend, Eddie. Not your little groupie. I’m tired of you preaching about conformity, when all I do is conform to you. You don’t ever let me pick music, you always take for granted I’ll give you and the guys rides when your van isn’t working, despite if I might have something to do that doesn’t involve an all male ensemble. I spend my money to buy you cigarettes and snacks for the meetings. I manage gigs, I clean your band’s equipment.”

Eddie sniffs, looking pointedly at you, doe eyes dark and growing increasingly fed up. “Didn’t know you were keeping a tally, Y/N.”

“That’s… That’s all you’re taking from everything I just said to you, Eddie?” You can’t keep that hurt out of your tone this time.

Eddie shrugs, crossing his arms, coldly spitting out, “Seems to me like you’re sick of me. And that’s not my problem, that’s yours.”

Your head is swimming in turmoil, all your acting out and emotions swirling into a mindfuck. He doesn’t care. You’re standing here finally pouring your entire soul out in heaps and your person is pouring gasoline on the pieces, dangling a match.

“I’ve never kept a tally, Eddie. I do these things because they make you happy, and that makes me happy, but it fucking sucks when you don’t appreciate them or care about anything in my life, either.”

“That’s what you really think, Y/N?” There’s a flatline in how he’s speaking to you.

“No,” you murmur, “it’s what I know.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding. He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe, brows raising. “Breaking Jason Carver’s nose and my cold, dead heart.” He splays a hand across his chest. Those rings, which are always a comfort to you, reflecting off the sunlight, dripping in judgement.

Your trembling wavers, crackling sentence structure falling apart. “Eddie. Don’t.”

“No. Fuck you, Y/N. Seriously, fuck you!” He shouts, snapping a finger in your direction.

Your hands rub up and down your goosebump soaked skin, finalizing what you need to do. Heaving in a deep breath, a sentence escapes your lips. And you pray, pray Eddie will heed this warning and value what you have enough to understand, to work it out. “Maybe it’s time to fess up to the fact that 86’ needs to be a bigger year for us both.”

Mind reader. A power you’ve never wanted more than in this moment as you claw at the cusp of your best-friend’s reaction. Outwardly, Eddie shifts, Adam’s apple bobbing, thumb swiping underneath his nose. Your mouth waters, throat reflexes threatening a fountain of vomit. And Eddie takes your warning, slaying through it, every bit of ground beneath your boots threatening to cave in.

“You’re right. Hell, Carver is right. You do act like my slut. And you have every right to change it, because it’s only holding us both back. And it probably has been for a long time.”

Kicking you would’ve hurt less. You’re unable to see Eddie’s form longer, muddled to a watery silhouette, your brave bravado dissipating. You won’t beg him. You’re nothing to him anymore, he’s just confirmed. You try not to think about the first time he taught you how to dance before your first snowball, or how you both snuck Jim Hopper’s cigarettes when you’d get in trouble at school and be sent to see him for minor misdemeanors, or Eddie’s pride when he managed to get you on stage to sing one song with the band, rubbing circles on your back the whole time you both sang to a trio of drunks, or splitting beers on his van’s roof and nearly breaking limbs when it started raining and you had to climb down, how he taught you to drive in the fancy neighborhood and you knocked over the mayor’s mailbox, when you watched him buy his ‘sweetheart’, tears in his eyes at a possession so gorgeous and all his own, his hands gentle as they held you the nights you cried from one stupid thing that felt massive to you, when he was your person and you were his.

Your wet, quivering breaths are what you hear. Birds chirping, wind rustling, even Eddie’s heavy breathing drowned out. It takes what feels like eternity, before Eddie is slashing the quiet, guarded and stoic. “You need to put a fucking shirt on.”

Your jeans are covered in tear drops from a bowed head, fingers shaking hard enough that your knuckles roll into a crack at the motions. You wipe your tears in time to see Eddie hold out your Hellfire shirt—second edition—his being the first. His reverie breaks briefly, and you think… maybe. It’s gone in those brown eyes that you can no longer read or recognize. Filled with loathing and disgust at you, his last words imprinting on your psyche, a physical recoil.

“On second thought. You won’t be needing this anymore.” Eddie makes his way around you and finds his lighter atop your bag, flicking a flame to life and nudging it at the end of your shirt. It catches quick, burns fast, like every fiber of friendship with Eddie Munson.

Eddie tosses the tattered, charred remains to the forrest floor, pocketing his lighter, walking away from you and out of your life.

~*~

He can’t stay any longer and watch you fall apart, not when he’s running away from his cowardice. And he does, run. He moves and clambers, stumbles until he’s from you and the cries that he hears pour off your lips. His chest is thumping sporadically, pulse in his blurry vision. His five fingers catch a tree, slamming, splintering, a sob breaking free of his tear soaked lips.

Eddie Munson forces himself to remember how unsure you looked in your dress when he held you around your waist, never feeling more himself in his entire life than he did with you— at thirteen—during some cheesy school dance, how you entertained his tunes so he could teach you the counting method he uses for his music to move your feet to the beat, all your encouragement every time he hit a new note, or your midnight phone calls to ask what he’d like on his posters, your body trusting him to keep you safe on those nights when everything became too much for you in your life, but you had tried to hide it, or when you both snuck in to see Carrie when you were pre-teens and you couldn’t sleep without him, so he made a makeshift mattress next to your bed for a month, about that time you were so tired from an all nighter that he had walked into his room and found you curled up in his bed, using his vest as a makeshift pillow, your nagging him to study more, because he’s always capable of anything he sets his mind to, and those cookies—the only thing you can bake without having to call for Hawkins fire department—a container you’d brought for him and his Uncle, still sitting on his kitchen counter.

He was your person and you were his. And now? You’re gone. Eddie runs away. He keeps running, leaving you to your own miserable anguish, drowning in his own, getting himself in his rust bucket and going back to his trailer to get completely fucked outta his not-so-right mind.

~*~

By the time your suspension is over and you can no longer barricade yourself into your room and finish off another bottle from your dad’s liquor cabinet—it’s sheer dread. You’re not only the freak who broke Hawkins Highschool’s Prom King’s nose, but you’re the freak without anyone by your side—a true and thorough outsider. As you stand outside your school, nails pinching into already weakened threads dedicated to your bag’s strap, you’re really regretting those couple of drinks this morning and how you’d poured more vodka into a flask to take your Tylenol with. Hell, it’s not like you can get a fix from the school dealer anymore, is it?

Those damned double doors are louder, a jolt to your already throbbing headache, fluorescent lights sparkling in your retinas through your shades that cover a nursing hangover and distraught, red and puffy eyes from a three day sob fest. Each step your boots make sounds like you’re walking to your death, your outfit—sans any Hellfire related attire—is all yours. Your two chains limited to one, Eddie’s gift waiting in a cardboard box you’d half-assed assembled, and tossed in random shit he’d given you. The deeper you get into every hallway, making simple turns you know like the back of your hand, your nausea grows as to what might be awaiting around each corner. Or who. It’s a short lived relief upon arrival at your locker.

You pinch your shades off, raw eyes protesting the moment fresh tears staple your skin in brushes. In red letters, diagonally capitalized across your door contains what you haven’t wanted to face since it happened.

The freak got dumped

You choke on your salvia, throat wet and enduring a suffocation strong enough to have you gagging on the piece of toast and water you’d forced your famished form to consume this morning. You barely make it into the toilets before double over and expelling everything, diaphragm on fire, bones vibrating through tosses. Hair dangling in your face, plastered to your mouth, you sniffle and tremble, vision blurring. You ponder getting yourself fucking expelled, but you made this whole ordeal about it being your year. If you retreat now, what will that do? Mustering all your strength, your courage, you flush your bile, clean off your mouth and face, pop a mint, take a swig out of your flask, and make your way to your first class.

~*~

By the ever popular lunch time, you have managed to clean your locker and pinpoint the culprit (an ashamed that a girl broke his nose, Jason Carver), but neither of you speak on it. You keep your head down, you focus on your school work, you take your Tylenol, and you sip on your vodka. Enough to keep an edge off, but not enough to send you down a despairing hole filled with regret and torment. You know you’re being stared at as soon as you hit the line to get your tray. It’s fake smiles and refusal to acknowledge it that gets you in search of an aisle, and hopefully out of sight. You aren’t so lucky…

“Hey, Y/N! Over here!” You hear an all too cheery voice belonging to Dustin Henderson. It halts you in your tracks, a wince causing a physical recoil.

It’s not his fault you and Eddie no longer have anything resembling a relationship, and he apparently has not told them, and they’ve not seen Jason Carver’s masterpiece.

Good.

What isn’t good is that Eddie is very much at your old table and you know it’s unavoidable. You wished you had borrowed some concealer for your under eyes, but it’s too late. There’s a grand staircase cloaked in invisibility beneath your feet, your stomach knotting in crushing vices, your cheeks stained with red. You walk to your former friend group, trying like hell not to side eye Eddie Munson. Keeping a steady focal point without blinking against your scratchy lower lids is damn near impossible. And guys are going to be guys—much to your chagrin. Gareth is drawing further attention where nothing needs to be, popping off with a, “Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

“A week long bender,” Jeff chimes in.

Biting the inside of your cheek between your teeth, you shrug a shoulder. Better them having knowledge of your binge drinking celebration than knowing about how messed up you are.

Don’t look at Eddie. Is your mantra for today.

He, on the other two hands, is not prioritizing that same aspect.

“So what if I did? I know of about ten girls who can drink your asses under the table, myself included.” You smirk, gripping your tray’s edge.

“Been holding back on us?” Gareth is grinning from ear to ear. It eases your shouldered weight tremendously, breaking tension in your table’s ranks.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” Mike Wheeler interrupts, his hands flipping towards a desired target, one that you wish you could keep pretending you never knew.

Fuck it.

You really crave for some divine intervention to help you, because meeting those chocolate brown eyes that are distraught, angry, and rimmed red—your heart constricts to painful blows, windpipes crushed beyond speaking capabilities. Eddie’s been somewhere off planet earth with that kinda high, you remember seeing his demeanor that way only a handful of times, including this one. Maybe he does care? No, doesn’t matter, don’t go there. It’s over and done.

Still, that idiotic, massively moronic part that Eddie owns of you—it’s billowing hope. Eddie Munson dashes it in seconds flat.

“No.”

You glance away, jaw twitching to control an automatic quiver. Dustin is laughing it off as a joke, someone else asking why. Eddie reclines his legs in your empty chair, loud enough to get your attention back. He wants me to see.

“No traitors.” It’s a simplistic answer, aggressive, no room to argue.

Ever-the-curious-freshmen, Dustin and Mike peg their leader for questions. You halt it, tone breaking apart, fingers tucking into your shirtsleeve as you balance your lunch on one hand and wipe across raw flesh to clean fresh tears from your eyeline. That’s when Eddie does look away.

Coward.

“It’s okay, guys.” Is what you say.

“What’s going on?” Gareth asks.

“I won’t be around meetings or practices anymore, but I’m still here if anyone needs anything, okay? You know where my locker is, and where I live.” You pat yourself on the back for that robotic but truthful statement.

“Unless you’re sick of everyone else too…” His deep voice rumbles.

Like a deer in headlights— you’re frozen, a blinding rage of hurt and red hot anger pouring over you in a storm. You explode. Picking up the first thing in your sight, which happens to be on your plate—a glob of some chocolate goop (possibly a brownie)—it’s slung directly at your former best-friend’s crisp white Hellfire shirt. Your second cafeteria incident that, yet again, everyone notices. Eddie yelps, shouting out your name in brisk spits.

You further it, abandoning your food in a repeat of days ago, floating to his side and shoving him back two steps. Eddie stops his rapid shirt swipes and immediately presses his form into yours, chests smashed, food squishing through your top. His hair is frazzled from the humidity, his toffee colored irises slowly polishing into a thick black gloss of dilated pupils. He sucks his tongue against his teeth, swaying into you, not touching you with those hands, an air about him that is beginning to swarm your initial reaction and bend it over, fucking it into the next decade. He’s taller than you remember, but you latch onto your own, tasting that cigarette soaked breath, lips hovering over his, hot tears matting your lashes.

Whether it’s regarding his inability to respond to your reasoning for this whole situation, his lack of expression, your self-disappointment for something roused inside you at his huffing proximity, you crown him with a title off a jagged voice box, damp in her sorrows, just as Dustin steps between you two, gently prying. “You’re a fucking coward, Eddie Munson.”

Teachers are starting to flock in, and you shake your head, hand over your eyes briefly, before sprinting in strides from the room in search of a place to collapse.

~*~

If you had told yourself at the beginning of the school year that you’d be in a camaraderie with the girl’s bathroom—you would have laughed. And if your mind had convinced you otherwise, you’d have expected Eddie to be right beside you, arm around your shoulders, sharing his lunch, making stupid jokes, coming up with lame ideas to make you feel better, but in that endearing Eddie Munson kinda way. You let out a soft cry, giving up on that stinging beneath your lids. You’re a hot mess and the whole building probably knows how alone you really are now. When the outcasts cast you out, where else can you go?

Clenching onto the sides of the ceramic sink, bag slipping off your shoulder and onto the floor, you keep your head bowed between your shoulder blades, not noticing someone come in and approach you, a gentle set of fingers laying upon your shoulder. Through foggy vision you can make out the green colors of her uniform and her perfectly straight ponytail, her face seemingly concerned. Your laugh is exhaustion on steroids, expression bombarded with emotion. “Okay, what the fuck is next? A girl craves some independence and the whole school turns against her. Let me guess, your boyfriend sent you to get even? Why don’t I make it easy for you and you can call your friends in here, and… and—“

Great.

Your lungs start to burn, your ribcage pounding with an erratic heartbeat, throat feeling like it’s been dusted with a thick blanket of ash. You’re panicking in front of Chrissy Cunningham. That alone has you feeling more pathetic than ever before in your life, and it worsens your heaving sobs—broken and unguarded. Chrissy’s eyes are drinking you in, irises glossing over with tears of her own. She grasps your other shoulder and squeezes, not releasing her hold on you, her soft voice strong when she speaks, but gentle enough between the expanse of your shared airspace.

“One, two, three, four. Okay, now deep breath in, and release it for me, Y/N.” She’s actually calming you, keeping you steady on your feet, which feel as if they’re sinking into the flooring below like led weights.

“Chrissy…” You aren’t sure how to articulate, still alarmed and attempting to breathe with her.

“I’m right here. Just keep breathing and counting with me.” And you do. And that’s when it hits you.

She has experience with this mind numbing panic too. That otherworldly anxiety. You feel a connective pull towards the cheerleader—seeing—not this persona you’d imagined, but her calming features, her easy going manner towards you, how she lets you find your lifeline, but also lends you her own in case you need it. When your breathing slows, she gives you a look, a silent communication of question. You may be able to breathe a little easier now, but it doesn’t stop the weight of your situation from crashing down and demolishing what’s left of you.

“Can I… I’m gonna hug you, is that okay?” At this point, if she’s going to put a sign on your back you don’t care. You need the human connection, the comfort. You agree and your schoolmate takes you into a light grip, but folds her arms around you and lets you bury your cheek against her perfumed sweater.

You both stand in the embrace, no trace of awkwardness, a sense of kinship and knowing. It’s when you pull back that hint of a questionable concern with her, wiping your sore eyes with a hiss. She notices.

“Are you here because of Jason? I just need to know.”

“Jason was a dick, Y/N.” Her language shocks you, having only heard her be proper before.

You laugh, your first genuine giggle in days. It’s contagious, as she joins in, hip jutting against the sink. “No, I’m here on my own terms. I promise. I saw what happened with your friends…”

“Yeah, I can imagine how everyone must be amused right now.” You bite your lip, facing away.

Chrissy gives you a saddened smile, but attempts to reassure. “I know this is gonna sound incredibly lame coming from me, but you’re stronger than all this, Y/N. The way you’ve stood up for yourself these past several days… I admire it.”

You frown deeply, wondering if this is a trick, because no way is Chrissy Cunningham admiring someone like you.

“You admire a loser that can’t even manage her own newfound independence?”

“No,” she says with a pause, looking down at her French tip manicure, before facing your curious gaze once more. “I admire your ability to stand up for yourself, despite what everyone is saying or doing to you. It’s a good quality to have, one that many of us are afraid of, you know?”

There’s this hollow pain in her eyes and your continued recognition has you pulling her in for another hug—this time for her benefit, rather than yours.

“Looks like we’ve fallen into the cliché trap, Cunningham.” You grin, pulling back.

Chrissy tilts her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“A freak and a cheerleader thinking the same as what their peers think, and getting each other totally wrong.”

Her sweet eyes light up, her head nodding. “That’s exactly it.”

You share a knowing smile, a newfound bond forming. Chrissy situates her small shoulder bag, pulling out a compact and tugging you by your sleeve. “C’mhere. Let me fix that.”

She takes a gentle hand, not rushing as she speckles your sore under eyes with her own stash of makeup. After she blends it with soft fingertips, she snaps the lid closed and places it back in her bag, turning you to the bathroom mirror, brushing some of your hair through, giving your back a rub. “Is that any better, Y/N?”

Your circles are mostly covered, puffiness disguised enough where you won’t be embarrassed. You look and feel much better, and you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for the blonde at your side. You incline yourself into a swivel, leaning in her direction. “Chrissy Cunningham, I think you’re one of the sweetest people I now kinda, sort of know.”

Her giggle is infectious, and she gives you another squeeze. You drop down to swoop your messenger bag into your arms, grabbing out a your notebook and a pen, scribbling your home phone on it, hesitating, before handing it over. “If you ever need to talk to someone about all the bullshit, whatever it is, consider me your new confidant.”

She holds the simple sheet paper as if it’s another lifeline and you’ve just given her a treasure. Going back into her own bag, she has a cute little pink embroidered stationary paper that she jots her number on, and uses a smiley face to dot the i in Chrissy. Seconds later, her friends and a group of other girls burst into the bathroom, gossip on their lips. You and Chrissy flash each other a secret smile, and you make another hasty retreat.

~*~

Eddie had to hear a bunch of shit from the guys, overly bearing questions sounded off by Henderson and Wheeler. The eventual revealing by a passerby group of cheerleaders about your specially decorated locker, had surprised him too. As if there’s not already a weighted dagger wedged into his ribcage, one interlocking into his heart muscle—he lost control with his bitter mouth again, and it fueled your temper. But deep down, deeper into those subconscious recesses, you both felt that ignition start, a kind of coercing heat that is waging an internal war in Eddie’s head. His sole reason for blocking you out and refusing to talk about anything with you in the woods.

Eddie Munson is in love with you. Eddie Munson needs to fuck you.

It’s something he’s always done—built walls, got high, stayed drunk, coped with humor, hid behind his guitar or his campaigns. And without his right hand woman, he feels naked, too vulnerable to all the bullshit he’s tried to keep out. And your absence has become a set course for his weakening concentration on anything that isn’t you. His ultimate warrior princess is also his Achilles heel. Your feelings in wanting to branch out, they scare Eddie.

His brain is flipping logic into thinking you are seeing what everyone else sees in him: freak, failure, piece of shit, a nobody, a criminal. He pushed you out before he could pull you back in—easy, abrupt. And it’s not just changing him—no—he could smell your vodka soaked breath across the table, see your eyes swollen and glazed—absent. For the first time in years you weren’t wearing your limited edition shirt (thanks to him), and Eddie isn’t sure why he expected you to still have his chain around your neck. It fucking hurts.

As the room slowly falls back into their daily routine, Eddie loses his appetite and leaves his herd behind, urgent to get the fuck outta this building, out of Hawkins. Hell, maybe even the country. Like you, however, Eddie Munson’s retreat isn’t one that is unscathed. In his urgency, he smacks straight into you, stumbling over his own clumsy ass feet, gripping your forearms to keep you both steady. He’s processed your scent before he even takes in your beautiful features.

Fuck…

You look less like you’ve been partying all weekend, but Eddie knows better. Your pupils are dilated to the bright overhead lights of the hallways, making your sclera more visible. It’s bloodshot red, lower lids swollen and tinged a rough crimson beneath the fresh makeup that Eddie now sees. He swallows and looks away, but he doesn’t let you go. His grip isn’t harsh, it’s simply what it’s always been with you two. Easy and sturdy, safe.

You’re the first to downcast your gaze, focusing more on your shoe wear than on Eddie. It kills him. Even through these notions, this fear, whatever anger you’re both harboring, it’s as if this whole damned school and everyone passing you two are mere bodies, Eddie Munson and Y/N Y/L/N floating, tethered. His stomach churns its lunch contents, teeth clenching tightly. You make a brisk dart off, but Eddie attempts to catch you, instead tugging too hard on your shoulder strap, causing your bag to dump and spread out its contents at his sneaker clad feet.

Eddie’s eyes are quick to see it before you realize. Shining underneath hallway lights, scattered amongst notebooks and pens, is a small flask. His brows perch, he crouches first, scooping it away from your jutting hands. Gareth’s words rewind and play on repeat in his head.

“Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

The way his heart rate spikes, hostilely spitting that acid all over his lungs, battering his throat muscles with a pummeling storm. He’s already sure what he’ll smell if he presses the lid to his nostrils, but Eddie has to feed his anxious curiosity, unscrewing the cap with nervous hands, sniffing, shrugging off your grabs. It burns his mouth from its strength, his distraction giving you enough leeway to wrap your hands over his fingers and pull. Eddie locks your digits within his own, second thoughts gone. Against everything inside him he is getting angrier by the second, the anger masking itself, easier than being petrified and scared in front of you.

And Eddie is scared. Is he really so fucking stupid to think you weren’t at all affected by any of this?

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Your fingers sliding through his own, flood him, prickling every vein running beneath his skin, cutting off his blood flow—scorching.

~*~

Having Eddie’s hands on you again, his body so close, despite your shame at his discovery, it’s a feeling that comes more natural than breathing. You avoid his question, feeble grasping docked.

“Why do you have a flask full of fucking vodka?”

“Will you keep your voice down!” You hiss the words, finally breaking off him and retrieving the rest of your items on the scuffed up floor, and securing them back into your bag, Eddie holding back your liquor.

“Did you drive to school drinking this crap? Tell me you didn’t, Y/N, cause’ I swear to god—“

You chortle, a humorless boom smacking across your chest.

“Eddie, this faux best-friend act is getting old. Your on and off switch is enough to drive anyone to drastic measures. But don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’d be an idiot and drive drunk. Not even for you.”

His irises that are glossy with concern, they cave to dilating pupils, an animalistic rage priming them. “Oh, you have got to be the most clueless bitch alive, Y/N.” He steps towards you, frame towering slightly. You’re not afraid, never fearing if he’ll do something, because that is not Eddie, no matter what. But, you are very much dripping with rage at his words.

He pockets your flask in his left back pocket, rings clinking against it as he pats it for good measure. You try to dive around him, beneath his arm, but he swoops in on his own, using that strength for his slender frame, literally scooping you into a half bring-away, only discarding you back onto your feet once you’re both outside. You try to shove at him, palms resting on his stained club shirt. The bell has rang to signal your free period, but you don’t give two fucks, giving up and being the one to leave.

“Who’s the coward now, huh? You’re gonna walk away from me when I call you on your shit, Y/N?”

You spin on your heel, dirt and gravel specks crunched beneath your step. “I thought I was a clueless bitch, Eddie? A traitor? Or, your slut.” You scoff, crossing your arms.

Guilt briefly flickers across his features, but he shuts it down tenfold. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I want you to destroy your fucking liver or your life. Jesus Christ, you really think I’m that big of an asshole?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” You fling your hands into the air. “One minute we’re at each other’s throats, the next you’re up my ass. I don’t know what to do here, Eddie.”

“Thought you craved some individuality and independence.” Though there’s meant to be flare behind the words, Eddie’s tone has splintered across each word, voice breaking apart. Your guts sink into your ass, as does a particularly pointed swallow that stabs at your jugular.

“Didn’t say I wanted to be completely independent from my best-friend.” Your own response is gentle, voice soaked with impending emotion.

Fuck. Stupid fucking tears burning again. Not right now.

Eddie’s attention snaps back on you, proximity closing in. His jaw clenches, he moves it from side to side with a closed mouth, sniffing, whistling air through a wet breath. “Feels like you’re leavin’ me and I can’t do anything to stop it…”

It makes sense suddenly. A catapult of truth slamming right into your chest, spreading throughout your body.

He thinks I’m leaving him. That I want to leave him.

As if the last seventy two hours haven’t happened, better yet, as if they haven’t mattered in the grand scheme of things—you’re the one that meets Eddie, reaching to push that curly hair from his eyes, his head downcast and posture sullen. His brown eyes are brimmed with tears that spill over his lash line, a permanent frown creased between his brows, mouth red and spit slick. Those freckles on his nose are suddenly very prominent to you. You’ve never seen Eddie Munson this vulnerable. Your heart shatters, the ache so physically strong that you have to remain close to him to hold on and find that strength again.

How could you have gotten this so monumentally wrong? Maybe if you’d have expressed what you meant more instead of feeding off Eddie’s anger. His communication and yours both need nurturing, but your sudden shift in mood must’ve made him feel like you wanted to abandon him, not just do things for yourself. He may not realize that yet, but you do. And it fucking sucks.

“Eddie. I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say in the seconds that your heart heaves into your throat.

He shakes that shaggy mane. “Don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, especially you.” He backs away from you and you see his entire expression crumble, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

That pain drowns your throat, seeing him cry because of your lack of explanation and mutual avoidance. You chase after him, running around to block his view, unable to let him go, gripping onto his waist beneath his jacket to keep him planted. Another familiarity. He tenses beneath your touch before relaxing.

“Eddie, will you please listen to me? I think I know what’s going on now.”

“And look who is the one flipping her emotions this time.”

“Because, I… Eddie, I—“

“What lame ass line do you want me to buy, Y/N? You think I’m not used to worthless promises or idiotic reassurances? Yeah, good.” His sentence is fragmented, voice rough and breaking apart on each word. “You know I still care about you, but I don’t need you to lie to me, you don’t owe me a damn thing, I promise you—“

You press a finger to his quivering lips, halting him. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a pause in the universe, your legs heavy, fingertip stroking along the plumpness of your best-friend’s full, lower lip. Eddie’s chest is moving up and down swiftly, tongue against his teeth, that warning look. You fail to heed it and Eddie’s hands tremble at his sides before he gives up and cups the sides of your face, bringing your foreheads together. His lips part to speak, your finger still on them. “Think we’re in trouble here.”

You can do nothing but nod as his declaring statement, inclining your head further, nose nudging his own. It doesn’t feel as if you’re standing any longer, every mean thing that Eddie has said, every disproportionate attempt of yours to communicate—obliterate, shrouding you both in the process. His breath is hot as his mouth opens and he sucks your finger inside, tongue licking its tip, biting the digit between those milky white teeth. It sends that throbbing nudge, snapping between your thighs, making you arch into your best-friend. You whisper his name and his fingers move along your jaw, across your ear, sliding through your hair and rubbing a pathway to your necks’ nape, sending an army of goosebumps across your flesh, the coolness of his rings stimulating your skin.

“Yeah, you feelin’ it too?” Your lids flutter closed, Eddie using his thumb pad to brush the corners of your lashes, signally for you to open them. “Didn’t say you could stop looking at me, did I, sweetheart?”

You grind against him, unable to stop. Your last several days, everything between you both is on hold, these buried urges able to finally win out. This dominant side of Eddie Munson has you an inward and outwardly quickening pile of mush and hormones, of fucking need. Eddie about loses his cool when you obey him, pupils blown, mouth looking parched and in need of his kisses. He leans, walls starting to slip, resolve crumbling, his pouting mood long gone.

Years of built up tension and confusion, being rightfully by one another’s sides, it all comes apart, the seams, begging to be repaired into what it has to be now.

You envelop his hold on you, hands sliding into slips beneath his jacket, around his waist, tracing over his back, before dipping under his armpits and grasping his shoulders, knuckles pushed down by his leather jacket. One more step and he’ll kiss you. He’s closing a gap, no more breaches, you tapping his shoulders right down to the blades in encouragement. It’s parted mouths hovering over one another, cigarettes and vodka, school lunch and weed, it’s—

“Hey, guys! Higgins is so pissed off right now… After that shit went down in the caf, he’s ready to expel you, Y/N! Pretty fuckin’ sure.” You hear Gareth approach, and just like, Eddie releases you.

You have to steady yourself, want simmering into a slumber in your belly, not yet gone, but still reminding you where it lives. Your glare is directed at your mutual friend. Eddie, feeling as if he’s been doused with ice cold water, and the moment is shattered, you see those walls rebuilding rapidly, and she shrugs off your hand, leaving you and Gareth, and that slickness that has collected in your panties.

~*~

You aren’t sure just exactly what Eddie is feeling, but you’re very aware of what you are. So driving to his place once you know Wayne has left for the night shift—it’s a no brainer. You’d debated bringing Eddie your box of treasures, even your necklace, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe, maybe your best-friend doesn’t want you to…?

Want.

A dynamic shift in your relationship, or what it used to be. You can barely sit still as you wrack your brain through all the levels of hazy blurs. So much has happened in three days, but… today, with Eddie nearly kissing you on the mouth, and you nearly grinding against him in the Hawkins High parking lot—yeah, you two have to talk about all of this. As you squirm in your seat, hands tightening around the wheel, that approaching trailer park sign signals your arrival to his residence. You can’t stop the way your heartbeat feels as if it’s ping ponging around in your throat, or that anxious twitch of your mouth’s corner—forget even attempting to deny your cascading memories of the way his chocolate irises wore an expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen on Eddie Munson.

His trailer comes into your sights, that tickle swooping your guts and holding them hostage. You swallow a thick ball of anxiety, parking next to his van, cutting your engine. The lights are all on and you’ve got no excuse to chicken out. It’s your year too, right? Fucking fuck it.

With your keys clutched in your palm, you make your way to Eddie’s trailer, rasping on his door lightly. You don’t hear his music blaring, so he might be reading, planning a campaign, writing some music he’d mentioned wanting to practice with the guys soon, get a feel for its sound—just last week. You have given about three octaves of knocks and are about to give up, head pressed the door, thinking he was just lost in lust earlier, and maybe you’d fucked up on your end beyond repair. Exhausted by the stampeding pain that brings your insides, you flip the Munson’s spare key off your key ring and unlock the door. A bold move—albeit—a very stupid one.

That familiar scent of Eddie and Wayne’s shared carton of cigarettes hits your nose, along with the leftovers from dinner you see sitting out on the stove. Your cookies, which have been devoured, are missing their note. You panic, briefly thinking Eddie probably trashed it, only to come back from that brink seconds later. It’s not what you’re here for. You glance at the couch and it’s empty, not even Eddie’s usual indent on the cushion is there.

Swinging your keys from your pointer finger, you peek down the small hallway to Eddie’s closed door, light spilling out underneath. He could be sleeping, possibly ignoring you, or he snuck out the back door…

Your feet make an echoing squeak across the trailer’s flooring structure, your fingers twisting the knob and pushing, pausing, deciding to go ahead. If he wants you to leave then you’ll go, if he’s asleep, you’ll go, if he left… You can’t fathom that thought, another ignorance that you partake in. You aren’t sure exactly what you expected, but seeing your best-friend’s tallish frame, with his back facing you, lean leg propped atop his mattress, right arm bent at a very clear angle, his left propped on one of his many amps he’d apparently moved since you’d been here last—is sure as hell NOT it. Eddie’s curly hair ruffles and is jostled across his shoulders with each movement his arm makes, his delicious ass clenching as his body thrusts into his rhythm, the outline of his chain on his perspired neck and damp strands of dark hair—clear. You don’t have to hear the thick, slick and wet stroking to know what he’s doing to himself.

You cross an ankle over the other, squeezing your legs together tightly, trying to bounce on the balls of your heels to get relief. Your fingers white knuckle his banged up door handle, your mouth parting. Whether it’s that bond you two share, or your very visible labored breathing, Eddie’s shoulder blades pinch together, his motions abruptly cut. He turns as if caught doing something he shouldn’t be—definitely something you aren’t prepared to handle. It’s like your mouth is speaking for you, eyes in a trance, enslaved to your lustful abiding.

Fucked out, blown up pupils shave off the color of your irises, your tongue gliding across your teeth, that take a turn to sink into your bottom lip, your toes curling in your shoes. You feel hot, body battered in melting flames that won’t cease, won’t let you get in a normal burst of air flow. You know without having to fix your posture that you’ve made a mess between your legs, panties soaked to hell—completely ruined. You’re honest to fuck not sure if you can make it out of here in an upright position, that painfully strong ache tackling your cunt, breaking off your common sense, leaving you Eddie-drunk. Helping yourself to a swiping look between his legs, he’s still got a ring clad hand wrapped around a very generous girth—shiny—a length that leaves saliva pooling on your tongue’s tip.

His chest is slick with sweat, tattoos glossed beneath, nipples hard from the cool air let into his bedroom. Which, you note, is really fucking hot, and the window is steamed up. Your eyelids flutter in rapid blinks to help you reign yourself in, but all you see are glimpses of Eddie’s fist around himself, that creamy and swollen head, full balls on either side, trimmed curls at the base of his shaft. You want to die. And oh, what a sweet and sinful death that would be.

“Mhm… fuck.” You say through the gap between your panting mouth, words take the opportunity to bust free, joining a high pitched whimper.

Eddie’s chocolate eyes are completely black, leaving no room for anything else but purely raw desire. They widen, a sharp heave in his inhaling chest, abdomen flexing as he holds himself tightly. When you don’t move Eddie takes the initiative, slowly approaching, a softness there beneath the want and knowing. He reaches your space, still giving you enough, but you’re able to still feel that radiating body heat. Neither of you speak, because what is there to say right now?

You’d be a pleading mess of profanities, apologizes, and begging to be taken and used.

Thankfully, Eddie makes another move before you. His spare hand joins your own on the door knob, fingers brushing your knuckles, encouraging, giving you one more opportunity if you’re in distress or uncomfortable. You hook onto his offer and you surprise you both by finding something to say after all, throat parched, yet still damp with wanton rasp. “Start touching yourself again, Eddie. Please?” Fuck, well there’s a beg.

Eddie, assuming you want a show, nerves being dipped in lava and left to forever sizzle and smoke—gives in, both of you shutting his door and closing the two of you off from the outside world. He doesn’t wait for you to back away, pushing his hips to a rise, his cock gliding through his closed fist. You let him lean over you, frame against his door, watching his legs spread to widen his stance, obeying your plea. He almost asks, but assumes it would be too hopeful if you would want to touch yourself in front of him too. You’re out of your mind, common sense obliterated for all eternity, watching your bestfriend practically pin you to the door and fuck himself in front of you.

Those sounds you’ve imagined, pictured, they’re even more pronounced in person. Some low enough that it’s a stifling whimper, a needy sobbing. If you don’t do something about the gnawing throbbing between your thighs, it’ll be total combustion. There’s an empowerment that winds itself around a pulsating set of nerves in one’s decision to masturbate in front of their best-friend. That coolness works itself in your palms, your fingers tossing your keys over and onto Eddie’s dresser, toeing off your shoes, his eyes steamy in their grasp on your every move.

You’d wished you had brought your camera to photograph his expression when you walk over to where he stood in front of his bed, turning to face him, your fingers undoing your jeans and the zipper, a resounding echo in the room, Eddie’s tongue poking out on his upper lip, he holds himself around the base, the urgency to fuck his hand as you take your seat on his mattress and scoot with your back to the wall, hips lifting to help you pull off your jeans and panties. You struggle momentarily, but neither of you are saying a word, gazes steady and unwavering.

Discarding your clothing with a soft thump onto his floor, you’re heartbeat thumps in your throat, ribcage taking an unsteady hammering of its resounding drumming. You heed Eddie’s silent command to continue, agreeing to this turning point between you two. Your thighs fall open and that sticky want strings to your swollen folds, glistening in the creases of your thighs, your cunt sopping wet. You’re dripping, and Eddie isn’t missing it when your arousal finally does drizzle from your neglected pussy and onto his bedsheets. You shift to get comfortable, hand cupping yourself, immediately smothered in your own juices, legs falling into a drop, toes finally able to curl without the barrier of your shoes, bunching Eddie’s sheets.

Eddie watches you from where he can see, still eager to be closer, but unable to stop himself from stroking along his length, teasing that vein that runs alongside his cock. You do it again, rubbing your palm up and down your lips, a crude squelch causing Eddie to almost black out, and you shiver. He releases himself, heavy and hot between slim thighs, and he’s moving. He puffs out a gravelly hiss from pursed lips, stalking towards you and giving a cat like crawl across his own bed, planting himself shoulder to shoulder with you to your left. He must be feeling the overwhelming change that is occurring, as he reaches for your hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

You gravitate towards your hand, fingers slipping through your slickness, your head bowing in embarrassment. Eddie grips your chin and tilts you his way, shaking his head, that same hand dropping to your thigh and lifting to pull up and to the side. And he looks. He fucking memorizes you between your legs with these little mewling coos of appreciation that cement themselves into your subconscious. You do the same, helping yourself to an up close and personal view of what he’s been hiding.

Eddie leans forward and cups the nap of your neck, his other hand taking your wrist and removing it from your self-touches, shushing your protesting whine. He brings it up to his mouth, which is hovering close to yours, your own fingers pressed against your lips, and he licks a straight stripe up your creamy covered palm, humming underneath his breath as he does so. You want to slap him and ride him on every available surface in this trailer. You’re the one to speak, having to.

“Eddie…” It’s a meek little trail-off.

Eddie lets go of your wrist and uses that hand to pull his cock off his stomach, a wet patch left behind in his happy trail. He still doesn’t let your neck go, his fingertips tapping an invisible beat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He’s laughing, tufts of air settling across your mouth. You narrow your gaze, moving to shut your legs, Eddie’s hand quickly preventing the action, stroking the meat of your inner thigh. “Only fair if I’m exposed, sweetheart.”

“But… you’re laughing.” And it hits you then, why he’s really chuckling in that Eddie Munson way. It’s an incredulous and mind boggling turn of events. Best-friends that broke up when they were never together, now side by side and in a very compromising situation.

You grin and falter into his embrace, your hand working its way into a wind around his neck, taking sweaty strands in scoops between your fingers, his pick chain draped across your knuckles. Eddie licks across his bottom lip, tapping your hips as he moves, your hands falling, and sprawls his legs into a propped spread, cock neglected and flushed, much like the rest of his skin, that you’ll die if you don’t put your marks on. He’s motioning for you to turn in a slow facing position in front of him, and that’s how you end up—vulnerable, so fucking vulnerable. He’s muttering words, huddled and unintelligible, reaching out and tugging you to him by your ankles, stopping, resting, eyes dark as they do a once over to gauge your mental stability. When you don’t protest, palms splaying out to keep yourself upright behind you, Eddie lets his legs flatten against his sheets, a smirk pattering his lips, indenting its knowing presses beside his mouth.

His exhale catches on a ragged breath, a passionate declaration signing off on what’s about to occur, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pulls you close, your ass resting on his hairy thighs, waiting, held, his arm wrapping around your lower back and lifting you completely into that ink splattered, silk-slick chest, his skin sticking to your long sleeved t-shirt, ruining it with sex-soaked perspiration. You think that there’s nothing—no—you know that in this entire world, no matter what, that whatever will happen to you is never going to compare to the moment when Eddie’s maneuvering hands glide your wet cunt over his cock, using your drenching heat as his own personal lubricant. Your ankles lock around his waist, no choice from the close band that your best-friend has re-tethered you to him with, leaving no room or space where you’re not touching or breathing in the other. Your arms curl around Eddie’s neck, hands draped down his back as you help yourself to pinching and clawing the flesh beneath, relishing every little grumble and groan off his pretty lips. Your face takes solace in his neck, nosing your way through his curly hair, nose bumping his chain to lift so that your mouth can claim him.

“Fuck.” His throat constricts around a swallow, your teeth sinking into a piece of Eddie’s flesh and biting, releasing, lips closing over that angry spot to soothe, tongue tasting salt, licking it off, indulging.

He lets your have your way with his neck, a particularly harsh slap landing on your ass in following of your mouth on his jugular, letting your tongue following that curvature into his jawline. You don’t stop his wandering hands, you don’t dare fight off his vice grip on the globes of your ass, his kneading, using as them leverage to place you right where he wants you. You let him take control, an unspoken agreement, a having to have. Your head falls back as Eddie rolls his hips beneath, rocking his lap, solid presses that drag his fat cock over your embarrassingly wet pussy, scattering your thick arousal and smearing it across his happy trail, getting caught in that patch of curls at the base of his shaft. You’re dripping all over him, quite literally. Caught on a trapped hum, hung in its hisses between your clenched teeth, you croon into Eddie’s neck, your stomach tightening, that velvety drag of his dick through your swollen folds making your lids flutter closed, colors dotting in their dances—translucent.

You aren’t sure where to move your hands, comfortable with having them shred Eddie’s back and empty out the past few days of frustration and desperation. Eddie encourages, palming handfuls of your ass, creating a cresting twist, a thigh trembling rub of sopping wet desire. He’s merely whimpering, appreciating, not overly vocal until his swollen head catches your neglected clit, and his head drops back, fingers pinching so tightly into your skin that it burns.

“Oh, shit. Dammit, baby.”

You’re simpering on a series of whimpers, agreeable and speechless. Eddie is feeding off it. “Yeah? You needing this too? Little clit feels so good rubbing on my dick, sweetheart. You want me to do it again?”

When you’re not immediately able to be vocal, Eddie pulls back a little, shoving his hand between your thighs and drags his rings directly through your arousal, coating them in a glittering shine. His first real touch where you need him the most. You both inhale sharply. It’s the pain from the cool metal of his jewelry that makes it feel so fucking good. He curses, telling you how messy you’re being, flinging his hand in your sights, dragging you in a pry off of his neck, holding your jaw and flashing his knuckles.

“See what you did, messy little angel. You gotta clean em’ now for me.”

His eyes are so fucking demolished, brown crushed beneath a midnight sea of black and insatiable attraction. You’re mewling, tongue lolling out, licking that metallic onto your tongue, sloppily sloping around his knuckles, lips suckling what your tongue can’t catch, your own taste fresh off your mouth. That’s when Eddie brushes a calloused thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down to expose your teeth, and he brings your lips to his, a feral groan stealing your breath, sharing your juices in your first kiss. It’s a shift in the energy you share, a no going back, no running away, a fate sealed. Eddie loses all control and flips you off his lap, pinning you beneath him, kissing you with such feverish vigor that your hand tangles into his messy curls, and you pull, hard.

His tongue licks your lips open, greedily removing what’s left of your taste that remains. It’s noisy and nasty in the expanse of his small bedroom—diabolically sinful. One hand caresses your throat’s expanse, the other dropping down with a snapped wrist between your thighs, palm smacking your cunt, a guttural groan vibrating from his mouth into your own. Saliva strings on the break away, Eddie’s gaze switching to watch the hand on your cunt, out of it.

“Your pussy always this wet, baby? Or is it just for your best-friend?”

“Only for you, Eddie. Always you.”

Fallen into the depths of satisfaction, Eddie permits a slender digit to drag down your slit, taking that thick honey with it, a squelch echoing in the room when his finger wiggles its way inside of you. You clamp around him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

“Jesus Christ. You’re gonna drown my dick when you let me fuck you, aren’t you?”

You’re incoherently babbling, tapping the hand that’s on your throat, hungry for it. “Tighter.”

Eddie’s brow raise is comical, a surprise coating his features. “So miss Y/N likes it rough? Never woulda guessed.”

You gulp a pump of air that vibrates across his hold, trying to gain more depth from his finger. It’s moving in exploration of your softly wet walls, an excess of arousal being pressed out upon that squish. Eddie tightens his hold on your throat, before he taps his fingers to your jugular and releases, hand toppling down your side and caressing, bringing. “Fuck, my best-friend’s got such a perfect little pussy. S’ made to be destroyed and used.”

You’re nodding so hard that the motion causes a cracking pop in your neck, Eddie laughing that noise under a cute breath. He’s thick with it, wiggling in a second finger and causing you drop your hands back behind you and push into the sensation, chasing, hunting it.

“Desperate to get away from me all week, now look at you. What a whore.”

Eddie has a mouth on him, something you’d always wondered about in your daily daydreams and nightly fantasies. As vocal as when he’s singing with his band. He’s saying words to you, snapping your attention, you’re whining as his fingers leave your cunt, and he’s pulling you into him so hard your lips split apart, cushioning his cock, cradling him in that overwhelming slick. He must not have meant for that action to cause it, as he jumps when you do, this feral look flickering behind those heated orbs. You know… it’s time.

Eddie is barely able to stand, clumsily bringing you with him by a laced grip in your hands. He gets you upright and you’re dizzy, his hands taking purchase on your shirt (the only remaining piece of clothing on you), and rips it with gritting teeth and anger, as if he’s pissed it’s not the club shirt, or sickened with himself for destroying yours—you’re not sure. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth as you let him tear off your tattered tee and yank your bra down, impatiently yanking the clasp apart and discarding it, helping himself to your tits, closing those plush lips over a nipple. Your hand wraps around his throbbing cock, fingers barely touching around the width, squeezing him—tugging. His hips stutter and he whines against your breast, teeth biting the flesh with a harsh precision.

Your other hand works its way through his wet curls and massages his scalp, tenderly altering in beckoning strokes, ones that switch off into root tugging pulls. Eddie’s hands keep your breast cupped, switching off to the other, whilst you dip lower and fondle his balls, letting your pinky drop off and scratch into his inner thigh. He’s doing that humming thing underneath his fucked out tone again, and you’re focusing your attention on his cock, thumb pad stroking that weeping slit, spreading it around and over that vein, enchanted with how it causes a thin bright shine over him, your own cream matted into the curls at the base of him, pathed up his stomach. His mouth leaves your chest and those big hands grip your cheeks, both of you watching as you jack him with a sticky tug.

Fuck me.

“Who’s the whore for his bestfriend now, Eds? You gonna admit that half the shit I’ve done this week has gotten your dick so hard you can’t decide what you’ve hated me for more,” You say, pausing to twist your grip, making him fold into your holding hand, “my smart mouth or how much you need this.”

Your powering dominance is short lived, hand falling off his erection, with Eddie kneeing you into a shove until your back collides with his desk, his arm reaching around to push most of its contents off and onto the floor, not caring where any of it goes. He nudges your thighs apart and slots his lean frame between, thumb catching the corner of your mouth, his instruction clear, yet awaiting your consent to cross this no back-stepping boundary. “M’ gonna fuck you right here, and you’re goin’ to watch me take you, Y/N.”

You’re pretty sure you’re gonna pass out at any given moment.

“I’m gonna watch you, Eddie.” You agree, zoning out and sprinting after your pleasure.

“Good girl.” Eddie breaks briefly, mouth on your shoulder, hand winding your hair around his fist and tugging it back so hard that the ache inside of you becomes an inferno. He finds the underside of your chin, voice honey-hot. “Because you’re not leaving this room until there’s a puddle of me running back out of your cunt.”

You launch forward so fast that Eddie falls into you, chest smashing against your breasts, your lips crashing into his for a brutally intimate kiss. You sink your teeth into his bottom lip and tug, biting down so hard you taste copper—licking it up and making Eddie’s cock jump. His ring covered hand attaches itself to your throat and he drags you off your prop against the desk, spinning you around and securing you to it, those hairy thighs pressing into you, wet cock so close to where you need him the most. His hand wraps around your hair again and lifts your gaze to that small opening in the mirror where posters and his most prized possession hangs. You’re flushed and soaked with sweat, mouth swollen and streaked with red from biting into Eddie’s plump lip, your pussy dripping thick strings of your creamy essence, slowly slithering in dangles from your pussy and onto the floor.

“You’re so fucking messy, Y/N. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, baby?” Eddie is like the devil on your shoulder, and you, you’re his angel of eternal damnation.

You’re about to beg, but Eddie saves you the trouble, his fingers tapping in tips down your spine, caressing, stroking, before they spread your lips apart and dip inside, palm flat. “Should fuckin’ split you open, do it raw. Cum so deep inside that you end up pregnant with my baby and have no choice but to always think of me, be around me.”

Though there’s a tease behind his passionate words, there’s this primal exclamation that overtakes you and you clamp down on his fingers. A series of fast paced images are vivid in your mind. Your tummy swollen and breasts heavy, Eddie having you bent over like this—one hand on your belly, the other on your throat, feeling your pulse galavant beneath his touch.

“Y/N… Fuck, sweetheart.” He’s so fucked in his descending tone that the depth is gruff and tipping off his diaphragm, you imagine. He presses his cheek against your own, chin resting on your shoulder as you drink each other in, in the mirror’s expanse, Eddie’s tone weak. “You really willing to carry my kid?”

You meet his eyes in the cluttered mirror, nodding, a softness carving out permanent residence in your features. It’s a topic you’d never shared with anyone else, never banked too much on thinking about, but beyond the idea of how hot this all is, you can’t imagine a scenario like this that doesn’t involve Eddie Munson. Vulnerable and barely above a brisk whisper, you’re answering him with, “Yeah, Eds. Want a family with you.”

At your admission, he lets his hand go in languid thrusts. You groan and let your head shift, but Eddie is jerking you back to stare into the glass, both of you panting and on the cusp of an out of body experience. It causes you to grin, licking your lips as your best-friend pumps those experienced digits to cause a purposeful squelch, his rings clinking together. His hard cock is pressed between his own stomach and your back, that pre-cum pooling onto your lower back and smearing in streaks down your ass. You’ve had more than enough teasing and you’re well aware that Eddie has too.

His look briefly falters, turning to mouth at your chin, a silent question. It’s you who uses your words, or rather, trembles in your feeble attempt. “Eddie, just put your cock inside me, or I swear I’ll—“

He’s smirking wildly at your slack-jawed expression when his fingers slide out of you and stick together with your cum, to which he helps himself to and coats his cock, then lines himself up and presses the thick head into your opening, leaning down to bite at your shoulder and leave an exposed imprint. Your legs feel like jello and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. He’s going to ask you to beg, and you’re an all in willing participant. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t. He inhales sharply, you hold your breath, and both of you watch him sink into your slick and soft cunt, inch by inch, until his balls rest against the globes of your cheeks.

You’re still holding your breath, releasing it when you feel him sigh, grip on your hair loosening a little, too caught up in the fact that he’s where he belongs, after so much time doing without this. Your legs are about to buckle, jerking, toes curling against the carpeted floor, overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, and by your best-friend’s cock throbbing in your aching pussy. “E-Eds…?” It’s a pathetic cry of a question.

Eddie’s brows pinch together, sweat beaded between. He grips your jaw and his fingertips tap you back to meet his mouth, hovering over your lips. “S’ okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” He briefly drops the playful gimmick, reassuring you that he’s right here with you.

It’s more than enough to have you arching back into him, a brash pummeling of his hips that sends you into the dresser, having to reach out and catch yourself. Eddie is quick witted, gripping your wrists with one hand and pinning them behind your back, stepping with you in toe, elongating his arm to snatch those handcuffs on his wall, that cold metal biting into your wrist, that dull noise presenting itself as the cuffs lock you into place, Eddie gripping onto the chains’ excess expanse, using it as a leverage. A sliver of a chalky moan trickles off your kiss-swollen lips, appreciative. The way Eddie is manhandling you has you so fucking euphoric that you’re sure you’ll be in a comatose state before either of you can cum. Your best-friend’s large hand finds purchase in your hair again, drawing his hips back, the other on the chain of the cuffs—steadying himself into a rhythm, riding you like all that matters is your destruction and his ultimate ownership.

Eddie Munson has owned you since the very moment that you two met.

The way he’s executing such precise and rough thrusts, making sure you’re high on the bring up, toes pressing into the carpet, that you’re stuffed full of his fat cock until it hurts, twitching in overstimulation, sore and fluttering walls eager to be soaked in everything he has to give you, that you are taking in every inch, catching every ridge, leaving you a shambled, panting mess, in pieces only being put back together again when Eddie will allow your release. His hair is tickling your shoulder blades, his fingers leaving the cuffs to press into your mouth and curl over your tongue, relishing in how you gag around the digits. You’re weak, so fucking weak for him, and he knows it.

“Can’t wait to hear you gag on my cock, Y/N. If you have trouble with these bad boys?” He puts an emphasis, wiggling his fingers against your tongue, giving them a secondary push to over extend your gag reflexes, his dick twitching inside you.

You bite down on his fingers, sucking them in, accepting his challenge, willing it to happen. His balls slap into your ass, heavy and hot, every movement causing the metal to rut into the skin of your wrists. He’s got a steady tempo going, alternating it by dipping his hips to bring you with him, letting you nearly collide with your chest flush to his desk. He reaches up and shoves that poster back by peeling tape, revealing more of your fucked out forms. Your eyes widen at your disheveled and unrecognizable appearance, Eddie using your cuffed hands as reigns. Riding you so hard that you can’t breathe anything but his hot air curling around the shell of your ear.

“Dammit, you are such a good girl for me, Y/N. Always pictured you takin’ my cock, but you’re not even crying yet, just taking what I give you.”

Yet… Fuck me running.

Your scalp is tingling with a prickling crowd of flames from his harsh grip, his other hand reaching to smack your ass, using some mechanism on the cuffs—albeit—struggling with his spit soaked fingers that were just in your mouth, to unlatch them and discard them at your feet, and he watches the flesh of your ass cheek redden and jiggle beneath his biting palm. You fist your fingers into a strewn pair of his blue denim jeans left on the desk top, dipping your forehead down and arching your back, trying to look between your own legs from this new angle to see Eddie’s cock cradled in your puffy lips. He tuts at your unsuccessful action, forcing you back into watching him doing his hard work—the hardest he’s worked at anything (sans his band or the campaigns, if he’s being honest with himself)—to make this unforgettable for you. He hits that spot located inside, the one you have to strain an arm to barely graze, and you lose all coherent capabilities.

“Eddie… that’s, oh my god, oh FUCK. Right there!”

Eddie’s throat crumbles under a weak pant, which ends up coming out as a whimper. He remains firm, however, still using your hair to keep you right where he wants you, his other hand reaching around to pet his own shaft as he slides out just enough to make you wetter.

“Yeah, baby? That spot gonna make somethin’ happen for you?”

You don’t answer, mumbles and babbling gibberish. He shakes that precious head of his, curls tickling your back and shoulders, a sigh breaking free. “Sorry, sweetheart. Can’t believe we’re doin’ this in front of you. Both my girls right here with me, one of them at my fuckin’ mercy.” Your attentions snap over your shoulder and you see Eddie looking at his fucking guitar, that is one of the only things remaining on the mirror. You gape, but aren’t surprised in the slightest.

He continues on, pretending he doesn’t see your partial seethe. “Makin’ a mess all over me, but I bet you like to see it too, don’t you?” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, still talking to the inanimate object. “Both my sweethearts are such sluts for their owner.”

You can’t help that rattle that clamps around your bones and slices through your spinal cord, seizing your abdomen, right down into your cunt. Owner? You have zero time to warn him, ask if you can, alarms unprepared, skin slapping on skin, his taste on your mouth, his breath on your flesh, that slippery glide that has cum running down your thighs, and it’s a sudden wave crashing over your insides and drowning them in your painfully interstellar-esque orgasm. Your eyes burn with tears as you watch your best-friend feel what’s happening, realizing. He’s covered in your release, and instead of being mad, he is influencing you like the little devil that he can be, plump lip pressing to your ear lobe with one continuous command. “That’s it. C’mon, Y/N. Drench my dick.”

You wish you could bottle the feeling of your first orgasm with Eddie Munson, your best-friend—forever. Finding yourself growing into that vulnerability that comes with the high, you seek to find solace in Eddie’s arms, whimpering at the overstimulation of his thick cock. With that connection still in tact, Eddie is spinning you around, dick sliding out with a messy mixture of arousals covering you both—his member completely doused in your cream, painting the trimmed curls at the base of his shaft with even more of you, slicking back some more of that happy trail. You want to be embarrassed, but as he’s red faced and struggling to breathe, you know that there’s no need to be. He steers you back onto the bed, falling easily between your spread thighs, drawing them up and around his waist.

He presses his forehead into your own, kissing each corner of your mouth, rings circling in dusting sweeps on the apex of your thighs. His voice is a shivered whisper. “Fuck, baby. You okay?”

There’s words on your tongue, Eddie’s taste on your mouth, things you’ve known for years, but are unsure if Eddie has, or if this is something he needs because he’s afraid you’ll abandon him, but that he doesn’t feel what you do. Your head is spinning and Eddie brushes sweaty strands of hair off your forehead, taking his cock through your swollen folds, pressing that spongey head into your clit—both of you crying out. “Y/N, m’ right here. Care to join me?”

And god help you, the way that you look at him. Really allow yourself to see him this way—unabashed—it stirs all those feelings Eddie has bottled down since forever. You press your thumb into his mouth, your other hand sliding down to grip onto him, gliding your hand back and forth, relishing in how his abdomen tenses, muscles flexing, body gravitating towards whatever you’re willing to bestow. He doesn’t let you touch him much longer, taking what your hand isn’t around and guiding it back into your cunt, that scrumptious burn brimming you, making your thighs drop open, back arch, only to tighten your ankles around him, digging your heels into his ass. He suckles your fingertip into his mouth, licking the digit in until it’s down to the knuckle.

Your head presses sideways, cheek on his pillow, inhaling his shaving cream and that spicy scent. He pauses his movements, making you frown in displeasure. He lets go of your spit tainted finger, gripping your chin, a possessive fire overcoming him. His irises remain completely black, putting you deeper into that comatose trance of agonizing sin. “I want you to fucking say it, Y/N.”

You start a beginning questionnaire, Eddie shaking his head and pressing in harder on your chin, fingers splaying across your jaw, rings pinching your chin in the most delightfully painful of ways. “Say you want me, tell me you fucking need me. That you’re not tired of me, and that you’re proud to be the freak’s slut.”

Your hands wind around his back and you sink your nails in as hard as you can, bearing down on him, sucking him in deeper, both of you in a state of no return. His hand tickles down from your face and grips your neck. “Still sick of me, baby?” He situates your gaze, lifting his hips to a raise so that you can see where you’re connected. You’re inconsolable, that fire already blazing your gut, turning every sense into nothingness.

When Eddie starts back up again, he slams himself into you so hard that your vision goes dark and you shred your own bottom lip open, body moving closer to his wall due to the force. He’s licking beneath your jugular, words sensual and filthy, making your entire body spike in a sudden electricity. “Gonna cum in every hole you’ve got, so you remember that they’re mine.”

This time you’re more than ready to give him a warning, body beginning to shake beyond your control, breaths stuttering in your chest. Eddie reaches down between you, calloused thumb flicking your clit. Everything is so fucking wet and the way it sounds in the expanse of Eddie’s small room, it has you opening your mouth, out of control and greedily begging for more.

“Eds, harder. Please? Almost…”

He’s grinning in that special way that weakens you—heart and soul, body and mind. “So much more than a slut.” His thrusts become choppy, his own babbling tone turning into Eddie-speak. “You are way more than you know, Y/N.”

You fondle his pick chain and bring him into your immediate airspace, mouths hovering. He’s nearing his end, cock getting fuller inside you. “Need you to tell me how much you love me.”

You both completely go slack. Eddie stops himself all together, body trembling, head bowing. Your heart rate increases, feeling as if you’ve skipped a staircase thousands of feet in the air and you’re now free falling.

Love… You don’t have to think twice.

Your hands move to cup his face, holding on, your eyes shining with tears at all overloaded emotions and senses. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie.”

At your admission, those beautiful eyes—dark with remains of passion—they fill, and he gives you his all, driving his cock into you in calculated presses, trying like hell to get you to cum first. When he speaks, his voice cracks apart. “Let me know that you’re right here with me, Y/N.”

“I’ve always been here, Eddie.” Is what you manage, thumping your hand against his wrist and helping him bring his fingers back to your clit.

He doesn’t let you look away, noses smashed together, sticky foreheads pressing, hair curtaining the apples of pink, sex stained cheeks. Your eyes widen as that knot begins to tighten in your stomach, unraveling so violently that Eddie has to grip your quivering thigh in one hand, the other keeping steady on your clit. You dig into his back, other hand tugging on his hair, and Eddie is giving a throaty seduction. “That’s it, be my good girl and cum again for me.”

And you’re coming apart at your very core, every cell exploding and rebuilding, gluing yourself to Eddie to seize the ache that scrambles your insides and leaves you breathless. He’s cursing, keeping his finger on your clit to help you coast over the high, immediately following you with the lowest, sweetest, whimpering moan that you’ve ever heard. Both of your eyes still drinking in the other’s pleasure, tears spilling over your lash line as Eddie’s hips cease and he holds, his cock swelling and that soft, creamy warmth coating your sore walls in spurts. He collapses onto your chest and you hold him there in a vice hug, his hand still trapped between your exhausted bodies. He gently eases it out, groaning around the wetness that he’s all too eager to sample until the layer of shine is off his fingers.

Holy shit and fuck me…

Your legs fall to the side, unable to stay upright any longer, Eddie keeping a hovering hand to soothe your shaking. He kisses your neck with a plush mouth, his chain dangling between your breasts. You’re petting his hair—which is so soaked it’s as if he’s been in the rain or come from the shower—off his forehead, wincing as he slides out and keeps himself by your side. You gasp and he joins, fascinated by your cum and his own seed pouring from your cunt. He raises up a little. “Mhm. Let me see?”

He props your thigh, sliding his fingers back and forth, zoned in on his bedsheets being ruined from the literal puddle of your shared cum that runs from you. Seconds pass and he grins widely, plopping onto his back, his fingertips caressing your shoulder, down to your arm. It’s a comfortable quiet, even with the intense meaning of the words that were spoken, until Eddie starts with a, “So..?”

And you cut him off, trying to get your uncomfortably hot body closer. “So I love you. And I have never stopped needing you, or wanting you, Eddie. I just hope all this wasn’t because we were fighting and you got scared I would leave, and —“

He doesn’t let you finish this time, that chocolate-ly brown ring swinging back around his pupil in a brisk develop, showcasing the moisture in his eyes. “I was scared because I love you so damn much that I would charge headfirst into Mordor, or some alternate dimension without any weapon or any shield, just for you. You gotta know that, Y/N.”

His softness, that glittering fragility, it makes you seal your mouth to his, kissing him full of your feelings. He cups the nape of your neck, drawing in closer, thumb coaxing a shiver from you as it passes over a certain spot behind your ear. On a wet break away, you’re nodding your head. “Guess we spent all week fighting when we should’ve been fucking and talking about our feelings.”

Eddie smirks, then is serious. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry I’ve been shit at showing you I appreciate all that you do for the guys and me. And for forgetting that you are your own person too. S’ not like I meant to, I swear. I just get so fucking caught up and I shouldn’t take for granted anything that has to do with you or with us.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re my best-friend, Eddie Munson?”

While it’s still true, you’re wondering when the words leave your lips. Eddie just fucked you so hard you probably won’t be able to sit down for a week or walk upright for hours, so friendship isn’t exactly the most appropriate term anymore, is it?

Eddie taps his fingertips to your temple, drawing your dazed expression, clinging to the cosmic connection once more. “M’ yours, Y/N.”

“Oh yeah, Munson?” You’re so high that you could fly out of here right now and make rounds around the whole globe. Your chest is aching with a tempo that promises new hope and ease.

Eddie is giddy too, that wide set smile, cheesing. “Just gotta get you a new shirt.”

The memory of your old club attire being one with the forest floor seems like so long ago. Eddie knuckle grazes your cheek, apologetic. You shush him. “I ruined yours, so we’re even.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and he’s tackling you beneath him, pinning your hands in a lace above your head. “Nah, we are just getting started on bein’ even, baby.”

~*~

Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson @gothbitchshit @thisishellfire @ethereal27cereal @likedovesinthewnd

-I really need to form a bigger tag list! I’m sorry :/-

Lemme know if you want on my general tag list, please! :)

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Villain who actually used to be sinister and obnoxious is now an AMNESIAC lil softie😩😩😩

For whatever reason, the villain blocked the hero's hit perfectly. Not only that, but when the hero went in for a kick, the villain managed to throw them off balance. Before the hero could fall to the ground, the villain caught them, arm around the hero's waist, pulling them closer than decency allowed.

The villain's eyes widened and a gasp escaped them. Despite the hero's blush, they tried to look grumpy and annoyed - as so often - but the villain could tell it was just for show. What a night. They were exhausted and confused.

"Sorry," the villain whispered. "I almost hit you."

They pulled themselves up and with them the hero.

"No, it's fine, it's good." As soon as possible, the hero took a step back and the villain still felt the warmth of their waist on their fingertips. Was it possible to yearn for someone they had forgotten? Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe they hadn't forgotten the hero at all. They remembered parts of them, not the whole picture but the most beautiful pieces, it seemed.

"I'm sorry if I-"

"Your muscle memory seems to be pretty good. I think you learnt how to fight at a very young age. Which is...sad." The hero looked at them and their face softened. Suddenly, the villain felt a familiar pain in their chest. Something was hitting close to home. "But you're not as aggressive as before. We need to work on that."

"I appreciate that you want to help me, really. But I think I don't want to be violent," the villain said. The hero touched their own chin, thinking intensively. That was familiar too.

"I've told you a lot of people want you dead," the hero said slowly. "Killing you would turn the whole city upside down. Every criminal tries to be on top of the whole network."

"Can't I just, I dunno, retire?"

"If you want criminals to take over and burn everything down to prove that they are the one on top of the food chain...sure." The hero took in a deep breath. "It's hard to admit but I need you. This city needs you. You keep things organized. You cause damage, yes, but if it wasn't you, it would be five different criminals at five different locations and I don't have the time nor the energy for that."

"Seems like I was a big deal before they fried my brain," the villain said. From what they had been told, they had been a horrible human being. They didn't really miss not remembering.

But there was one thing they wished they hadn't forgotten.

One person.

"You have no idea," the hero whispered. They were quiet for a moment but the villain was sensing that their annoyed and grumpy mask was slipping from their face. "Sometimes it feels pretty lonely. We used to talk about that every now and then."

"We used to talk?" the villain asked, even though they knew they hadn't always tried to murder the hero. Trying to remember was like going through mist and when they had seen the hero for the first time again, it had felt like a warm light in the middle of all the thick fog was calling them.

The hero smiled.

"Most of the time you tried to make me join you. You loved taking me hostage."

"That doesn't sound like a good thing." The villain was disgusted at their own actions. What on earth had driven them to such drastic measures? It was like the villain from the past was someone else.

"...no, of course it wasn't a good thing. It was...different." The hero cleared their throat. "Talking to you was refreshing in a sense. I don't know, it is hard to explain. Our relationship was difficult."

"Like a love-hate-thing?" The hero looked at them but didn't say anything. That was enough of an answer for the villain and acid started to burn their throat. So, the hero had liked them and now they seemed annoyed by them.

What if the hero had liked their old version more? The villain that was violent and aggressive? What if the hero wouldn't like how they were now? What if the hero absolutely loathed them now because they weren't the right villain?

"I was taught not to show any emotions to my enemies. I think that has made me quite bitter but you challenged that. I was angry at you and I hated you a lot of the time. But in your soft moments I loved your voice. I loved your thoughts. I loved when you were kind to me. When you decided to saved me before death could take me. I loved it when you talked to me and argued with me without being an asshole. And those mixed feelings for you conflicted me."

And now? The villain's heart was beating in their chest, loud enough, they swore, for the hero to hear.

"Of course, I knew you wouldn't understand it. You were doing this for your own benefits. You were a strategist, after all. It is more complicated now for me. You're someone I like a little too much."

"You've been waiting to get that off your chest, haven't you?" The hero looked at the ground and back at the villain. Their ears were red and they closed their hands into fists over and over again. They closed their eyes, swallowed.

"I know training can get tiresome and-"

"I remember talking to you. You're pretty much the only thing I remember. Little details. What you look like. What you smell like. Honestly, I thought we were married when I saw you for the first time after waking up." The hero's blush stretched over their cheeks. "Maybe you can give me some more tips? Punches and kicks, I mean."

"Y-yeah of course." The villain smiled softly.

[feyhunter78]

Hi!! I’ve been thinking about that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, when Patrick walks Kat to the swings when she’s drunk and he says “Leave it to you to use big words when you're shitfaced.” Except! Kat is Nerd Miguel who somehow ended up drunk at some frat party or something, and Patrick is reader who has to deal with his antics. I imagine him spewing random scientific words/facts that reader tries her best to understand. All while she’s just trying to sober him up a bit. This lil scenario has been running through my head, and who best to share with than you!

(The chokehold you’re Miguel, specifically nerd Miguel, has on me is insane! It’s a great distraction while at work! <3)

I love that scene so much!!!! I made this a bit different, but I think I still hit the mark for ya anon <3 (Also this is a normal house party bc guys that are not in a frat are not allowed to attend frat events just like with sororities!)

House Parties

Art cred: Treelover_5

Nerd!Miguel masterlist

You weave through Brett’s parents’ guest house on the edge of town, downing your drink as you search for Miguel. It was really nice of Brett to invite you and Miguel to his pre-winter break bash. You know Miguel doesn’t party much, and Brett has been trying to encourage him to come out of his shell, so this was the perfect opportunity.

The sound of chanting draws your attention, and you see Miguel surrounded by a few other friends of Brett’s. Brett seems to be explaining something to him, car keys in hand. You drove here, so you know the keys aren’t Miguel’s, which makes you feel a bit better.

“Chug, chug, chug.” They chant, and you watch as Brett and Miguel simultaneously shotgun their beers, the foam dripping down Miguel’s tan skin.

Smash. You think instantly, your brain supplying you with images of what Miguel might look like as he comes up from between your legs, his lips, and chin slick with your arousal.

Then Miguel throws the beer down and throws his arms up victoriously.

Brett finishes, then throws his beer down as well and hooks an arm around Miguel’s neck, bringing him down to his level. “My boy Miguel has done it again! Absolute beast of a man!”

The other guys cheer, and you see Miguel smile shyly.

He’s been gaining in popularity, not that he really cares, nor do you, but it makes you happy that he’s made some new friends. Even if those friends challenge him to shotgun races.

Miguel spots you before you can even breach the circle and latches onto you. “Y/N, I won, did you see?”

Brett gives you a look that means dude should probably get some air, and you nod in response.

“Yeah I did, hey Miguel, you wanna step outside with me?”

“Yes, always.” He says instantly, his lips far too close to your neck for you to feel normal about.

You guide him through the crowd and out the door, his arm slung over your shoulders. He’s so heavy, all those stupid hot muscles making him dead weight as he mumbles to himself incoherently.

“What was that sweet boy?” You ask, when you hear something that sounds like your name.

“Did you know that the hydrochloric acid in the human stomach is so strong it can dissolve metal? Thin metal, mind you, but still, metal.” Miguel says, his cheeks red, his glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose, and a goofy smile on his face.

“Wow, that’s crazy.” You say, struggling under the weight of him as you try to lug him over to a nearby porch swing, the neatly trimmed grass around you littered with solo cups and soaked with various spilled drinks.

“And beer—beer is twice as fizzy as champagne. I know this for a fact, I had four or so beers? They taste bad, did you know that?”

“Yeah, house parties usually have pretty cheap beer.” You laugh, swaying a little when Miguel leans on you.

“And cheetahs, super inbreed, ten thousand years ago, taboos were broken, and now they’re all…ya know, the way they are.” He continues on, letting out a surprise oof, when you slide him onto the white porch swing, the weathered green cushions not doing much to break his fall.

“Very cool, so now can you tell me what the hell you were drinking in the twenty minutes I left you alone? Besides beer? Because Miguel, you are so fucked up.” You ask, sitting next to him, your legs tucked beside you as you turn to face him, an affectionate smile on your face.

He drags a hand down his face, and his glasses fall into his lap. He pouts at them, a small aw leaving his lips.

You pick them up and hand them back to him, and he clumsily puts them back on.

“Brett suggested we do shots before the races, he passed his midterm, we were celebrating with him.”

Fucking Brett. You loved the guy, he was nice, nonthreatening, watched out for you when you were in the Sig Epp house, but he also was a menace, who wanted everyone to be as drunk as he was.

“Miguel, you’re a big guy, but you don’t have Brett’s tolerance.” You pat his chest consolingly.

Miguel looks at you, eyes a little hazy, his shirt unbuttoned far more than it normally would be, his hair ruffled. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans his head back against the swing, staring up at the stars. “You know a cloud can weigh around a million pounds?”

“I did not know that.” You respond, trying to see if you can check his pupils without him noticing.

He notices and rolls his head to face you. “Everyone blames women when they don’t have sons, but it’s actually male genes that decide it.”

“I did know that one, actually.” You say, as you run your hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

He smiles, and you swear it’s brighter than any star in the sky. “You’re so smart, y/n.”

You’re taken aback for a second, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Thanks, that means a lot coming from you.”

“So smart and so, so pretty. I know I said it’s on me, but will you give me a girl y/n? I want a daughter with you, my brains, your everything else, she’d be unstoppable.” He says, his words slurring together. Then he falls forward with a yelp, hands, and elbows hitting the dirt.

You sit frozen in shock, staring down at Miguel, before you snap out of it and scramble to help him. “Shit, Miguel, are you okay?”

He holds up his right hand, it’s bleeding. “Just put some sugar on it, it’ll heal faster.”

“Full of fun facts, aren’t you?” It’s another trip back inside to find a sink and a band-aid, his words still bouncing around in your head.

I want a daughter with you.

Fuck, he’s going to kill you one day, and you’ll let him.

Not me doing a little callback to what Miguel thinks at the end of his encounter with drunk y/n hehe

TL: @bat-bae, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @smokeywhalee, @obi-mom-kenobi, @prowlingforfood, @penggion, @crystal-crax, @oharasfilipinawife, @generalkenobitrash, @melsimps, @chrishy973, @farrowroyale, @palesatan, @scaryplanetdestroyer, @denzmallows

[thursdaygxrls]

this is a bit self indulgent to request lol but i’m very partial to any hunger games au just so my babies arent as traumatized by the end lmao😭

maybe pirate!finnick x reader where they take r captive? finnick brings her some food and makes sure the other pirates keep away from r

anon, i do not know how i feel about this one. i absolutely loved this request, but i may have screwed up the pic. apologies 🙏 i tried using second person for the first time also. the beginning may be confusing, please bear with me

a simple mistake

pairing pirate!finnick odair x maid!reader

summary when the pirates of the mockingjay planned to kidnap the princess, they thought everything would go smoothly. however, there's one big problem: they kidnapped the wrong girl.

warnings unedited shitty writing, kidnapping, guns, gale, modern language in a different time period

Wherever you were, it was dark. Or maybe it was just the blindfold.

It felt like moments ago that you were tucked cozily into her bed, your body encased by down. There was a crash somewhere in the castle - down the hall? You were only half awake as cloth that smelled like dirt and saltwater wrapped itself tightly around your eyes, and you were dragged from her slumber.

This was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Tried tried to explain this to her captors as they tugged her, but all you could muster was a few muffled noises over the bitter-tasting gag tied around you. To their credit, those holding you right now were strong and fast: they kept a tight grip on her arm while being able to shove you forward at a fast pace. Lost in your panic, you didn't catch what they were saying to each other: "Are you sure this is her?" "Yes, I'm sure. To the right, four doors down from the window."

"Your right or his right?" "The right of the window!"

They kept their tone hushed as they began to descend a staircase. In the back of your mind, you recognized the pattern in which the steps descended: one, two, three, four, turn, five, six, seven, eight, turn - they were headed down the servant's staircase in the back of the castle. There was an exit hatch at the bottom.

With little hope, you thrashed in their grip. As expected, they handled it with ease. The thought that this may be a normal occurrence swirled in your brain, inciting more and more fear.

"Would you stop? It's hard enough going down these steps without someone kicking at me," the person to your left huffed. His tone was odd. For being the perpetrator of a kidnapping, there was no biting edge to his words.

Your bare feet hit the dewy grass with no warning. In between racing thoughts and heaved breaths, you'd made it to the exit. It was summer, but the coolness of the night air settled over your skin and made you shiver. You were only in your night shift, after all: shabby cloth that provided a nearly sufficient amount of modesty.

Boom!

The noise has you screaming against the cloth as the two holding you swear.

Boom!

There it was again, loud and threatening.

“Guards are a worse shot than I thought,” the man to your left says as they pick up the pace.

Boom!

Oh, God, the guards were shooting at them — were shoot at you! Hushed prayers are whispered from your lips, though, they’re unintelligible. The person to your right must pick up on the trembling in your body because they begin moving at an impossibly faster speed. You wonder how they haven’t fainted by now, how you haven’t fainted by now.

“Don’t worry,” they say, speaking to you through the gunshots, “Never had cargo die on us before. Plus, it’s not you they’re shooting at, it’s us.”

This does nothing to quell your fears, but a new sensation under your feet works to distract your ever rushing mind. If it wasn’t for the two people practically carrying you, you would be sinking in the soft earth beneath you. It was a bit coarse, but delicate, and parted to make way for your feet. Was it sand? There was yelling in all directions: next to you, behind, in front. Then you hit an incline, and the softness of the sand roughened under your feed. You were rocking, too, and not just you, the ones holding you up. There was a crash entirely unlike the sound of the guns, and another sway — oh, fuck.

This was a ship.

“They’re on us!” One of them screamed as you plateaued to a surface

“In a minute, they won’t even see us,” a gruff voice responded, seemingly unfazed by nearing sound of gunshots. There was a loud groan and suddenly, you were moving. Though the two still had a strong hold on you, you stumbled as the ship began to move. The gunshots, which had been getting louder, were sounding much more distant. Even if it was only a minute or two since you’d been hoisted onto the ship, it felt like hours.

“I was hoping this would be a clean job, y’know, no—” The gruff voice which had spoken before stopped. You could hear an unsteady breath as footsteps neared you.

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”

And then there was light, nearly blinding from the amount of time you’d spent in the dark. The owner of the voice ripped the cloth from your eyes in one swoop, and you cringed at the bleeding dawn along the horizon.

“What?” You whipped your head to the left, finding a tall older boy with dark brown hair and bright eyes.

“This is not the Princess.” You could now see the owner of the gruff voice, who was a middle-aged man with greasy, chin length blonde hair and scruff around his chin. His eyes were trained on you as he spoke.

“What?” The boy repeated.

“You grabbed the wrong goddamn girl, Gale,” the man’s voice boomed.

“I told you something was off,” the man on the right — tall and bald — groaned.

“Why the hell did you not say that before you kidnapped her?” The blonde man huffed.

“I did!” He argued back.

“What are we gonna do with her?” Gale spoke up.

“I…I don’t know,” the blonde sighed, “We can’t go back now, not like this. They’ll have the land and water covered in an hour. Just take her down.”

“Haymitch, I’m really—”

“Just take her down, Gale,” Haymitch, the blonde man, repeated in a stern tone. The boy bowed his head, and the bald man followed suit, turning you and hauling you away from the front of the deck. Had you not been so dimmed with exhaustion from running from gunfire and screaming against the gag in your mouth, you may have done a little more fighting during that conversation. Instead, you studied the crew of the ship who were running around as though you didn’t exist. They shouted at each other, likely still executing their speedy getaway off the main island. As they lead you to the door at the middle of the dock, you noticed Gale eyeing you.

“You’re…not the Princess?” He asked quietly.

“She can’t speak,” the bald man rolled his eyes before taking the gag from your mouth. Immediately, you heaved in a deep breath, finding that the air was still salty even without the seawater-flavored gag.

“You’re not?” Gale repeated his question as though you didn’t hear him.

“No.” You found your voice to be hoarse, but forceful as you glared at him. In finding this voice, questions exploded from your mouth.

“What the hell is going on? Let me go! Why did you take me? Where am I?” They ignored these questions.

“We should’ve asked her first,” the bald man groaned.

“She would’ve said ‘no’ even if she was the Princess!” Gale yelled. They pushed past the door and lead you down the steps to a small hall. They turned onto the first room.

“Well, we’re here,” Gale sighed, letting go of your arm. Your limbs felt like jelly from being pulled and shoved for so long, however, you tried your hand at pushing past them and running. The question of where you would go was a thought for later.

“Woah,” the bald man immediately grabbed ahold of you as you attempted your escape, “Please try to stay put, alright? There’s not many places for you to go.”

“Why am I here?” You asked again, your tone laced with anger.

“Just sit tight for a while, okay?” Gale spoke awkwardly as he and the other man kept you still.

“Sit tight?” You repeated indignantly.

“Please just go sit, I don’t want to tie you up,” the bald man sighed. To your surprise, there was genuine sympathy in his voice. Even so, you stared at them, unmoving. This silent chess match carried on for another thirty seconds before a groan left Gale, and he shoved you to the floor. Your behind hit the floor hard, and before you could scramble to pick yourself up, they were out the door. You got to your feet and helplessly tried the doorknob, but it was already locked.

“That was just plain rude,” you could hear the muffled voice of the bald man through the door, “What’s wrong with you, man?”

“She wasn’t moving,” Gale’s voice was somewhat unfazed.

“You’re an ass, really.” The voices faded out, and it was then, for the first time in what seemed like forever, that you were alone. The room was small, wooden, and windowless. There was a cot with a threadbare blanket and a sorry excuse for a pillow on one end and a tattered table and chair on the other.

You tried to find ways to occupy yourself: banging on the door, screaming, punching the pillow, questioning God, picking at the wood, acquiring splinters. Any amount of time could’ve passed: seconds, minutes, hours, days. Well, maybe not days, but it felt like it. You were laying on the cot, counting the rings in the ceiling when the lock jostled. You sat straight up, jumping from your bed when the door opened. You rushed at the entry, only to be blocked by a rough hand.

“They said you’re quick,” a mellow voice followed the hand. This wasn’t the man who demanded you were taken here or either of the ones who followed his orders; he was new. Sandy blonde hair that gently spiked on his head, tanned skin, likely from his days on the deck, dark blue eyes, and pink lips that stretched into a crooked smile. While one of his arms kept you secure, the other held a tray with a portion of bread, a bowl, and a metal cup.

“What is going on?” You asked gruffly.

“I can tell you, but you have to promise you won’t run the second I step away from this door,” he said, looking a bit more calm than one might expect. You, still staring him down, considered the options, and with a relenting sigh, backed away. He entered the room, that easy smile still on his face as he shut the door behind him.

“So,” He spoke, eyeing you, “I take it you’re not the Princess.”

“No, I am not,” you responded, voice terse with frustration.

“I see,” he nodded, then gestured towards the cot for you to sit. You obliged cautiously. As far as kidnappings went, this one was rather polite — but it was still a kidnapping.

“I can assure you that the plan was not to kidnap you,” he sighed, taking a seat at the table. He extended the tray of food towards you, but you don’t take it. Not yet.

“And what was the plan?” You asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Well, darlin’,” he began, “The plan was to kidnap the Princess and ransom her back. Take that money and spread it across the islands, give back to those who need it.” Suspicion peaked in you, and it was obvious he could tell, because his smile stretched further.

“What, don’t believe me?” He hummed, cocking his head.

“Would you trust someone who stole you?” You fired back. He laughed gently at that.

“Probably not, but you’re lucky it was instead of anyone else,” he spoke.

“Lucky?” You repeated with a scoff.

“Darlin’, this ship we’re on? It’s the Mockingjay,” he set his palm on his knee. This struck a chord; the Mockingjay. You’d heard of them before, just rumors. Some called them the gentle pirates, others called them weaklings. They took what they wanted with force, but never caused any casualties.

“I’m Finnick,” he interrupted your thoughts suddenly, extending his hand, “And I’m just dying to know your name.”

Though you took his hand with reluctance, you didn’t speak a word. This creased a wrinkle along his forehead.

“I think it’s best if we do introductions now rather than later,” he said, keeping his deep blue eyes on you. A sigh escaped you before you turned from his gaze and towards the ceiling.

“Y/n,” you replied quietly.

“Pretty name. Wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but I’ll take what I can get,” he grinned, “Who are you, Y/n?”

“I’m a maid,” you spoke, unsure why you replied instead of ignoring him, “The Princess’s Lady in Waiting. Her companion.”

“Ah, I see,” he hummed, “That’s why you had yourself a room up there. You and the Princess close?” You don’t respond to this, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry for this, Y/n, truly,” he frowned, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“But it was a kidnapping all the same,” you sigh.

“You’re right. You’re right, but we’re not perfect people. We do what we have to. And right now,” he grabbed the tray once more, extending it towards you, “I have to make sure you eat.”

“Aren’t you supposed to give me the tray and leave?” You glared at him.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, the tray still in his hands, “I guess I do what I want. And I want to sit with you while you eat.”

“Why?” You don’t let up with your accusing gaze.

“I wouldn’t want a pretty lady starving on my ship. That would just break my heart,” he grinned. Another second of silence.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked, a weak shudder in your voice betraying your cold stare. It would make sense, after all: you were useless. The King wouldn’t pay a ransom for a maid.

“What?” The question seemed to genuinely shock him, “No, oh, God, no. I wouldn’t lay a hand on you.”

“What about them out there? The rest of the crew?” You gestured to the door.

“They wouldn’t either, but even if they tried, I wouldn’t let them get to you,” he spoke, surprisingly reassuring, “You’re not going to be killed, I can assure you of that.”

You swallowed hard, finally looking back at him to see the genuine look in his eyes. He seemed kind, which was strange. Was it some sort of manipulation tactic? A means to an end?

“Are you going to eat, or should I start spoon-feeding you?” He asked, that easy smile appearing on his face once more. Hesitantly, you took the plate from his hands. He stayed there, sitting across from you, watching you lift the cup to your mouth. Sadly, you couldn’t deny your manners, and before you took a sip, you looked at him.

“Thank you, Finnick,” you mumbled.

“My pleasure, Darlin’,” he replied, grinning as you tucked into your meal.

[buttercupjosh]

Jump Then Fall (The 4 times everyone else thinks you’re Quinn’s romantic partner and the 1 time you actually are)

(Gif credit to @gabelandeskog)

Word count: 5,045

Genres: strangers to friends to lovers

Warnings: none

A/N: I’ve had this specific idea in my mind for about 2 years but never wrote it out because I decided to write other things first and took certain things from this concept and kinda put it into my other stories but after Quinn was named captain in September 2023, I decided to write it out. (Speaking of my other stories, I did write a Quinn fic in 2022, which you should check out). The title and this story is based off of the song, Jump Then Fall by Taylor Swift. It’s set from this past week (October 7th-14th), with additional fictional elements added. (Yes, I decided to publish it on Quinn's birthday because why not?) It’s written with a female reader in mind because I’m a female of color but the reader doesn’t specifically have to be a POC or a woman and there’s little dialogue. As always, I’m open to any and all feedback, comments or questions; just put them in my inbox or dm me. Thank you so much in advance for reading, I appreciate it😌

(P.S. I have other stories (linked here) that I have written for other players as well if you want to check it out)

“I was enchanted to meet you” -Enchanted by Taylor Swift

Prologue

Losing in a fantasy sports league can come with many different types of punishment, whether it’s being forced to eat a pancake for every wrong player you picked or putting in extra money in the winning jackpot. Your punishment for losing in the fantasy sports league you participated in was wearing a very 2014 Tumblr-esque “lol ur not Quinn Hughes” shirt that your best friend got you as a gag gift for Christmas to a Canucks game. This punishment came at a convenient time when you already planned to be in Vancouver for a work conference. Accepting your fate, you proudly donned the cringey t-shirt at the game, and as expected, people did look at you weirdly. What you didn’t plan at all was that your game seats happened to be located next to where a group of some of the Canucks WAGs were sitting. Lenasia, Ethan Bear’s fiance, noticed your shirt and immediately began talking to you. You explained to her why you were wearing such a thing and that clicked an idea in her brain. Lenasia turned away, began talking again to the other WAGs she was with, and was also frantically texting someone. After a brief period, Lenasia faced back towards you and told you to wait after the game because she had a surprise for you. You had a slight inkling of what that surprise was but silently hoped that it didn’t actually come true. 

After the game was completed, Lenasia led you through the tunnels of Rogers Arena and told security that you were with her. It felt weird to hear her say that, considering that you just met her a few hours ago. You stood together outside of the Canucks locker room and the feeling of embarrassment continued to rise within you as the guys filed out, some of them laughed at your shirt and then, you saw him. Quinn was right there, less than 10 feet away from you. Your suspicions were right; you would have just settled for a signed item from him and have no interaction with him but you were actually going to meet him right now. You felt like you were going to pass out but tried your best to maintain your composure. Lenasia introduced you to Quinn and told him the same story of why you were wearing a shirt with his name on it. Quinn didn’t fully quite understand why the shirt was such a big deal but agreed to take the photo with you. He was nice enough to wrap his arm around you with a side hug and being that close together oddly felt natural and comfortable for two people who had just met for the first time. After the photo was finished being taken, Quinn kindly offered to sign your shirt so he inked his signature on your right shoulder. You thanked Quinn and Lenasia again for everything and left to return to your hotel. It was a lot to process but you were rightfully shocked that you started your night fulfilling some silly punishment and ended it by meeting the person whose name is on your shirt.

The following day, you sent the photo of you and Quinn from the night before to your friends and your friends joked in the groupchat that if you played your cards right, you might be next in line to date him. Yes, you posted about it on Instagram and tagged Quinn so everyone knew you actually met him. Since the day after you met was an off day, Quinn had some time to scroll through Instagram and he saw your post. Seeing your post led him to see all of your posts and eventually, he ended up in your DMs.

Do you always look that cute wearing someone’s name?, an Instagram message from a very familiar verified account read. You couldn’t believe it and thought you were somehow dreaming when you read Quinn’s message but it was very much real. You replied back: I guess I always do but I only wear the names of attractive guys and considering this is my only piece that has an athlete’s name, I guess you should consider yourself lucky ;) It felt odd to shamelessly flirt with a famous athlete (considering that most of them wouldn’t give you the time of day anyway) but it wasn’t like you were actually going to date him or be his friend anyway (or so you had thought).

The flirty interaction eventually led to the exchange of numbers and to a long message chain between the two of you that would extend on for months. You did return home from your trip to Vancouver and maintained a long-distance friendship with Quinn. Your friendship with Quinn was great; you trusted each other, shared some secrets, did virtual movie nights together sometimes, sent memes back and forth, told some of your closest friends and family about the other, and communicated on the phone constantly. Once of your favorite things to do with Quinn was that he would always call you during your morning commute to work and on his commute home after his games to decompress after the game. Since you didn’t live in an area where there was an NHL team, your options for seeing Quinn again in person were limited and you weren’t sure if you were going to ever see him again. It felt weird to ask about seeing each other in real life so everything was just kept online until one day, the timing was right to move things offline.

————————————————————

About a year into your friendship, the right opportunity opened up for you to return to Vancouver to see Quinn again. To the delight of many, Quinn was named Captain of the Canucks and he invited you out to his first game as Captain. You were important enough to him that Quinn wanted you to be there to celebrate that amazing accomplishment; you were surprised by the invitation but excited at the prospect of seeing him again. You used some of your remaining vacation time and paid for your plane ticket to and from Vancouver; Quinn wanted to pay for something so he placed you to stay in the nicest hotel that Vancouver has to offer. You were thrilled to spend a week in Vancouver and hopefully make some fun memories with Quinn while you were there.

Your anticipation for seeing him was slightly halted when Quinn revealed that he couldn’t pick you up from the airport because your flight arrived at the same time that he had captain responsibilities to fulfill in the community so you and Quinn agreed to meet to have dinner later on that evening. Emma, Anthony Beauvillier’s girlfriend, picked you up from the airport to take you to the hotel; you had never met or interacted with Emma before but you appreciated her kind favor. The drive from Vancouver International Airport to the hotel (which Quinn did not tell you beforehand because he wanted it to be a surprise) was normally a 30-minute drive, which turned into an hour drive due to traffic. While you and Emma waited in the rush hour traffic, you talked and learned more about her, her relationship with Anthony, what things are like in Quebec, and what it’s like to be a hockey WAG. Emma had a lot of questions about your relationship with Quinn and was curious as to why you, his romantic partner, weren’t around as much before. You corrected Emma by telling her that you and Quinn were just friends and nothing more and you came to support him as your friend. 

“Are you sure you and Quinn are just friends because he must really like you a lot to pay for you to stay here?”, Emma asked as you pulled up to the Fairmount Waterfront hotel.

You replied yes, you were just his friend and she handed you over your room keys that were passed to her through the chain of command. You thanked Emma for giving you a ride and you both mentioned wanting to hang out with each other again.

Quinn was not kidding when he told you that you would be staying at the best hotel in Vancouver; your room had spectacular views of the Vancouver Harbor and was very fancy. As you got ready for your dinner with Quinn, you began to reflect on your conversation with Emma about him. You could admit that he was endearingly handsome and had qualities that you were looking for in a boyfriend but you and Quinn never really discussed romantic pursuits and outside of that initial flirty exchange when you first started talking to each other and the occasional compliment, there wasn’t much flirting really going on between you. You had always assumed that Quinn had someone, whether it was someone in Vancouver or in Michigan, waiting in the wings for him. Your thoughts were interrupted when you got a text from Quinn that he was coming up to the room. It was happening; for the first time in over a year, you got to see your internet best friend in person and you were ecstatic. Although he had a copy of the hotel room key, Quinn knocked on your hotel room door and a smile beamed across both of your faces as you recognized who was standing at the doorway. Quinn engulfed you in a long-awaited hug and you rocked back and forth. There were many areas in his life that made him feel delighted but hearing you laugh was one of the best sounds to him and holding you in his arms was the greatest feeling.

After separating, you realized that Quinn was dressed for a night in while you were dressed for a night out. The weather app indicated that a storm was rolling in so Quinn dressed to stay in at the hotel, order food, and have a movie night, while you were willing to brave the rain to try some of Vancouver’s cuisine. Quinn thought that you looked nice and wished that he communicated to you that Vancouver storms were no joke and you looking cute in your rain jacket wasn’t going to push him to go out in such weather either. He also really wanted to spend time with you without the distractions that come from him going out in public. You agreed to order in and changed into more comfy clothes while you waited for the food to arrive. Preseason hockey was over so Quinn decided to treat himself (and you) to some authentic Chinese food from his favorite place. As you and Quinn indulged on the delicious Chinese food, you began catching up with each other on what had occurred in your lives recently. As Quinn shared what had been going on his life lately, you heard all of the words he was saying but the only thing you were thinking about was how you just wanted to be together and you would lose focus sometimes as he spoke. You and Quinn kept talking so much on so many different topics that it was almost midnight before you decided to watch a movie. You settled on watching Ferris Buller’s Day Off before drifting off to sleep.

————————————————————

For Quinn, it felt surreal to wake up the following morning next to you. After being in contact with you for over a year, here you were, right there, sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. Throughout the night, Quinn was respectful of your boundaries and no lines were crossed, everything was kept PG. You were awoken by the sound of water running coming from the bathroom and waited for Quinn to emerge out. After he came out of the bathroom, you discussed the day’s plan (which there wasn’t really one) and decided to go to breakfast at a very special place. Quinn still had some time off before the first game of the season so you had even more extra time to spend with him.

On the car ride to the restaurant, you began to imagine what it would be like to live in Vancouver. Sure, this wasn’t your first time there but you saw it in a different light as you were gazing outside of the car window with Quinn by your side. You arrived at your destination and Quinn got out and kindly came around to open the door for you; it was a sweet gesture that he didn’t have to do.

The restaurant was the same cafe that Quinn and Petey tended to frequent and the wait staff at the restaurant was so familiar with him, down to the point that they knew his exact order: plain buttermilk waffles topped with whipped cream, strawberries, raspberries, and sides of bacon, potatoes, and guacamole. The waitress, an older woman named Louise, reminded you of an endearing grandmother figure; she even put your meal on the house as a treat. After the meal concluded and you were on the way back to Quinn’s car, a fan was waiting right outside of the restaurant for an opportunity to meet the captain of their favorite team. The fan approached you, Quinn’s romantic partner, to take their photo together. You wanted to correct the fan for being wrong but you also could tell that Quinn wanted to get going so you let it be; besides, Quinn didn’t even hear the fan address you as his lover. Quinn later on apologized for the fan encounter but it wasn’t an issue for you, you understood who he was and the things that came with being a famous athlete and you expected something like that might happen while you were together. You continued on the rest of your spontaneous day, being touristy around Vancouver, visiting Gastown, Stanley Park, and Granville Island with the cutest tour guide.

————————————————————

Your time in Vancouver coincided with Canadian Thanksgiving. Dinner is usually held at the team captain’s house and since Quinn is the captain, dinner would be held at his place but since his apartment couldn’t quite hold the entire team, Tyler Myers offered to host dinner at his home. It was exciting to celebrate a holiday together and learn more about each other’s Thanksgiving traditions but it also made you feel a little nervous because you would be meeting more of Quinn’s teammates and spending time with their families. The Canucks team’s Thanksgiving dinner was potluck style and everyone had to bring something so you and Quinn offered to bring a dessert. You decided to make pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and Quinn graciously purchased the ingredients for you and let you use his kitchen. Quinn was a good sous chef; he actually enjoyed baking with you and you both had fun together. You even got into a little squabble over who would wash the dishes before agreeing that you would wash them and Quinn would dry them. After the cookies were done, you both got ready for dinner. 

On the car ride over to the Myers house, your mind began to wander, contemplating about the domestic moment you shared earlier with Quinn and how you would want more moments like that with him. Quinn felt the same way but wasn’t sure how to verbally tell you that. Before you knew it, you had arrived at your destination. You casually mixed and mingled with the other Canucks players and their families; as expected, some of the players had kids and the kids were curious to know who you were and you explained to them that you were Quinn’s friend. Tristan, Tyler’s son, asked if you were Quinn’s lover friend and you were going to tell him no but you were interrupted by the message that dinner was about to be served so you let it go.

Despite your initial nervousness about the event, dinner actually went well and your cookies were a hit. The other Canucks players and their wives and girlfriends accepted you well into their group; they liked you for you and they liked you with Quinn. Due to the fact he’s their captain, some of the guys pushed Quinn into giving a speech and he expressed his thankfulness and gratitude on such a special holiday; he even looked at you when he mentioned how glad he was to have the people in the room as a part of his life.

During the post-dinner relaxation time, you and Quinn settled into watching the CFL game that was on before Tristan came up to ask the both of you to play hide and seek with him and his sister, Skylar. The football game wasn’t that interesting to either of you so you both agreed to play. Since you were the guest, the kids had you count first. 

As you were looking to see where Quinn and the kids were hiding, you observed around the Myers home and began to think about how this was something that you had desired to have one day; a home full of love, laughter, and children. You checked the guest room closet to see if anyone was hiding in there before greeting Quinn by shouting BOO as soon as you opened the door. Instead of stepping out to help you find Skylar and Tristan, Quinn pulled you back into the closet and shut the door for a quiet moment alone. Quinn’s heart was beating super fast, not just because you inflicted fear into him for a brief second, but also because you were close to each other inside the dark closet. You obviously couldn’t see in the darkness but Quinn kept staring at the presumed outline of your mouth because he wanted pull you closer and kiss you so bad. Quinn almost had his chance to ask but was interrupted by the sound of children’s feet pattering on the ground and the door opening. Tristan quickly corrected you that as the counter, you were not allowed to hide until it was your turn to hide. An all-too-familiar chuckle came out of Quinn and you rolled your eyes at him since he was the one who caused you to break the rules before playing another round of hide and seek with the kids.

When it was time to say goodbye, Tristan and Skylar came over to give you a departing hug and Tristan loudly said that he had fun with you, Quinn’s special friend. It warmed your heart to hear his little voice say that to you. Before dropping you off back at the hotel, you had asked Quinn if he was going to stop and get his annual Thanksgiving apple pie slice from the bakery. He had mentioned his Thanksgiving tradition to you only once but it meant a lot to him that you had remembered that. Due to the fact that you made dessert from scratch, Quinn forgot to pick up the pie beforehand to bring to the party and the bakery with the pie that he enjoyed was already closed, but it was okay. Quinn didn’t mind skipping his tradition because he got to make a new memory with you. You and Quinn had such a good time at the Thanksgiving dinner and you had quietly hoped to get the opportunity to spend more holidays together.

————————————————————

The Canucks home opener was finally here. It was both exciting and nerve-wracking for Quinn; he knew that this day was coming but it felt a little more surreal that it was actually here. Quinn’s parents, Ellen and Jim, even flew in to watch their son receive his official captaincy before jetting off to go watch Jack and Luke at the Devils home opener the following day. You felt a bit of deja vu being back at Rogers Arena, since that was the place you and Quinn had met over a year ago, but that deja vu feeling came in a good way. It was fun to watch warmups with the other WAGs and you got to see Emma again. As warmups went on, you held J.T. Miller’s son, Owen, in your arms while Natalie Miller held her daughters, Scarlett and Scottlyn, closer to the glass to give them a better view to see their father on the ice. Since the day was very busy for Quinn, the only time he got to see you was for a brief second during warmups. Quinn’s heart swelled up with joy when he saw you at the glass, holding baby Owen and he also thought you looked so stunning and beautiful in your outfit. He wanted to pass you a puck but instead, he gave you a quick wink and passed a puck to a young fan with a sign and continued to skate around. 

Warmups were over and the game was about to start soon so you went up to your seats. Instead of having you sit with the other WAGs, Quinn got you a ticket next to his parents. Of course, Quinn wanted you to meet his parents for the first time in a much more formal way but due to the limited time that you all had in Vancouver, it was slightly more convenient for you to meet his parents while at the game. It was a little awkward at first to meet Quinn’s parents because you were just Quinn’s long-distance friend and meeting the parents is a big deal but Jim and Ellen already knew who you were because you were important enough to their son that he had told them about you. Ellen mentioned to you that she suspected you were dating Quinn because he spoke so highly about you, indicating a possible crush but always shut it down by mentioning that you were just friends.

When it was time for Quinn to be introduced as captain, you got delightful goosebumps on your body because you were so proud of him. You already knew he was captain but watching some of the old Canucks captains pass the torch over to one of your best friend’s brought a rush of happiness to you; your heart even skipped a beat as he put on the jersey with the “C” on it. The game itself was amazing; the Canucks beat the Oilers 8 to 1 and Quinn had a 3-point night. Throughout little moments during the game, Jim and Ellen would ask you different questions about yourself and share tidbits about Quinn; it was nice that they were actively engaging and getting to know you. You were worried that Jim and Ellen wouldn’t like you as a person and for their son but it turns out that they enjoyed your presence and it also didn’t hurt that it was really fun to cheer for Quinn alongside his parents.

After the game was over, you, Jim, and Ellen walked down the same tunnels to the Canucks dressing room that you had walked to over a year ago when you met Quinn for the first time but this time, you weren’t as nervous to see him. Still experiencing the high from the evening’s successful game, Quinn was so ecstatic to see you, waiting for him with his beloved parents. When Quinn had invited you to come to his game, he had imagined seeing you again in those familiar halls with his parents in his mind and that moment of imagination came true. In his post-game interview, Quinn had mentioned that he would hold onto the night’s memories forever and you would also hold onto those memories in your own way too.

————————————————————

Since the Canucks had to leave for a roadtrip after their home opener and you were leaving soon, you had one last day to both celebrate Quinn’s birthday early and also to do something to say farewell to you. Instead of just a big fancy birthday/goodbye dinner, you and Quinn decided to go out for a day on the golf course and out to a casual dinner afterward; you also had to run a few errands because Quinn needed to grab some things before leaving on his upcoming road trip. Quinn picked you up to go with him to drop off his parents at the airport so that you could see them again and he wanted your opinion on some things when he went to IKEA. The car ride over to the airport was fine and Jim and Ellen didn’t mind getting in some extra time with their potential child-in-law. You and Quinn stepped out of the car to help with their bags and give his parents a goodbye hug. While you were giving the Hughes family some space and waiting in the car, Ellen whispered in her son’s ear that you were a keeper. His mother was right and Quinn had known that from the moments that he spent with you, the conversations you shared together and you were everything he ever wanted. Quinn had the keys to unlock your heart but he just needed to use them. Throughout the entire time you were there, Quinn began mentally preparing himself to confess his feelings for you somehow but those plans always fell flat because the anxiety of not being sure if you liked him romantically lingered throughout the air and he was scared to ruin the friendship you shared. He was falling for you hard but he was afraid to take that leap.

With one final wave goodbye, Jim and Ellen left for their flight to New Jersey and you and Quinn continued on the day’s itinerary. Goodbyes were always going to be a bit difficult, no matter who or what you were saying goodbye to. Quinn tried to not wear his heart on his sleeve and be strong but you could tell that Quinn was sad to see his parents go so you reached over and gently placed your hand on top of his. Quinn told you thank you and you shared a quick glance with him before arriving at IKEA. Instead of immediately telling you how he felt, you and Quinn aimlessly wandered around the large store; you had mentioned to Quinn that his apartment was missing a floor lamp in the living room so that he didn’t have to use the overhead ceiling light as much and he took you to IKEA to help him pick one out. Thursday afternoons at IKEA were quiet so it was almost like you and Quinn had the whole store to yourselves. As you walked through the store, you and Quinn looked at the different room setups and asked each other what you liked and disliked about each room setup; you also both began to imagine what it would be like to share a home together. Quinn even absentmindedly grabbed onto your hand and your fingers interlocked together for a brief second before you found the lamps and slipped your hand away to look at them. You picked out a black floor lamp that matched the aesthetic of Quinn’s apartment and continued to wander around the store until you reached the cash register. Quinn didn’t try to hold your hand again and neither of you brought up that moment for the rest of the day. Your time at the golf course was fun; being the self-proclaimed golf expert he was, Quinn did win the game. 

Quinn decided that he wanted to have his birthday dinner/last meal with you at Moxie’s. While you waited for your food to arrive, you gave Quinn his birthday gift. It was challenging to get a gift for someone who could afford plenty and rarely mentioned what they wanted so you got Quinn a signed copy of Golf Kitchen, a cookbook that included recipes from some of the most famous golf clubs around the world, and a grill set that looked like golf items; it combined two of his interests: cooking and golf. Quinn was a bit taken aback by your gift because you didn’t have to actually get him anything; your presence and time spent with him was a gift within itself. He had mentioned it before but Quinn was so grateful to have you as a part of his life and he was going to miss you tremendously once you returned home. You would miss him so much and were sad that your great time with Quinn was coming to an end; you still had an extra full day in Vancouver before your flight early Saturday but the Canucks were leaving for Edmonton on Friday after morning skate. 

After dinner, Quinn walked you up to your hotel room and you and Quinn continued to soak up all of the time you had left together as much as you could before the inevitable departure came. Before leaving, Quinn passed you a signed warm-up puck from last night’s game, mentioning that he owed it to you. You held the piece of rubber in your hand, smoothing your fingers over his signature.

“So now, you own two things with my name on it”, Quinn cheesily told you. 

You were trying to hold back your tears and masquerade your emotions but you began to sob while embracing Quinn for one last time. Quinn felt a bit emotional too and he blurted out that he was in love with you; he decided to be brave and not let the fear take over. You thought your mind was playing a trick on you when you heard him so you looked up at the green eyes that were staring and waiting for a reply from you.

“Did you just say that you’re in love with me?”, you hesitantly asked.

“Um, maybe I should have kept that to myself. I’m sor-”, Quinn rambled.

You cut Quinn off with a kiss, something that he had been waiting a while to experience with you. You repeated that you had loved Quinn back as well. A long wave of relief rushed over the both of you; the jump was worth the fall and you were there to catch him. You didn’t have to say it out loud but Quinn knew that you would always be there for him. Quinn asked if you were available to come back to visit him for Christmas and New Year’s. Maybe losing in a fantasy league wasn’t so bad after all.

[aperrywilliams]

They Will Never (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Not my gif. Credits to the creator!)

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer's girlfriend is jealous. During the Christmas party at their daughter's school, the other moms don’t stop hitting on him.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+; Minor DNI. Suggestive and dirty talk. Smut (fade to black) at the end of the fic. If I forgot something, let me know.

A/N: I’m back!!!! This past months have been a rollercoaster in many ways. Well, talking about this fic, it could be a sequel from "That Wicked Love" multipart I wrote a while ago. Nonetheless, it could be read as a stand-alone.

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I never thought it would be easy. When I discovered that I was pregnant and Spencer wasn't going to support me, I was sure the world had ended.

There were weeks of thinking over and over again about what I would do with my life. Then I decided I would have Olivia, and that's it.

I don't regret my decision. Liv is my little girl, and I love her with all my heart, but motherhood is hard.

Since Olivia was born, my life has mostly revolved around her. Being a mother is a full-time job. But I have been managing the best I could. I continued working after she was born, and with time, some of my personal life returned too.

However, the stability of our little family was broken when a bloody bastard kidnapped my little girl two years ago. She was four back then.

That wasn't enough, though.

What were the chances of Spencer working on my daughter's kidnapping case?

I forgot to mention that I never told him I would continue my pregnancy, so it was a surprise for him to see me and know that he had indeed been a father.

Fortunately, Spencer’s team recovered Olivia and three more kids kidnapped by the same guy.

What followed was a rollercoaster of events and emotions. Spencer wanted to be in Liv’s life, and although I swore never to talk to him again, I couldn't deny my daughter of her father.

He showed regret and swore that leaving me alone while pregnant was the worst thing he had done in his life. He looked genuinely sorry, and he wanted to make it up to Olivia.

Against the odds, I let him.

He became the best dad for my girl. Since then, he has been for her at every step.

The problem? Having him close awoke those feelings I thought were buried the day he left.

I tried to ignore it. I really tried. Even if he never did something to make me uncomfortable in our co-parenting roles, I did feel off with it.

I still loved him. And months after, Spencer confessed that he still loved me too.

Would it be a bad idea? Maybe. But I left my heart to speak louder than my brain. That's why we have been dating for the past three months.

So you can guess how odd it is having your daughter’s dad as a boyfriend. Some people think we are married or living together when we are not. Others believe we are just co-parenting and don’t have a relationship.

Usually, I don't care what people think. But right now I wish things between us were clearer to the world, specifically for the moms who had Spencer cornered in the venue of this year’s school Christmas party.

Am I jealous? Yeah. But how could I not be? Spencer is the epitome of the young-hot dad, caring and lovely. And polite. Very very polite. So much so that even if he had noticed their advances, he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he likes that.

This has me overthinking, and I wouldn't say I like it because it brings all kinds of insecurity thoughts to my mind.

Right now, for example, instead of going to interrupt this obscene flirtation, I'm walking to the opposite side to check if Olivia needs anything. I can't bring myself to do something different.

It didn't help to hear part of their conversation when I was passing by a while ago.

“Your wife is a lucky girl, then,” Kimberly chimed, patting Spencer’s forearm.

“My what?” the man asked, confused.

“Your wife? Olivia's mom?” Kim explains, tilting her head. Then Spencer realizes she’s talking about me.

“Oh! No, actually, we are not married,” he corrected. God, Kimberly’s eyes go wide as if she found a gold mine. The rest of the moms there reacted in the same way.

I have nothing against that fact, but with them knowing it? It's like a door was opened. A door to the shameless coquetry, and I hate it.

I knew Spencer wouldn’t be consciously flirting with them, but seeing him laugh at their jokes and don’t even flinch when one of them gripped his forearm not only made me see red.

It was even worst: it made me self-conscious.

I know it's an irrational feeling. Of course I know there are people better than me in many things. I wouldn't pretend to be a superwoman or something close to that. But since Olivia started preschool, I have been feeling less than the other moms. At first, it was because I was raising her alone and working simultaneously. I couldn't make it to every school event or whatever they planned during the year. Now, also, there is the fact that it’s Spencer who can fulfill that role, and I still can’t. He is the cool dad with a cool job. And there are cool moms with cool jobs too, who he’s talking to at this precise moment.

Doing the math, it doesn't look like I could be up to that kind of expectation.

For the rest of the evening, I avoided being close to Spencer and the other moms. Instead, I focused on the kids and that Olivia could have fun at the party. After all, it was the primary purpose of this activity.

The ride home was mostly silent. I tried to concentrate on driving and not look at Spencer from the corner of my eye. Liv was fast asleep in the back seat.

The streets were filled with snow, and you could see the Christmas lights on the windows of each building we passed. The ambient was clearly festive, but I didn't feel or look that way.

Maybe Spencer felt something was off, but I guess he didn't want to bring it up in the car. He only made some random comments about the party, and for all of them, he got from me a curt hum in response.

When I parked, he took hold of a sleepy Olivia in his arms and helped me upstairs.

It was a well-known routine since we told Liv that Spencer was her dad, and she warmed up to him. Every time we got to my apartment after an afternoon together, he carried our daughter to her room and got her ready for bed. The little girl would open her eyes and demand a bed story from her dad.

Spencer loves reading to her, even if he knows most of the stories by heart. That's one of the many things they share as father and daughter, and I try to give them the space to do that. That's why this time, like others, I headed to the kitchen to make myself some tea.

With a mug in hand, and after switching on the Christmas tree lights, I plopped on the couch. I didn't notice before how much my feet hurt. What can I say? The afternoon’s overthinking even dimmed my body aching.

Great, now I can add ‘old and wasted’ to my self-deprecation list.

I let my eyes be entertained by the colored lights, wondering if I was being overdramatic. My thoughts were interrupted by Spencer sitting beside me.

“I couldn't finish the story, and she had already fallen asleep,” he announced, lifting my legs so they could rest on his lap. Thoughtlessly, he started rubbing my feet.

Silence took over the room. I tried to concentrate on the pleasant feeling of his hands on my aching feet, but my face sure didn't hide my sour mood.

“What's wrong?” Spencer asked cautiously, inspecting my features. I tried to play ignorant.

“Uh? What do you mean?” I lied. Spencer frowned.

“You are too quiet. You didn't say anything during the car ride, and I could tell you avoided me most of this afternoon,” he recounted.

Shit. Obviously, he noticed.

“I’m just tired,” I lied again. I didn't want to explain what was bothering me. It was silly, and I felt stupid for it. He was about to say something to question my answer, but I didn't let him.

“Maybe you should go home. I think it's better I go to bed,” I pointed, detaching my feet off his lap and sitting straight on the couch. By all means, I avoided making eye contact because I knew he would realize what I was trying to do.

During the past months, he had spent the night at mine before, but it wasn’t a habitual thing. We decided to take it slow, and neither he nor I had put pressure on that matter.

Spencer’s frown deepened, nonetheless.

“Okay. I’ll go,” he announced. “But first you need to tell me what is bothering you. I don’t bite the ‘tired’ thing,” he declared, shifting his posture on the couch to have a better look of me.

“Nothing is wrong,” I repeated, but my voice sounded even less convincing than before. The man hummed, thinking about what to say first.

“Did you know that in the US the 95% of people who are asked for a confirmation to a statement actually lie about it?” He commented. I huffed, already feeling trapped.

“Great. Now is where your 187 is displayed,” I said under my breath. It was a thought that wasn’t meant to be said at loud. But it slipped.

Spencer tilted his head.

“Hey! Now I’m worried. What happened? What did I do?” he asked in a high pitch tone, scooting to my side. I shook my head, sighing.

Maybe it was better to get clean and tell him everything.

“You - you didn't do anything. I mean, yeah. You were there, all cute and sexy. It's your fault! And they? They were all over you, gawking at you as someone looks at their prey!” I grumbled.

“They?” Spencer asked in confusion.

“The other moms, Spencer! Now you will tell me you didn't notice?” I scoffed, folding my arms over my chest and placing some distance between us on the couch.

“You mean at the party? No way. That not happened,” he refuted, shooking his head.

The bastard was denying the most obvious thing! That made anger fill my body, and I had to stand and start pacing. It was that or scream at the man.

At the loss of words, Spencer stood too, following my pace with his gaze.

I knew he could see the fuming escaping from my ears, but I didn't care.

He wanted to say something, but he didn't know how to start. I bet my pacing in the room wasn’t helping him.

“(Y/N)...” he mumbled softly to catch my attention. I turned to see him. His confused look only fueled my irritation.

“Fuck, Spencer! How can you be so clueless? They were hitting on you! God, if it were up to them, you'd already be tied to their bed frame,” I shouted, hands waving in the air to accentuate my point.

Spencer’s eyes widened.

“What? That's not true. They were being nice. That's all,” Spencer defended. Sure, he has to be oblivious right now. I would have punched him to make him realize the truth.

“Nice, uh? I didn't know nice meant touching the guy in front of the whole people every chance they got. Or are you going to deny they did that, uh, genius?” I sneered now with my hands on my hips. My blood was boiling inside as I remembered the scene.

Spencer cleared his throat. He was recalling those details, and they were hitting him now. Cautiously he took a step forward, hands trying to reach mine.

“Hey, don’t get upset. I - I didn't see that. I’m sorry,” he said, stepping in front of me and prying my arms from their position on my hips. His fingers traced delicate patterns on the back of my palms.

“I should have seen it. I didn't think it was something like that. You know I’m pretty stupid in that kind of thing. I’m really sorry,” he apologized.

I really wanted to stay angry, but seeing those puppy dog ​​eyes, looking intently at me made it difficult.

Argh! Why just one look from him it's all that it takes to feel my knees go weak?

“Don't look at me like that!” I protested.

“Like what?” He asked, kind of amused by the reaction he provoked in me.

“Like you were an innocent pigeon. All men are the same, honestly,” I complained, leaving the grasp of his hands. A new rush of anger came quickly. Spencer pursed his lips; he could tell the reason why I was upset wasn’t just the moms flirting with him.

Before I could turn and walk away, Spencer stopped me grabbing my hand and squeezing it gently so I could look at him.

“Please, don’t go. I’m sorry I didn't notice. But you know why I didn't? Because they are not you,” he declared, intertwining our fingers and grasping our hands with his free one. I looked at him, with some treacherous tears fighting to come out.

He continued.

“They are not you. You are the only one that can get my attention that way,” he declared, bringing my hand to his lips to kiss my knuckles.

“I’m not that special, you know?” I mumbled, pursing my lips to stop the tears.

There it was. The intrusive thought in my mind replayed over and over since it hit me this afternoon.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, realizing there was more than jealousy because of him.

“Don’t say that. Of course you are that special, and much more!” He rebutted, and I chuckled bitterly.

“Am I? I mean, why would you be happy with me when you can get a successful well-manicured super mom like them?” I pointed.

“What are you talking about? What is that thing about super moms?” he asked, now taking hold of both my hands.

I sighed. It was something that was hard to explain, even to me. I left the grasp of his hands, running mine through my hair, collecting my thoughts.

“Look. I don't expect you can fully understand it. Honestly, I think I can’t understand it either. It's just - I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m not doing enough. I’m not a successful businesswoman with a six-year-old daughter, a nice car, all dolled up, perfect makeup, and baking cupcakes for the whole school, like Kimberly, you know?” I shrugged, feeling small and vulnerable.

Of all that people, I chose to compare myself with Kimberly Garland. The incarnation of a super mom. She was known as a successful CEO at a technological company. Mom of three and recently divorced. She always shows up to school activities, no matter what. And not only that, she actively participates, whether cooking, taking care of the ornaments and decorations, or whatever it needed.

How could you compete to that?

“And do you think that no being like her is a bad thing?” Spencer asked me.

Did I believe that? Perhaps I did.

“Maybe it is. Don’t you think Liv deserves a mom like that? Or you a girlfriend like that? I saw you talking to her today, and I couldn't stop thinking she could offer more than I could.”

It hurt to say those words out loud, but they were the ones plaguing my thoughts at the time.

Spencer's face softened. Great, now I'm sure he felt pity for me.

“She can’t. Kimberly or whoever you’re comparing to. You're an excellent mom, (Y/N). And the best girlfriend I can ask for," Spencer stated now strocking my cheek.

I felt silly making a fuss but the insecurities were there. I couldn't help it. The embarrasment made me downcast my gaze to the floor.

“My sweet girl. Look at me, please," he asked, tilting my chin up. I did so, my cheeks turning red under his gaze.

“Olivia is a lucky little girl, you know? She has the best mom in the world. A mom who loves her and would do whatever it takes so she can be happy and safe. Who cares if you can’t be in all those school activities? Not her, because she knows you love her. It doesn't matter if you are not a company CEO. You have your job, and thanks to that our daughter has had everything she needs. You took care of her alone in her first years. On top of that, you have always sought her well-being and happiness. You let me be in her life even after I hurt you years ago. I will always be grateful that you did,” he said, pulling a strand of hair behind my ear.

“She deserves having her father around,” I pointed. It was a decision that I made when we spoke again after Olivia’s kidnapping. Although my hurt feelings, I couldn't deny my daughter of her father if he genuinely wanted to be in her life. Our problems as adults didn't have to be a problem for her.

“And she deserves the wonderful mom she has,” Spencer declared, kissing my forehead. I blushed at the compliment.

“Now, regarding this relationship,” he began pointing between the two of us. “You have nothing to worry about. They don't stand a chance, and you know why? Because they don't even compare to the most beautiful, smart and brave person I've ever met. Who owns a small bookstore downtown, and my heart. The woman I fell in love with the moment I saw her—the mother of my child. Who gave this idiot a chance to be in her life again even when he didn't deserve it. They are not you, my sweet girl. They will never be, and that's why I could never even look at them the way I look at you.“

Fuck Spencer Reid and his ability with words.

“You mean it?” I asked tentatively. Still unsure if he was being serious.

“Of course I mean it. I’m here for the long run, and I hope someday - sooner or later - we can take the next step. I want everything with you, (Y/N), but I’ll go at your pace. I promise.”

I couldn't help the giggles that left my lips.

Could love make you this way? I felt lighter and confident. Spencer's words made me see that I have no reason to sulk that way.

“Keep talking like that, and you'll get the world, Dr. Reid," I stated, now wrapping my arms around his neck. He chuckled.

“I don't need to get it. I already have it with you,” he said, giving a peck to my nose.

"You're a sap," I teased.

"And you love it,” he added, leaning down to kiss me. I happily obliged and kissed him back, tightening my grasp on his neck. His hands planted on my hips to keep me steady.

The kiss deepened, and only we parted when the need for air was too much.

He looked at me with a devilish smirk on his face.

“You know?” he started, kissing my cheek and then my jaw. “There is only one bedframe I would rather be tied to right now. And there is only one person I wish would do indescribable things to me as I’m tied up at her mercy,” he whispered in my ear, and immediately, I felt shivers down my spine.

“Spencer, don’t. That's not helping,” I mumbled with my eyes fluttering shut.

“Isn’t it? Why? Are you thinking about it right now?” He teased. The bastard knew what he was doing. “You would like to see me all tied up, waiting for my sweet girl to do what she wants? Would you like to be in control and show those moms who own me?” he asked, as his lips left traces of kisses on my neck. His hot breath was hitting on my skin and making my desire grow.

“Spencer,” I moaned, lost in his words and eager for his touch.

"Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything," he whispered in my ear, hands running down my sides, giving me goosebumps.

“You. I want you.” Those words left my lips like a prayer—the utter confession of desire and pent-up tension. Spencer grunted.

“You already have me. I’m yours,” he murmured, pulling up the hem of my shirt, so his hands could sneak under to feel my skin.

“And I’m yours. Totally yours. But I need to feel you,” I confessed. I was so lost in his touch and starved for more.

Spencer understood the meaning of my words, so he kissed me hungrily, walking us backward in the direction of my room.

That night Spencer proved to me, with kisses, caresses, and words of adoration, that my insecurities were unfounded. It's true that I'm not like Kimberly Garland, but I don't have to be. I have a daughter whom I adore and who

loves me, a job that fills me with satisfaction, and a boyfriend that I love and who does an excellent job of showing me how valuable and loved I can be.

------------------

Spencer Reid’s Taglist: @dreatine​ @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @tvandfanfic​ @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19  @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @disaster-in-waiting @pebble-has-a-mirgraine @anamiad00msday @chlochlosworld @milivanili99

[nomadstucky]

Title: I'm so in love with you. Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader WC: ~3.7K Content Warnings: SMUT (Unprotected, Simon is a biiiit of a bottom, Simon likes being bit) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, feels, Reader gets injured, angst but it does have a good/happy ending. I know I just posted a Simon Riley fic, but the brain rot DO be brain rotting. My current hyperfixation. I have lots of other stories half-written or fleshed out for all the characters I write for, and I am getting to them, I promise!!

Wonderfully beta'd by the ever amazing @universitypenguin - if you have not read anything Alice has posted, please do so! The Princess and The Lawyer is AMAZING!!

Requests are open, feel free to submit, and to those who already have, I promise I am working on them!!

It was moments like these that you genuinely dreaded, sometimes wishing that you had chosen something different. Everyone, even now, always questioned why this was the career chosen. You had never been able to fully answer, always giving a vague, ‘I’m in it for the same reasons everyone else is.’ Never truly knew why, what pulled you here. 

The satisfaction when you had won was unlike any other, but so were the nightmares. The constant replay of the field, the battles, the close calls that could have ended up much worse. It was never about you, no, rather your teammates. The close calls they faced, that were your fault. If you had been a few seconds quicker, or had just slowed down and aimed properly, you could’ve avoided these moments.

That’s where you currently found yourself, in a meeting with Captain Price, and Lieutenant Riley. Both very terrifying men. At least, Price was trying to make it easier on you, giving soft smiles, and ‘Ghost, relax. Everyone makes mistakes.’ 

A bite of ‘doesn’t matter, they should be able to conduct themselves properly.’ Was fired back. It was no secret the Lieutenant had a distaste for you. Maybe because you were ‘reckless’ as he had described you multiple times. Perhaps it was because at the end of the day he ended up having to save you more than once. Soap had attempted to calm your nerves one day, explaining ‘he gets like this with everyone. ‘S not just you.’ 

You saw the way he acted upon passing. With other soldiers, it was a very slight almost imperceptible nod of his head, but for you the ever-present scowl on his face seemed to deepen. No matter what you had tried, you could never get that recognition that you so desperately wanted. 

“Captain,” you said, gaining his attention, “W-While I appreciate the help, he’s not wrong. I-I don’t agree with the way he’s making his points, but I should’ve been paying more attention. Gaz could’ve been seriously hurt i—“ 

“He could’ve been killed! Because of you!” Ghost’s voice boomed across the Captain’s office. You jumped in your seat.

“You’re absolutely right,” you said looking at Ghost, “and I am sorry.” 

He grunted in response, before stalking out of the room.

“Ignore him, he’s stressed out over the next mission.”

You shook your head, “He’s right. Gaz could’ve died because of my mistake.” The guilt sat stationary in your chest. 

Price offered a sympathetic smile, “Ghost’s has also had some close calls. That is very similar to the potential today. We all have had some pretty close calls. Don’t let him get in your head.” 

You nodded, and rose from the chair on a shaky breath, “thank you.” 

Price nodded, “You’re welcome. There’s a debriefing in an hour.” He reminded. 

You nodded and walked out to get ready for the meeting. 

Three hours later you had found yourself in the middle of the battlefield. According to Price, it should’ve been an ‘easy’ mission. Gather the intel and get out, you hadn’t planned for the ambush. You had been almost positive you were safe, hidden behind a barrel, Ghost beside you. That was until you caught sight of the enemy behind you. 

You caught them raising their gun, aiming for the lieutenant. Soap screamed for him, you pushed him clean out of the way before hearing two gunshots ring out. One of which had pierced the enemy, knocking him down instantly. The other lodged itself into your thigh. You didn’t quite register the shot at first. Not until Soap was by your side. 

“Just go. Scan the perimeter, make sure there’s no more, make sure Gaz has the intel.” You spoke before he even had a chance to say anything to you. Soap ran off, you sat yourself down, still hiding behind the barrel. Your hand weakly pressing against the wound in your thigh. 

You leaned your head back against the barrel, closing your eyes as your hand was replaced by Ghost’s gloved appendage. You whined as he put more pressure than you had been. “I know, I know. Stay with me.” 

You giggled softly, “ironic, isn’t it?” Your head rolled to the side. “This time it wasn’t you saving me.” 

You watched Ghost’s eyes pass between your face and your leg repeatedly. His voice became distorted as he spoke into the walkie on his shoulder, more than likely explaining the situation to Price, and Gaz. Your eyelids grew heavy, so you opted to keep them closed. 

You could hear the concern in Ghost’s voice, but you could no longer hear the words. Could still feel the gloved hand pushing at your skin, but no longer the pain. You slowly allowed yourself to fall into the unconsciousness pulling at you. 

You came to, to the sounds of beeping and hushed voices. Confused, you opened your eyes, “Jesus.” You squinted, looking around. You found Price, and Ghost by your bedside. 

“Hey. How do you feel?” Price spoke, keeping his voice soft. 

“What happened?” Your voice came out weak. Ghost handed you a small paper cup with a straw. Noting he didn’t have the gloves on anymore. 

“Drink this. Small Sips. ” He spoke. You took it, taking a small sip as he instructed.

“You were shot.” Price spoke up again, and everything came back to you, “You were lucky. The bullet missed the femoral artery. Small fracture, you’re off for the next 8 to 12 weeks.” 

“8 to 12 weeks?” Your eyes widened, “No, Price there has to be a mistake! Surely it won’t take that long!” You handed the cup back to Ghost.

“That’s what the doctor has said, and that’s what we’re going by.” Price told you before his phone went off, and he walked out to take the call. 

You groaned, throwing your head back into the pillows. Ghost chuckled before handing you the cup again, “I bet you’re really regretting taking that bullet for me now huh?” 

You looked over at him, “not at all,” you smiled, “but I have to ask, where’d the gloves go?” 

You heard, more than saw, the audible gulp he took. “Had to take them off.” 

You nodded like you understood the implication of what he was saying. Which you did. You remembered him pressing his hands down against the wound trying to get the blood to clot. Saw how your blood stained the white part of the skeleton fabric. 

When you looked back up at him, you could see the fear. For once you saw your strong-willed, cold-hearted lieutenant, genuinely scared. For you. Like he was reliving what happened. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. 

The word lucky rattled around in your brain. Echoing Price’s infliction. You were incredibly lucky, though you weren’t sure you’d admit it out loud. Something had shifted. You weren’t able to pinpoint exactly what, but something in the air of your hospital room felt different.

The aftermath of a mission always did funky things to you. Things you could never fully understand. Adding to that, the fact that you had been out of commission for the last 10 weeks. You had been a little rusty. Which was how you found yourself being dragged out to Ghost’s office. You were sure that he was mad, that he was going to berate you when he called you to his office. However, he led you past his office, and into his personal quarters. “You’re always such a problem.” He said as he closed the door behind you. 

“I didn’t see it!” You watched him. 

“I’m not saying anything.” He defended. 

“You are! You’re saying that I’m a problem.” 

“Because you are. I consistently am having to step in and save your ass because you’re so reckless.” 

“You can’t seriously sit there and get caught up in the few times you’ve saved me! Are you serious?! This is a fucking joke. You’re a fucking joke.” Your voice raised, anger shooting through your body. 

Ghost glared at you. “I’M the joke?! You must really think highly of yourself!” 

“Highl— What?! This is. No. No! I’m leaving. I will not allow you to sit here and treat me like this.” You stomped towards the door. You didn’t make it very far, before Ghost’s hand wrapped around your upper arm. 

“Do you care so little for your own life?” He spun you around to face him.

”What?” 

“Honestly, you’re reckless on the field, you almost stepped on a damn landmine today!! You took a bullet for me!” 

“I told you, I didn’t see it! I’m not reckless, and who knows what would have happened if I had let the bullet hit you! You could’ve died! I wasn’t willing to watch anything happen to you, when I could’ve helped!” 

“Why?!” 

“Because I care about you! Because the thought of you not being here hurts me more than I want to admit! Because the thought of not hearing your fucking voice every day, scares me!” You shouted, feeling the tears come to the surface of your eyes, but you refused to cry in front of him. 

The shock of your words had Ghost releasing his grip on you, if only slightly. You shook your head. “Forget it.” you sniffled and opened the door walking further down the hallway. Ghost snapped to his senses, and called you, but you were out of his sight. 

You had asked Price for some extra time. “A few more weeks, I want to make sure that I’m ready to be on the field again.” Was what you had told him, when in reality, you wanted to prolong your solitude. You hadn’t spoken to Ghost since your outburst, but he seemed content in letting it happen. Leaving you alone. 

Sure, you had run into each other a few times, damn near impossible not to, but never spoken to each other. In the time that you hadn’t been on missions, you spent it in your room reading, or in the gym trying to strengthen yourself. 

The boys had come back from another successful mission, elated but bruised. You smiled and hugged each of them with the exception of Ghost. You merely nodded at him, he stood stoic as ever. 

Soap threw his arm around you before leading you inside, with everyone following, “You’ll have to come with us on the next one. It’ll be just like old times!” He sang. 

You giggled, “yeah, maybe. We’ll see how I’m feeling.” 

“Well, at least come out to drink with us tonight! We’re heading to Bar Code.” Soap shook your shoulders lightly. He was always in a good mood after a successful mission. 

You nodded, “Sure.” 

That was how you found yourself in civilian clothing, sitting across from Price. Just shooting the shit with the boys reminded you of old times, better times. Price called your name, “you’ve been training. A lot harder than we’ve seen you before.” 

You smiled, knowing it was a compliment of the highest form, “Thank you, sir. I just want to make sure that I’m ready to be back in the field.” 

“So, I can count on you for the next one then?” 

Your smile widened, as you nodded, and Soap and Gaz whooped and cheered. “Well!” Gaz was the one to throw his arm around you this time, “I say that’s cause for celebrations! I’ll go get more drinks.” 

He moved to stand, but you put your hand on top of his on your shoulder, “let me.” You giggled as he withdrew and stood, walking over to the bar. 

Ordering what you knew everyone liked, you leant against the bar as you waited for the drinks. A slimy looking man slid next to you, “what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all by yourself?” He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. 

“Oh,” you said quietly, moving away slightly, “I’m not alone. Here with some friends.” Of course Ghost had caught sight of him before he got close to you. 

The man followed you, before a hand reached out to grip your waist, pulling you closer. You leaned away. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I bet they won’t even notice if you’re gone.” You could smell the alcohol on him before he even opened his mouth. 

You kept pushing at his chest, getting more alarmed by the moment, “I-I’m flattered, but not interested,” you looked around for someone, anyone to help you, but found no one. “I really should get back to my friends.” 

In an instant, Ghost was by your side. Unwrapping the stranger's hand from you before pulling you behind him. “You okay?” He looked over his shoulder at you. 

You nodded, and walked to the table silently. From what you saw the unknown man backed down pretty quickly, given Ghost was still in his tac gear, minus the vest. 

Ghost had come back with the drinks and set them down. Not another word was said between you and him for the rest of the night. 

Getting back to the base, everyone went their separate ways. Everyone except Ghost who pulled you with him into an empty barracks room. It was a standard room, with a bed in the back corner, small desk and lamp on the right side, and an armoire on the left.   “Ghost.. What do–” 

“Simon.” He cut you off. 

You tilted your head, confused. “Call me Simon. Please.” 

“Okay… Simon. Is there something you need?” 

His eyes fluttered shut as you said his name. “I think a conversation is needed.” 

“Conversation about what?” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What did you mean?” His eyes opened, solely focusing on your face, your reaction to him. “You said you care about me. But there’s so many things that could mean.” 

You took a deep breath in, and dropped your arms. “I’m exhausted. We can talk about this later.” You turned for the door. 

Simon muttered your name, “You and I both know if you walk out of here, this conversation won’t ever happen.” His voice stopped you from moving any further. “Please.” His voice softened to a whisper. 

“You’re a big boy, Simon. I’m sure you can figure it out. Given the context.” 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“Why? So you can embarrass me some more? To make me relive that specific part of the conversation for days? I already have. I shouldn’t have said anything, it was vastly inappropriate.” 

Simon shook his head, stepping closer to you. “Tell me. Please.” 

A shiver flew down your spine. “You make it sound so easy. It won’t fix anything.” 

Simon stayed quiet behind you. He was close enough at this point to feel the body heat he gave off. You sighed, defeated. “I care about you.” You whisper. 

“And what does that mean?” Simon whispered back. 

You closed your eyes, staying quiet. This time when he said your name, he coated it in adoration, in awe. Pressing his body even closer, you caved. 

“I’m into you.” You felt his forehead come to rest on your shoulder. 

“Again.” He commanded, softly as his arm wrapped around your waist. 

You smiled, biting your lip, “I like you.” 

Simon pulled you back so you were fully flush against him. “Again.” 

“I have feelings for you.” 

His grip tightened, hand moving to your hip as he spun you to face him. “Once more.” He watched you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, “I am so in love with you it hurts sometimes.” 

“Yeah?” He breathed, and you nodded as his face drew closer. 

“Yeah” you whispered moments before he pushed his mask up just past his nose, and kissed you. 

Fuck, he was good. He knew how to hook you in, one hand resting on the hinge of your jaw, and the other on your waist. Pulling you in, while simultaneously keeping you where he wanted you.

You couldn’t resist kissing back, placing your hands firmly on his chest. You could feel the low rumble he let out. Pulling away for a second, Simon dragged his thumb down the center of your lips. Your breathing was rapid, your mind felt like it was in the clouds. 

Without thinking, you leaned back in to capture his lips this time. His hands drifted down your body, before tapping the backs of your thighs. You shook your head only slightly to still keep your lips attached to his. 

He grunted into your mouth, before crouching slightly, and lifting you into his arms. You gasped before breaking apart, “Simon, put me down.” 

You saw his lips pull up into a smirk, “gladly” you watched his mouth form the word. He walked over, tightening his grip only moments before dropping you against the mattress. 

You squealed softly, before this mountain of a man was sprawled out on top of you, reattaching his lips to any skin he could find. Kissing down your face, to your neck. Hands pawing at your body, lifting your shirt to caress your skin. You whined, before sitting up only enough to pull your shirt off. 

“Atta girl.” Simon praised before reattaching his mouth to yours. His hands roaming your body, gently groping along his way as he finds the buttons on your jeans and slides them along with your panties off in one motion. 

You truly don’t know what came over you, the need to have Simon under you, succumbing to whatever you wanted, was overwhelming. 

So that was exactly what you decided to do, as you heaved your body so you had him pinned beneath you. The surprise of it alone had him pulling away from you. Hands coming to rest on your thighs. 

You made a show of removing your bra, the accompanying groan from him as you removed the last article of clothing was satisfying. You carefully slid down his body, removing articles of clothing as you went, until he was completely naked, and completely at your mercy. You looked down at him, your lip between your teeth. 

“Not so big and bad now are you?” You spoke softly, lining Simon’s leaking cock with your entrance, not able to stand another moment of the teasing.

“Don’t be a fucking tease, baby.” Simon gritted out. 

“Me? Never” You spoke, sliding him inside until you were flush with his hips. Gasping, as he gently bucked up into you. 

The grunt Simon let out had you clenching around him. His hands clasped around your hips, expletives being whispered into the air around you two. 

You brought yourself up just enough for him to slide out enough, before dropping yourself back down. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.” Simon whined. 

The sound alone had you falling forward, hands coming up to catch yourself on his chest. You let out a moan, as his hands roamed your body. “C’mon. Need me to take the lead?” He teased. 

You bit your lip as you straightened yourself out, and started bouncing on his cock. Simon’s head rolled back further into the pillow. Small chants of yes left his mouth. You glanced down at him, completely at your mercy, and you let out a borderline pornographic moan. 

Simon’s neck had been on full display, the veins distended, almost inviting. He was clenching his teeth, so as to keep all those little sounds in. Eventually, the intrusive thought won and you leant forward. Lips and teeth sucking a bright red hickey into his neck. “Oh, Fuck.” Simon mewled. 

Laving your tongue over the new mark, you felt a swell of pride. “Can’t take it?” You whispered into his ear, gently biting down on his earlobe. Simon let out a high pitched whine. “Who knew Simon Riley liked being bitten huh?” 

His hands settled back on your hips, “please” he grunted. 

You cooed, straightening and planting your hands on his chest once again, as you worked yourself against his cock. “Awwww. D’you wanna cum?” 

Increasing your speed, you could feel the stutter in his breath under your hands. One of his hands running up your back, to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down. 

Capturing your lips, he kissed any and all smart comments, and thoughts out of your head. Simon pulled away from you enough to let out a long, drawn out moan, as your hips stuttered, and you felt the warmth of his cum flooding you. 

You gasped, not expecting it so quickly. The pure, unadulterated power you felt in this moment was enormous. You just made big, bad, cold-hearted Simon Riley cum before you. 

Simon’s hands fell to your thighs, gently running his fingers over where the bullet had entered, “shit.” breathing labored, unable to think. 

You looked down at him, breathing picking up, eyes wide. “One more.” You surprised even yourself. “Give me one more. Si, just one more.” You spoke, grinding your hips against his. 

He grunted your name, “I can’t.” 

“Yes, yes you can. Gimme one more. You’re such a good boy, Si. You can gimme one more, yeah?” You whined, resuming bouncing on his cock once more. 

Simon whimpered, “Please.” 

“Yeah, there it is. Look at you. Letting me use you like this. Fuck. So good for me, yeah?” 

You watched Simon’s eyes roll back in his head, mouth open just slightly, allowing all the little noises loose. The little moans, hiccups, and half whines. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t getting to you. 

“You’re so hot like this. Can’t shut you up, can I?” You spoke, hips faltering. 

Soft chants of please left Simon’s pretty pink lips, head rolling from side to side. He was a sight. “Gonna cum again for me, Si?” You taunted him. 

Simon hiccuped, and nodded furiously. His entire body tensed, letting out an absolute wrecked moan, you once again felt the warmth of his seed, which only triggered your own orgasm this time. 

Head thrown back, grinding your hips before slowing to a complete stop. Slowly you lifted yourself on your knees and climbed off him. Simon chuckled as you collapsed beside him. 

“That definitely was not expected.” You wheezed out, attempting to catch your breath. 

“What part?” Simon smirked, pulling his mask back down. 

“All of it.” You yawned, and curled into his side. 

“We can dissect it in the morning, get some rest.” Simon ran his hand along your back gently, and you fell asleep in no time.

[simpxxstan]

perfect complements (ch. 1)

pairing: professor!seungcheol x professor!f.reader

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers, angst, slight smut

series summary: four and a half years of working together breeds familiarity, resentment, and everything in between. it's almost like living together.

chapter word count: 2.1k

warnings: bickering (will be a major feature in this story, so please do not read if verbal fights are not your cup of tea), seungcheol smokes.

a/n: seventeen is my new addiction and i'm not backing off! this is inspired from my dream life (hehe i want to be an econ prof). the series title is an econ term lolol sorry if it's too geeky. i think this series will have multiple spinoffs, maybe you can guess for which characters? all i can hope for is that i'll be able to pull through the plot till the very end and not get writers' block midway :(

slight heads up? seungcheol is 32 here, and the f. reader y/n is 33 here. wonwoo is 35-36, and minghao is slightly younger than seungcheol, probably 30. chan is 24-25 years old. y/n is shorter than seungcheol, and wears glasses. not much other physical description of y/n. also, this fic will probably have different povs, so this chapter is from seungcheol's pov.

thank you so much for reading! your reblogs, likes and comments mean sooo much honestly. i know every content creator says this, and i know we all mean it from our hearts.

enjoy some of my ult svt bias, seungcheollie!

series masterlist

With four and a half years of working together comes a ton of familiarity. Choi Seungcheol knows it annoyingly well: annoying because he’s greeted by the sight of your coat on his chair again, and well because this is a sight he sees nearly every Monday. Four years ago, he would have tried to explain to you that it’s a Monday morning, he didn’t want to come to take classes this early, and his patience is running thin, so it would be very nice if you could remember which chair was yours every morning when you came and took off your coat. Three years ago, he would have shrieked out, irritation burning through his veins. Two years ago, he would walk up to your desk, and spill your coffee all over the term paper you were currently checking. One year ago, he would purposely ruin your day even if it increased his headache tenfold just thinking about ways to annoy you. 

But not any more. Choi Seungcheol has decided you are not worth a penny of his hard earned money, a moment of his precious time, and a nano atom of his genius brain cells. He simply picks your coat and dumps it on the ground, deliciously close to the dustbin. He knows his ears shouldn’t perk up, but they do, and when they hear your reaction, it is so gratifying, it feels like he has won a World War. 

“Prof. Choi, if you feel you cannot respect the personal property of others, feel free to accompany me to the Dean’s Office.” You have somehow stomped up to him, standing right before him, as he pulls out the chair to his desk, taking in the endless papers and books that are arranged neatly before him. Your attitude never ceases to surprise him, given that you’re an entire head shorter than him, and even if you’re wearing heels, he can tower over you whenever you stomp up to him in these little furies. It makes you look like a little furry puppy, your hands on your hips, and Seungcheol thrives off the fire burning in your eyes. “There, there. I’d actually love to, but it seems that you need to remember how to respect public property and not hog over the space of others.” 

You’re staring at him above your glasses, which have slipped down to the middle of your nose, and god, Seungcheol finds it hilarious. He wants to burst out laughing, the only thing holding him on is his determination to not break character and push you further. 

“And if your routine morning tantrums are over, Seungcheol and Y/N, please settle down in your seats. It seems like I have to send you both to college again.” 

Said Dean’s voice booms out behind you, and although his voice is surprisingly firm, there’s a shit-eating grin on his face, and he walks towards the two of you. He picks up the coat, lying on the floor, and hands it to Y/N. Jeon Wonwoo does not miss out on how flustered you both look on getting caught during your little lovers’ quarrel, as Wonwoo likes to call it in his mind, all alone in the Economics Department Staffroom. 

“Morning Wonwoo! Enlighten me why no one else is here. Why am I stuck with this lady through this sad Monday morning?” 

Seungcheol leans back on his chair, casual now that Wonwoo has calmed down the mood. You walk back to your desk, which unfortunately is right opposite Seungcheol’s, but he’s used to your ugly face to stay unfazed by it now. It’s like a terrible gift from a nosy relative you’ve hung up on the wall for long enough that it doesn’t catch the eye anymore and is just… there. But he’s quick to take note of how you’re smiling at Wonwoo, your glasses have been pushed to the top of your head, revealing your forehead and the same tiny pair of diamond hoops you wear every day. 

It is, like he knows well, a scene of familiarity. And he really despises that fact. 

“Minghao has a conference, he’s in the States. This is in preparation for his exchange program thing.”

“Oh yeah, he texted me on Saturday that he’s leaving soon… wasn’t aware it’s today.” You speak softly, already opening your laptop to get started with your work for the day. 

“And Minhee is in the Girls’ Hostel.”

“Why?” You both ask, confused. “I thought Prof. Kim from History is the warden?” “Yes, but they’ve recently gone on their maternity leave. Minhee has to take over. And, bad luck for her, but on the very first day, there’s been a kind of emergency. Some punches were thrown while drunk, and now Minhee’s lecturing them.” “As if anyone’s gonna take her seriously,” Seungcheol scoffs, since everyone knew Minhee to be one of the coolest professors in the university. 

“Hey! They took me very seriously, thank you. This is the problem with men. Give them a woman with good tits and a kind face and they think she’s a dumb bitch to run over.” Minhee walks into the small Staffroom, looking very much exhausted but she’s never going to admit it. She plops down on your desk, pushing away the laptop. “Is the situation better now?” you ask, holding out your coffee to Minhee, asking her silently to take a sip. “Yes, thankfully. I’ll have to go and check again after classes get over for the day.”

“Well then, you’re all up to date. Don’t forget the meeting with the Faculty Coordinator today at 5 pm!” “Yes Sir,” you all echo unenthusiastically, as Wonwoo chuckles and walks out of the room. It’s going to be a long day and Seungcheol can already feel his temples buzzing. 

_

Six classes down, and he’s feeling the Monday blues wear off into a blissful exhaustion. At the end of the day, this is a profession he has not once regretted choosing. He absolutely adores spending time with his students- mostly. There’s always going to be a black sheep, like Lee Chan from his Advanced Game Theory course. Chan isn’t a bad guy, per se. He’s just over-enthusiastic and is always looking to impress: which results in him reading texts beyond his level just to try and make Seungcheol happy and end up confusing the entire concept. 

But at least dealing with the well-meaning Chan is better than going to the faculty counselling meeting with you. Well, not just with you. But he knows very well what he’s going to hear at the meeting, and he’s absolutely dreading it. He has nearly the same look on his face as his students do when they get the term results, he’s just better at masking it. 

As he walks into the Faculty Coordinator’s office, he sees you’re already sitting in a corner, staring outside the window, while Minhee is chatting with the Coordinator. He notices you glancing his way once, before turning your eyes towards the sky again. “Good Afternoon Prof. Choi! How are you doing?” Ms. Song looks at Seungcheol with warm eyes as he takes a seat. “I’m fine, thank you, and you?” It seems that nervousness has rendered Seungcheol incapable of forming sentences beyond nursery-level, and both Minhee and Ms. Song let out a small laugh at his childish response. “I’m sure you know why you’re here, Prof. Choi, as does Prof. Y/L/N. I’ll spare you the intro.” Minhee asks, “Am I really needed to be here?” Ms. Song says, “Prof. Jeon, unless you seriously want me to be alone with this pair who want to murder each other, I would really prefer if you could be here.” Seungcheol is blushing now, embarrassed to the toe. He can hear you groan, and Minhee somehow finds it all funny enough to smile. “If it's so amusing to you, Minhee, you can leave. We swear we won’t kill each other today, if we’ve been able to control ourselves all this time.” Seungcheol’s not even looking at you, but the sarcasm is biting his skin. 

“Alright, alright. Calm down, Prof. Y/L/N. Remember, aggression is not the key. We’re here for resolutions.” 

“Well then, could we please proceed to the point directly?”

“You’re in a rush on a Monday? You play baseball with the kids after class-” you ask him, staring into his face.

“I have a date today after class.” 

That shuts you up for good, and Seungcheol feels queasy. It’s one thing trying to get the last word in, and it’s another to hit your weak point just to get the last word in. He wants to explain but Ms. Song interrupts. “I’ll cut the chase. From what I can see now, and from all the reports I’ve received in the last three months, there’s been not much improvement from the situation we had observed earlier. In fact, it’s only gotten more alarming-”

“Ever since I’ve turned thirty-three,” you sigh, but Ms. Song ignores you. 

“I’ve spoken to the Dean, Dr. Wonwoo, and also to some of the other faculty members you share your classes and university space with. We collectively think it’s only fair to say that your interpersonal relationship is harming the kind of environment we want to foster in our university. It is, by no means, a new development, and students of several batches have noticed this relationship of yours as well. This kind of banter, which includes quite serious threats at times-” she raises a hand to quieten Seungcheol’s attempt to interrupt, “is not conducive to a healthy academic environment.”

You both sigh, you whisper something along the lines of it’s not that serious, and although Seungcheol hates to say it out loud, he agrees with you. 

“I would recommend you both to go to the University Counsellor and take a few… bonding sessions over the next semester. We think this kind of banter is not too serious, we’re extremely hopeful of a resolution. It’s just not happening right now, because you’re not aware of the efforts to be taken. Once you sit with a counsellor, the path will be clearer-”

Seungcheol doesn’t even realise when he’s stood up. It feels stuffy. He had thought he was long past the age of getting reprimanded for fighting with his peers. 

“I really have to leave now. Thank you for the talk, Ms. Song. I’ll get back to you with my schedule and we can set up the meetings with the counsellor.”

“Prof. Choi.” The voice is stern, and Seungcheol holds up. He needs a cigarette, or fresh air. Neither is really available right now, so he grips on to the chair to steady himself. “I will mail you the meetings and Plan of Action, and you shall adjust your schedule accordingly. You know the consequences-” Seungcheol nods before the threat gets completed. Wonwoo has explained the consequences several times to him. 

“I will do so. Don’t worry, Ms. Song. You shall get nothing but my best efforts.” “I hope so. Really.” 

Seungcheol finally steps out of the room, and heaves deep breaths to get his brain working again. His phone rings, as he walks down the stairs to get away from the building. He picks it up while lighting the cigarette between his lips as he leaves the campus-

“Hello Cheollie! Should I come over to your place to pick you up or-”

“Hyerin?”

“What? Did you forget about our date? Yah! Oppa!”

“No no, I just-” he realises that you’ve just left the campus walking past him, not even sparing him a glance. He watches you as you walk farther away from him, your car blinking in the distance, and the tap-tap of your heels fading out amidst the sounds of the wind. The campus is remarkably quiet for this time of the day, or maybe he’s just too out of it all. 

“I’ll meet you at the cafe. We can go to your place later, right?”

“Yes yes, I’ve talked to my roommate already, but why not Oppa’s place this time?” the sickly sweet voice from the other end of the phone irritates him, but he knows she’s acting cute just for fun. 

“You know why-” 

“Oppa, Kkuma doesn’t care about the girls you bring over.” “She does! She’s a very sensitive princess.” “Cheol-ah, you can just say you don’t care enough about me, and I’ll get it. Don’t bring the poor baby into this.” Seungcheol sighs. This is why he likes Hyerin, she can be mature when she wants to.

But it seems like now is not the time.

“I’ll see you later then, Oppa! Maybe tonight will change your mind!” “Hmm!” Seungcheol hears the call get cut, and he finally drags a puff from his cigarette. You’ve disappeared out of sight, and Seungcheol’s mind is clear now.

[redladydeath]

Okay, so last night I decided I wanted to do something with Vox and body horror and this story concept ended up manifesting in my brain. Massive CW for psychosis that's not actually psychosis, as well as self-harm and body horror.

Vox and Alastor meet in the 1940s while they're both doing electrical engineering work for the war effort. Vox is only 22, so he falls fast and hard for Alastor, who decides to use the younger man's infatuation with him to his advantage. One night while they're out drinking, Alastor convinces Vox to make a blood oath with him. He tells him it's just symbolic, but in reality, there's magic involved; if Alastor kills him, he'll get all the years Vox was supposed to live added to his own lifespan, which is dwindling. He lures Vox into the woods and tries to murder him, but is shot by a hunter who happens upon the struggle. Vox nearly loses an eye, but survives the encounter and is able to go on with his life, albeit with some pretty intense trauma.

Twenty years later, it's the 1960s. Vox has been a successful television presenter for 10~15 years now. He's rich and is married with children, but is less than an ideal husband/father. When he's not at work, he's usually with Valentino, a young male prostitute who he's been having a secret affair with for the past year or two. The two of them are currently somewhere between a sugar daddy/baby arrangement and a legit relationship. Vox is overall pretty content with his life and hasn't thought about Alastor in years. That is, until he starts feeling everything change.

At first, it seems like it's just a bad cold; his joints are stiff and he has the chills constantly, but that's nothing too unusual and he continues going about his daily life. But then the delusions start. Vox begins hearing strange things whenever a radio is on– words and phrases that shouldn't be coming out of it, said in a familiar tone of voice. He starts seeing shadows moving just out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look at them, they're gone. When Vox looks in the mirror or watches clips from his show, there's something different– uncanny– about his own eyes that make him feel like he's looking at a stranger. It must be stress, he thinks; he's been working himself too hard.

But things only get worse. Vox's body is stiff and jerky and cold– suddenly very cold to the touch, although no one other than Vox can feel it. Food and drink and cigarettes lose their taste. His emotions feel muted– all except fear. He starts hearing this loud, irritating humming when he's in the studio and it makes it hard for him to work. People are starting to get worried. He's acting erratically, asking if they can hear or feel things that simply aren't there. His wife thinks he's building towards a nervous breakdown, but Vox knows that's not true. Something's happening to him, something no one can perceive but him.

Things continue to deteriorate. Vox thinks he can hear metal creaking when he moves. His face won't show up on camera anymore; the footage always ends up damaged somehow for reasons no one can explain. He smashes the family radio in front of his kids when he clearly hears Alastor's voice coming out of it, taunting him. He asks Valentino, who hasn't even been to church in the past decade, to connect him to his childhood priest because he thinks he's being possessed and wants an exorcism— if the Protestant God won’t help him, maybe the Catholic one will. It still doesn't work.

Things come to a head one night when Vox, desperate to prove to himself and everyone else that he's not crazy, takes a knife and cuts deep into the hand he used to make the pact with Alastor all those years ago. He cuts and cuts and cuts until finally– finally– he sees it: metal and wires and no blood. He was right. He tries to show his wife but only succeeds in scaring her out of her wits. He flees the house and takes the family car: he needs to go see Valentino, show him, ask him for help. He crashes the car into a lamppost while trying to drive with one hand. A cashier working late in a nearby television/radio store tries to help him, bringing him into the store to wait while he calls an ambulance.

When the cashier leaves him alone to go make the call in the backroom, Vox hears it again. He hears Alastor's voice coming out of the radio, telling him that his time is up; he's been living on borrowed (or rather, stolen) time for the past ten years and now it's time to come join him, down where they both belong. Vox can feel his "bones" cracking, his skin stretching and tearing; he can't hear anything except Alastor's voice alongside the blaring static emitting from all the TVs and radios in the store. He's dying he's dying he's dying– until he stumbles into a fusebox and the whole store is engulfed in an electrical fire.

When the firemen dig through the rubble, they never find a human body.

[bagopucks]

J. Hughes - A Little Funky

✄————————————

Jack Hughes x OCD!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warning(s): possibly triggering content to those who do have OCD. Mentions of blood, angst, resisting compulsions.

This one’s for all my OCD people! Your struggle is just as valid even if it’s not always as visible as others’.

Next thing I’m working on is a Quinn request!

—————————————

“Why do you do that?”

It caught me off guard the first time Jack asked. I looked up from my menu. Fear struck my heart in concern that I’d already ruined our first date.

“Do what?”

“You blink like..” he paused, mimicking the action. The way I blinked hard. The way my head tilted occasionally with the force I needed to get my eyelids to close just right.

I let out a quiet sigh.

“Why do you do that?” He restated his question.

“‘Cause I’m just a little funky, Jack.” He didn’t need to know. Not yet. It would scare him off. So instead, I phrased it as a joke. But Jack was far more observant than I gave him credit for at first.

It wasn’t the first time my mental health interfered on a date. Or even that date with Jack. After dinner, we had gone back to his place and agreed to spend a bit more time together.

The night had simply gone too well to part so soon.

“What do you wanna watch?”

I shrugged at Jack’s question. I quickly sat down next to him on the couch, leaning into his side as Jack scrolled through a streaming service. I counted the seconds it took for the app to flick down from one section to the next. Lost in thought as he tried finding a movie.

“Stop.” My urgency made Jack raise a brow.

“You wanna watch Corey Carson?”

“No- no.. go back up.” I shook my head, and watched as Jack scrolled up to the previous section.

“Wednesday?”

“It’s wrong now.” I reached for the remote. Jack’s confusion only doubled. I was strategic in my continuation of the scrolling. Only when we got to the bottom of the page and restarted at the top, did I allow Jack to have control over the remote again.

“What was that?”

I never knew how to explain it to him. I didn’t know how to make him understand that my brain just worked a little different than his. I hated to keep him in the dark, but I thought it was safer for us both to keep it as such.

Our ‘talking’ stage consisted of a lot of great moments, with those occasional interruptions sneaking in.

Interruptions that would leave Jack questioning my habits all day, and leave me feeling like I was walking on thin ice.

“Jack baby…I love you.”

“I love you too.”

A beat.

“Jack- Jack..” I tried to stop myself. “Jack, listen.” He looked at me, trying to walk out the door to go to a game. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“You have to say it back now.”

“I already did.”

I could sense myself getting frustrated with him and upset with myself.

“I gotta go.. okay?”

I nodded, but my mind wouldn’t let it go.

“Jack.” I called his name as he opened the door. He quickly looked back at me.

“I love you.”

“I love you too! Jesus..”

“I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know why it had to be like that. Why my mind had to work the way it did. It scared multiple people off, and I was always afraid of losing Jack because of it.

Eventually, months into our real relationship, I sat Jack down to speak with him on the matter. It was only after I could no longer hide it, that we had the talk.

What I didn’t expect was him to be so relieved and accepting when I told him.

“We should really talk about what’s going on.” I cringed as I looked up at Jack from his bed. He looked exhausted from his game. I was equally exhausted from getting up every ten minutes to check if I turned the stove off.

“What’s going on?” I knew what was coming.

“All of this stuff. It’s different. It’s just- you say you love me a million times, and you have all these.. these off behaviors.” I could tell he didn’t want to offend, but that was really the only way for him to describe it.

I slowly sat up, patting the empty space on the bed beside myself.

“Jack please don’t be mad.”

“God I’m not gonna be mad, just please tell me you’re not a psychopath.” He huffed as he dropped onto the bed, pulling his legs up and shimming until he was next to me.

Some might argue I was a psychopath. Some days that’s how it felt.

“It’s OCD. It’s a disorder- it’s just.. it’s really hard to live with sometimes, and I know projecting it on you doesn’t help. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s what?”

“Obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s when you obsess over certain things, and then you have physical or mental compulsions. Like triggered behaviors or actions that help calm you down.”

“Like saying I love you five thousand times?” Jack eyed me with uncertainty.

“Yeah. I get nervous that you’ll leave and maybe..” I hated talking about it.

“Maybe, what?”

“I don’t know. Like what if you leave and then get hurt? Or die? And I never told you that I loved you. Or maybe telling you that I loved you would save you from that fate.”

We spoke for what felt like hours on the topic. Jack asked as many questions as he could, and tried his best to understand.

We both realized that the best form of understanding came with time.

When we moved in together, Jack had a load of time to form an understanding.

——————

“Hun?” I heard his voice from the bedroom, groggy and confused. I didn’t answer though, staring down at my hands splayed out on the counter top, sobbing quietly as I had convinced myself that my circulation was being cut off.

“Baby?” There was rustling in the bedroom, before the bathroom door opened and in came Jack, in a pair of shorts and no shirt.

“Aw damn..” the disappointment in his tone made my heart break. “Hey, it’s okay.. what’s up?” Jack slipped behind me, carefully wrapping his arms around my torso. He eyed my face, and after a moment he put the pieces together. “Your hands?” We’d been here before.

Jack moved his hands down the expanse of my arms, resting them on top of my own on the cool counter top.

“Don’t look at ‘em. They’re gonna be the same color and feel the exact same way in five or ten minutes.” Jack whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to my collar. “Gotta relax for me, baby.

I always had issues obsessing over my health. One of said compulsions was the consistent checking of a body part and another was Google searching. In this case, limiting the amount of checking I could actually do, was supposed to help. To show me and my thoughts that I was okay.

At first, I hated giving in to Jack. I hated that his methods never felt like they helped. I hated him because in those moments I felt safer checking myself than not. I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to be hurt.

Over time I began to understand better, that he was helping. I just didn’t like it because it was a good method.

I breathed out a sigh eventually, leaning back into Jack’s chest and nodding to him. “I’m good now.”

There were other days when my OCD got the best of both of us. When Jack struggled between giving in and pushing my limits. When he never quite knew what to do or say.

“I can’t wait to be home.”

“Yeah.. my feet hurt.” I mumbled, eyeing the tile floor of the mall as we neared the door. I had been counting my steps. I made Jack start over with me in three different stores. I think the only reason he agreed was to not ruin my day. But it seemed since it was coming to an end, he was trying to not be as lenient. The second we got to the door, I stopped and turned to go back. Jack gripped my hand tightly.

“We can’t do it again, hun.” I looked back at Jack with wide eyes. His own baby blues responded with a sympathetic look.

“Jack, please.” I squeezed his hand.

“You can do it.” He encouraged, but I wasn’t sure if I could.

“Jack it’s not an even number.” Odd numbers usually meant somebody might die in my head. Jack knew that.

“Who is it?” He spoke softly. He held his free hand out and I slowly stepped into his arms.

“Ellen.” I whispered nervously.

“We can call her when we get home.”

I broke down into tears for the hour long ride. By the time we got into the house, Jack already had Ellen’s number pulled up. When she didn’t answer, he realized his mistake and I was devastated.

Those were learning moments for both Jack and I. He tried to work past his mistake, and I had to wait longer to speak with Ellen. Who had ended up being fine nonetheless.

Jack and I weren’t a perfect couple, and there were nights when I know he got just as frustrated with me as I did with myself. I hated to put that stress on him, but I learned over time that he was not going anywhere.

“Why can’t I just be in here with you? I wanna hang out.” Frustration seeped out of his tone.

“Because I said so, Jack.” I mumbled, barely giving him the time of day with my words, much less my eyes.

One of the things I hated most were the intrusive thoughts I occasionally got about him. The ones that broke my heart, because no matter what they were, I could never live with the thought of myself hurting Jack.

I never wanted to be around him when one came about. Especially because I was always afraid. It was something I never told him, and he never understood.

“Please?”

“No, Jack. Please go call Nico or somebody else. I wanna be alone right now.”

He’d huff and he’d puff, but damn he never went away.

“I’ll be back in a half an hour.”

He was always adamant on checking in on me. He knew when it was my OCD. I had little tells he was good at picking out.

Intrusive thoughts were not the only reason I avoided Jack at times. I also struggled to be around him when he had a cut or broken skin somewhere that was touchable. I was lenient about it being beneath clothing, but on a hand or his face, parts of his arms they weren’t covered by t-shirts, or his legs where they wouldnt be covered by shirts- then I had an issue.

Jack didn’t have diseases by any means. Maybe yaps-a-lot-itus, but other than that, he was fine. That didn’t stop me from getting extra tense when the moment arose where I could have gotten his blood on me. When Jack tried to fight me on that, we usually got into fights.

“Would you at least cuddle with me?”

I hadn’t kissed him for days, not since he busted his lip.

“Jack I can’t. It’s not-“

“There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m fine!”

We could both be emotional in these times. Jack hated to be neglected, and he hated knowing there was nothing he could do to help me. I hated hurting him, and I hated knowing I was helpless against my own mind.

“Please be patient with me?”

“I’m trying!”

If, or when I did get the courage to lay with him, I kept an arguably safe distance. Sometimes Jack would coax me into hand holding, and sometimes he wouldn’t.

There were other nights however, when all I wanted was to be in Jack’s arms. When I’d focus too much on a chest pain or the sound of my own heartbeat. When I’d convince myself I had a heart problem or something major was wrong.

“I really need you to tell me how bad it hurts.” Jack whispered as I sobbed into his chest, his arms wrapped so tightly around me that one might assume I was actually dying. Moments like these always scared the shit out of Jack.

“Baby, I really need to know. If we need to go to the hospital then we need to go now.” Jack tried. I tried to get ahold of my wandering thoughts, trying and failing to communicate with him.

“Come on. You gotta have something for me. One out of ten.. how bad is it?”

He moved one of his hands to trail through my hair.

“Two or three?”

I felt silly for sobbing over a pain that was only two or three on the scale, but that simple confession helped my mind come to its first realization. And it helped Jack relax.

“That’s not bad…” Jack sighed out. “Where’s it hurt? Can you show me?” He slowly pulled away. I looked up at him and swallowed before I reached up to press a hand to the center of my chest, then around my abdomen.

“What’s it feel like?”

I felt myself becoming choked up again. I couldn’t explain it. I let out a strangled sob.

“Hey, hey.. it’s okay.” Jack took my face in his hands, and wiped away the trails of tears. “Is it a sharp pain? Or a dull one, like a soreness? Or does it burn, maybe?”

“It burns..” Jack was always so good at helping me organize what I thought and felt. So good at helping me communicate when I didn’t know how to.

“That’s it?” He asked as if it was nothing. Somehow hearing his nonchalance also relaxed me.

“Baby.. we ate a few hours ago.” Jack whispered, continuing to wipe my tears away. “It’s probably just heartburn.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my head. “I get it sometimes too. Feels all uncomfortable in your stomach and your chest? Kinda tight or burning?” I nodded to confirm that he was correct. “Yeah. It’s just heartburn. It’ll go away, just give it some time. If it doesn’t, we’ll go to the pharmacy and grab some pills.”

I was slow to nod in agreement of his plan. Jack pulled me back into his arms, whispering soft assurances and conversation starters. Some that I answered and some that I didn’t.

Occasionally that pain would grab my attention again, and a new wave of fear would strike, but Jack was one step ahead of it. Always one step ahead.

I rolled over in his arms, my back pressed firmly to his chest. One of Jack’s hands was hidden beneath my shirt, thumb rubbing gently back and forth across the skin of my stomach. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

“You’re safe right here.” He whispered. “Safe as you could possibly be. It’ll go away before you even wake up in the morning.” He pressed a kiss to my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.” I mumbled.

“For what?” He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow and looking down at me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him though.

“For being so hard to handle.” My voice quivered.

“Hey,” he cooed. “Hey, no.” He laid back down and wrapped himself around me, slipping one of his legs stubbornly between my own. Even though I insisted it was a weird position. “You’re just a little funky.. remember?“

I scoffed at his recollection of the first time we ever spoke.

Jack and I may have gone through so much together, but I realized that it was easier to tackle with him, than without him.

“Maybe a lotta funky.. but I still love you.”

✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾

[babytarttdoodoo]

The team somehow find out about what Jamie’s dad did in Amsterdam and are horrified/furious.

I’m skipping ahead to write this one because it won’t leave my brain alone. I apologise to all readers for the pain this is about to inflict.

If it makes you feel better, I am not okay after writing it.

It will also be in multiple parts since I really feel like the Reveal and the Reaction are things that need separate room to breathe.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (pending)

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

It came down to the timing, really.

Every locker room Jamie had ever been in had worked its way around to this topic sooner or later. Especially in the Academy, where the typical teenaged obsession with ‘who had done it’ reigned supreme.

Jamie had never had a problem with it. He’d shrugged or laughed or lied and no one ever called him out. He was Jamie Fucking Tartt, after all.

He’d never had to breathe a word about Amsterdam.

Telling Roy had been a spur of the moment decision, and one that hadn’t really bothered him at the time. It hadn’t fundamentally altered their friendship or made Roy tiptoe around him (thank fuck).

But his reaction - Jesus. Must have been traumatising. - had played on Jamie’s mind. So much so that when his talks with Dr Sharon had broached the subject of ‘intimacy’, he thought it was probably worth bringing up.

Yeah. That conversation had gone a bit differently.

And now, here Jamie was, two days into processing his freshly unpacked trauma and his teammates were cheerfully regaling each other with stories about losing their virginity.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“It was my last night before flying out here.” Sam was telling the group, a sweet, bashful smile on his face.

“Didn’t know you’d had a girlfriend back home.” Isaac chimed in.

“We had already decided to break up, instead of doing the whole long-distance thing,” Sam explained. “It was a nice way to say goodbye, though.”

There was a general sound of agreement and Richard took the opportunity to launch into a questionable story about charming a runway model at the ripe age of 17.

Jamie just continued getting changed in silence, letting the voices wash over him and trying not to let the sudden nausea show on his face. Removing his jersey felt like a Herculean task when all he wanted to do was get the fuck out of here.

Sam’s experience sounded like something out of one of Ted’s rom-coms. That was good. That’s what someone as nice as Sam deserved.

What had Jamie deserved, then?

He quickly cut off that line of thought. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to think about it. Not here. Not now.

It was like trying to cover up an open wound when everyone else had a morbid impulse to poke at it.

A ripple of laughter pulled him back to the room and set his teeth on edge. He pulled a fresh shirt over his head and tried to breathe through the swelling, pulsating anger and shame that threatened to surface.

It was utter bullshit. He hadn’t thought about what had happened with anything more than vague disgust and detachment for years. A whole decade, even. Fuck Dr Sharon and Roy and all these giggling idiots for changing that.

“Oi, you’ve gone quiet, Jamie.”

A few curious eyes turned in his direction and the only thing that stopped him from shrinking away was years of playing at being untouchable.

Instead, Jamie scoffed and plastered on a smile, hiding his fists in his clothes and digging his nails as deep into his palms as they would go. “Eh, a gentleman never tells, mate.”

But he had hesitated a second too long and he saw the potential for mischief light up in a few faces. They knew him too well, he realised, the knowledge churning in his gut.

He wasn’t Jamie Fucking Tartt here. He was just Jamie.

“You are not a gentleman.” Richard stated bluntly, eyebrows raised and a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That is true.” Jan agreed, because of course he fucking did. “You have bragged many times about being with women.”

“What happened, amigo?” It wasn’t fucking fair that Dani sounded so genuinely interested.

“Maybe she didn’t like his pink pants.” Isaac threw in and it drew another round of laughter. The noise echoed in Jamie’s head.

He knew, he knew they were just teasing because they didn’t know better. They were being dickheads because they were always kind of dickheads to each other. It was banter. On any other day it would be fine.

His neon underwear had nearly caused a riot the week before and it had been hilarious.

Why couldn’t he just act like it was funny now?

“It’s none of your fucking business.” he finally managed, not quite keeping the harsh edge out of his tone. He turned away and pretended to be looking for something in his bag so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.

“C’mon, mate, can’t be more embarrassing than mine.” Colin added easily, utterly comfortable with the conversation, in spite of all the implications it had for him specifically. Jamie really fucking admired that.

He was ridiculously, fiercely envious of it.

“Guys, he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.” Sam admonished lightly. He was offering him a liferaft and it rankled at Jamie in all the wrong ways.

He didn’t need fucking saving. He wasn’t some soft, delicate little thing that needed Sam Obisanya of all people rushing to his rescue.

Suddenly, he was speaking without having made any conscious decision to do so.

“14.” Jamie’s voice was too loud, too sharp in this safe space that on any other day felt like home. But his fingers were clenching and unclenching, and his shoulders were coiled tight, and there was a rushing in his ears.

The vitriol pooled like acid on his tongue and Jamie couldn’t help but spew it out before it began to eat him away.

“I were 14.” He smirked and it felt wrong. It felt cruel and bitter. He rounded on Colin and relished in the flicker of unease that crossed his face. “No fucking idea how old she were but I can tell you how much my dad paid for her to fuck me straight.”

The silence should have been oppressive, he thought distantly. The way the air stilled should have made it hard to breathe. The colour leaching from not just Colin’s face, but Jan’s and Richard’s on either side, should have been concerning.

It just felt freeing, in a twisted, emptying sort of way.

“Jamie-”

“No! No, it’s alright!” Jamie turned wild eyes and a manic grin on Sam, finding it abstractly funny that the younger player took a step back. “You wanted details, right?”

He shrugged, looking around at the slack faces of his teammates. He’d moved forward, he realised, making himself the centre of attention. Typical.

“Tell you what, yeah? Next time we’re in Amsterdam, I’ll take you all on a little tour. Don’t remember her name but I’m pretty sure I could find the place again, no problem.”

And he probably could. He remembered his dad talking to some bloke smoking in a doorway while Jamie stood in the rain, confused. He remembered loud people and neon lights all around. He remembered how the place had smelled when he’d been pulled inside…

Someone else was saying his name now. He didn’t care. He just got louder.

“You wanted a show, didn’t you Thierry? We could put on a repeat performance. Play-by-play reenactment, ‘cept you’ve got to think I can do better now, right? Better with age and all that.”

Arms closed around him from behind and whatever vile shit he was about to spray out into the atmosphere died in his throat. Jamie’s entire body bucked, trying to break away.

“Fuck off!”

It didn’t sound like his voice, a screeching snarl that cracked partway through.

“Jamie.” Roy’s voice in his ear. Roy’s arms around his chest. “Jamie. Stop. Don’t make it worse.”

And what response was there to that except to laugh? Fucking hilarious, that one. Too little too fucking late.

Jamie only registered that he was being half pulled, half carried out of the locker room when the laughter started to hitch in his chest. When the air wasn’t coming like it was supposed to. When Roy manhandled him into an office chair and the tears started in earnest.

All the fight went out of him like a marionette with its strings cut and he just cried.

(TBC)