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cece693 · 15 days ago

Note

Will Graham with a hot rockstar reader? One who's on the covers of magazines with a guitar, and is on tour with the band often. Performances here and there, groupies, and the usual lifestyle of a cliche rockstar, you know? Maybe not too much, idk.

THE ROCKSTAR AND THE PROFILER

pairing: will graham x male reader

Will Graham never liked attention. You, on the other hand, were made for it. It still baffled him sometimes, seeing your face in glossy magazines beside neon text like "The Soul Behind the Strings", or catching your gravel-smoke voice in coffee shops and record stores across the country. But it wasn’t the stardom that unsettled him—it was how often people assumed you liked being adored.

They didn’t know you like he did. Didn’t know who you were before the tattoos, before the platinum records and custom guitars.

Will had met you during his undergrad years—quietly intense, with headphones perpetually slung around your neck and fingers always tapping rhythms into your jeans. You were studying music theory with half-hearted intent, more interested in playing than anything structured. Will had been...well, Will. Introspective. Brilliant. Solitary.

And you? You wormed your way into his life the same way a favorite song did—slow at first, then absolutely everywhere.

Back then, no one believed you’d ever make it. Except Will.

He used to sit in on your rehearsals, muttering critiques like he didn’t care, but always showing up anyway. He was the first person to buy your demo CD. He still had it, hidden somewhere between his dad's old belongings and fishing poles.

And, when you first kissed, it was an awakening.

Not the kind that came with fireworks or epiphanies. No. It was quieter than that. A brush of your lips against Will’s in the dim hallway of a house party, the music pounding through drywall while the two of you stood close—too close—not touching, not yet. Until you did.

You’d tasted like cheap beer and something sweet. Your breath hitched when his hand curled around the back of your neck, and you pulled back only to whisper, “God, I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

Will didn’t answer, because he didn’t know what to say. So he kissed you again.

After that, things shifted. Not drastically. You were still you—messy, loud, always humming something under your breath. And Will was still himself, more comfortable talking about music theory or murderers than admitting his feelings. But the current between you had changed. Stronger. Unspoken, but understood.

Even after graduation, when life tugged you in opposite directions—him toward the police force, you toward studios and smoky bars—you stayed in each other’s orbit.

Years passed. Careers were built. Fame arrived. And still, when things got loud, you came back to him.

CURRENT DAY (WOLF TRAP, VIRGINIA)

“Baby,” you drawled, arms stretched over your head, shirt riding up just enough to show the deep cut of your hips. “You have to let me buy you a better couch. My back’s killing me.”

Will didn’t look up from the skillet, but you saw the slight roll of his eyes—subtle, barely-there, but unmistakable in that way only someone who knew him as well as you did could catch. “I warned you it was lumpy. And I know you've slept worse. Tour buses can’t be good for your posture.”

“You warned me after I passed out on it,” you grumbled, rubbing your lower back with a grimace. You swung your legs off the couch, planting your bare feet on the hardwood, still in just his flannel and your boxers. The early evening light spilled in through the windows, casting warm orange across your legs, making your tattoos look like stained glass.

"Besides," You padded into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades. “How do you expect me to sleep comfortably when every surface is sticky from spilled beer or other questionable substances. Yours, however, is covered in dog hair and smells like black coffee.”

“Speaking of, you should head back,” Will murmured, but his body relaxed under your touch. “Your manager’s going to scream again.”

“He already did.” You buried your nose into the crook of his neck. “Didn’t listen.”

Will set the spoon down. “You never do.”

“Not true,” you said, mock-offended. “I listen to you.”

Will turned slowly in your arms, eyes narrowing. “So when I say you need to be careful with the fans—”

You kissed his frown away. Just a brush. Chaste. Sincere.

“You know I don’t let them touch me,” you said, softer now. “That’s not my scene, doll. That’s not me.”

Will held your gaze a beat too long. It lingered. Heavy. And you knew what he was seeing—headlines, rumors, tabloid shots of your bandmates tangled up with groupies outside clubs, lipstick on their throats and wrists marked with backstage pass stamps.

But you weren’t like them.

You never were.

“I come home to you,” you said firmly. “I call you. I wear your old flannel under my damn leather jacket in Los Angeles summer heat just so I feel close to you. Do you seriously think I’d throw that away for some stranger who only knows my face on a magazine?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Will pressed his forehead to yours. “I don’t like sharing,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You don’t have to.”

You left him three days later. The band was waiting. The tour wouldn’t pause just because you were tangled up in the warmth of someone who grounded you. But you slipped something into Will’s drawer before you left—one of your rings. The one you always wore on stage.

He found it the next morning, right next to his shaving kit. When he picked it up, there was a note underneath:

"You're the only one who'll ever wear this. Only you, baby."

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dollerinna · 1 day ago

Text

YOU WANNA BE ★ HIGH FOR THIS

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐅𝐓. 𝓖regory house ‪‪❤︎‬ 𝓕em! reader ‪‪❤︎‬ 𝓘ames wilson

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. house claims scotch gets people naked 83% of the time. so you, wilson, and a bottle of whiskey are about to become data points tonight ❪ wc: 4k ❫

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. threesome. unprotected p in v. spītroast. oral (m!receiving). alcohol consumption. groping. implied age gap (18+). lots of house-wilson banter. more goofy than originally planned sorry not sorry

You flopped across the couch like a ragdoll with its strings slashed, one leg hooked over House’s lap, the other dangling toward Wilson. The scotch had already wormed its way deep, a slow burn churning through your veins until your fingertips buzzed and your head floated two inches above your neck. But that was nothing compared to the heat simmering low in your stomach, or the way their twin stares pinned you down—focused, unwavering, and far too aware of the way you breathe, shift, exist, like it was their new favorite sport.

House lounged back, all loose-limbs and cocky sprawl, one hand drumming an erratic beat on the armrest while the other cradled his glass. That trademark mask of couldn’t-give-a-damn sat firm—until you hit his eyes. Those icy blues cut through the alcoholic fog like a surgeon’s scalpel, hungry and coiled, a wolf sizing up its next meal.

“Fun fact,” he began, voice laden with the gravel of too much whiskey and just enough temptation. “Scotch has an eighty-three percent success rate at convincing people their clothes are optional.” He took a slow sip, letting the words marinate before adding, “The other seventeen percent? Already naked and thanking me later.”

You groaned, because of course you did, but still—your lips curled around the bait. “And this scientific study was conducted when, exactly?” Your foot nudged Wilson’s knee, a playful prod to see if he’d back you up

He lifted his glass to the light, swirling the amber liquid with mock academic flair. “Right around the time peat smoke was proven to whisper dirty things in your ear,” He paused. Then, in the worst Scottish accent you’d ever heard—“Och, lassie, off wi’ yer knickers.”

It was part-Scotsman, part-drunk pirate, part… stroke patient.

Wilson, who had thus far maintained the dignified restraint of a man ignoring the fact that your legs were essentially draped across his thigh, promptly choked on his drink. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, struggling to suppress a chuckle.

“That was less Braveheart,” he said between coughs, “and more brain hemorrhage.”

You burst out laughing.

House squinted, looking personally offended. “You think I sound weak? Offensive. That was a mighty Scotsman. A kilted god among men.”

“Mighty,” Wilson deadpanned, nodding with mock gravitas. “Mighty enough to trip over his own tongue and fall crotch-first into a caber.”

He shifted closer to you, casual as anything, chestnut eyes catching the light as they crinkled with an un-Wilson looseness that only showed up three drinks in. “Oh and by ‘whispering’, what House really means is ‘yelling like a drunk rugby fan with a megaphone and unresolved trauma,’” he teased with a laugh. The kind of laugh sober Wilson might’ve swallowed back with a polite cough and a change of subject. “Subtlety is not in his DNA- shocker, I know.”

You snorted into your glass. “That’s generous. I’d go with ‘public disturbance.’”

House raised his glass in mock salute. “Guilty. Though I prefer ‘force of nature’ to ‘traumatized rugby fan.’ Has a little more sex appeal.”

“Only to people with a head injury,” Wilson muttered under his breath.

“You say that like it’s a dealbreaker.”

House’s smirk kicked up a notch as he glanced back to you, head cocked. “Besides, subtlety’s for cowards. And the whole ‘sprawled-out goddess’ look you’ve got going? Wasted on ambiguity.”

Wilson scooted closer again, knee bumping yours. His hand grazed your leg. Not a grab, a mere fleeting touch. “Ignore him,” he said softly, but his tone didn’t quite match his composed veneer, a detail that didn’t escape your notice. “He’s got all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but he’s not wrong.” He paused, and he was close enough that you caught the faint cedar of his cologne and something else you couldn’t name but wanted to bottle. “You’re beautiful like this. Relaxed. Open.”

House didn’t even try to disguise his scoff, tipping his glass your way. “Open? She’s a neon sign screaming ‘ravish me.’ Don’t let Wilson’s choirboy act fool you- he’s already mentally cataloguing where to bite first.”

Wilson, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Just fixed House the kind of glare that said shut your trap in a gazillion different languages. He turned his attention back to you, laced with that careful warmth only he could manage. “He’s an ass. But… yeah. You’re making it real hard to behave.”

A giggle bubbled up from your chest, part-impish, part-menace. “God, you two,” you sighed, flopping back dramatically. “I can’t decide if I’m being seduced or prepped for a veeeery horny team-building exercise.”

“You knew what this was,” House said dryly.

“And you still showed up on time anyways.” Wilson added, less helpfully.

You stretched slowly, catlike, making a show of it just to watch both of them zeroed in as if they’d forgotten how to blink. “If I did want to strip,” you mused, syrupy-sweet. “I’d do it right. Spotlights. Music. Probably glitter.”

“Dear god,” Wilson mumbled, half in prayer.

“But…” you twirled the rim of your glass between your fingers, “I’d need a reason first, wouldn’t I?”You cocked a brow, eyes glittering as they bounced between the two doctors.

You weren’t subtle either.

You didn’t need to be.

House didn’t wait for permission. Of course he didn’t.

Subtlety required restraint, and restraint had been surgically removed from him years ago.

His palm slid beneath your skirt before Wilson could even think of filling the silence, cupping the curve of your ass with a lazy kind of ownership, one that screamed he’d done it a hundred times before and had yet to be reprimanded for it. The touch was almost dismissive… if not for the rough grope that followed, eliciting a small hitch from you. His thumb dragged invisible patterns against your flesh, each one a question: How far would you let this go?

Far enough. He knew that.

Eyes widening, Wilson caught the movement instantly, as if House’s hand might suddenly become a medical emergency. His mouth opened on might’ve been some half-assed moral objection, the kind that would make him feel like a better person for all of five seconds. Though it was short-lived, short circuiting somewhere between his brain and spine (and his hard-on). His hand joined the fray, settling higher up your thigh, skin leaving a line of heat through the flimsy barrier of your skirt.

You squirmed. Just a little. Not a word of protest on your tongue.

“Funny,” House tilted his head, brows knitting together in exaggerated thought. "You said you needed a reason, and now you’re practically writing me one in cursive on your thigh. Either I’m very persuasive, or you’re a liar.”

His blue eyes trailed down your body. “I’m voting liar.”

You huffed out a laugh, more breath than sound. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But you didn’t move. Not away, at least.

“Maybe I’m bored.”

House’s grin sharpened. “And this is your idea of entertainment? Letting two men twice your age feel you up like it’s amateur hour at a strip club?”

Wilson’s lips pursed into a sulky pout, grumbling inaudibly. “…Well first of all- I’m not twice her age. I’m only thirty-nine.”

House shot him with a flat look. “Wilson, please. You’ve been thirty-nine since the Bush administration.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but didn’t say a thing.

You swallowed, heat coiling deep. “Ooooor I’m just curious,” you offered, barely above a whisper. “Wondering how far you’ll go before one of you chickens out.”

House barked a cackle, full and unrepentant. “Don’t worry, I only stop until someone’s pushing up daisies.”

And just like that, Wilson’s hand moved again—with purpose now, challenged by your words, by House’s audacity, by the noiseless thrum that had weaved its way through all three of you. His fingers ghosted higher, brushing the edge of your panties—already moist, and not from nerves.

House surveyed with sharp-eyed approval, glass forgotten on the table. “That’s more like it,” a satisfied hum underscored his words. “Though let’s not pretend you wouldn’t look better on your knees.”

You turned toward him, a staccato thump seizing your heart. He wasn’t smirking anymore—just watching you, intense and unblinking, probably replaying every filthy possibility in his head.

He sat up, rising and squaring his shoulders with a lazy grace that verged on smug. “How about this,” he started, the lilt of his tone as causal as ordering coffee. “You get on your knees. I enjoy the show. And Wilson gets to lie to himself about being the one you really wanted. Fair trade, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of fair?”

“I’m the smoke and mirrors. Wilson’s the mop and bucket. Try to keep up.”

Behind you, Wilson let out a choked laugh. “Jesus, House—”

“Wrong deity,” House cut in. “But keep calling out names if it helps.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already on the button of his jeans, fingers skittering with greedy impulse. House didn’t lift a finger to help. He simply leaned back, legs spread as an unspoken invitation to draw you nearer, observing with open appreciation as you worked.

“Atta girl,” he husked, tone dropping to a low and sandpapery timbre.

When you freed him, you saw it—already thickening fast in your palm, bleeding with heat that you swore had a pulse of its own, the weight of it settling heavy over your digits. Not massive, no, but enough to fuck you up, with that slight upward curve that practically begged to bully the back of your throat in all the right ways and a tip that blushed a deeper shade of red with every second you lingered. Deceptively pretty, almost rude in how it owned the space between his thighs. A grower, definitely. But now? Very much grown.

Wilson’s warm, steady hands curved around your waist. His touch didn’t push—it guided—subtle pressure coaxing you forward, down, into position. The leather of the couch creaked softly beneath you as you sank to your knees between House’s legs, the sound nearly eclipsed by the rabbit-quick beat of your heart.

He crowded in from behind, his slacks doing little to dull the throbbing, insistent press of his erection against the dip of your back. He rocked against you once, unrushed yet teeming with exhilaration, partially terrified that if it felt this good with clothes on, actually being inside you might just ruin him for life.

But then he stilled.

“You sure?” his breath stirred the fine hairs at your nape, barely audible over the blood in your ears.

You nodded. That was all he needed.

Hiking your skirt up with a breathless little scoot, Wilson peeled your panties down as gentlemanly as he could in such a scenario, the damp cotton catching briefly on the soft give of your thighs before pooling where your knees bit into the cushions. His fingers followed instantly—kneading the plush swell of your ass, spreading you wide until your wet folds parted like ripened fruit split under thumb.

Exposed, your cunt fluttered uselessly in empty space, spasming in a mindless pulse that wafted a hot, narcotic wave of scent. Your arousal clung in the air, intoxicatingly so, punching the sanity clean out of Wilson’s skull. He exhaled so sharply it rattled his chest, pupils blown, every last coherent thought fragmenting into a haze of pussy-induced delirium.

“O-Oh wow,” he blurted, hoarse and awestruck. “You are… soaked.”

Amusement flickered across House’s features, his thumb skimming the arc of your cheekbone as your mouth hovered mere inches over the swollen head of his dick. The tickle of your breath drew a feral little tremor from it, precum coating him in a viciously glossy sheen. “Told you,” he said. “She’s been dripping since I made that Scotsman joke.”

You huffed in disbelief, smirking despite the ways your thighs were trembling. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Emboldened, you bent forward and sealed your lips around his fat tip, your tongue teasing delicate kitten licks over the slit—solely to feel him shiver beneath you. Flicking, swirling, savoring the way you wrung hushed, reluctant moans out of him with every pass, you worked with surgical precision.

However, he tasted… well, not exactly gourmet. Bitter, briny, drenched in that unmistakable aftershock of something indecently male, enough to wrinkle your nose on reflex. But you were too shitfaced to give a fuck. If anything, the mess of it egged you on. You ventured on inch by inch, halfway down a single sweep as he fed easy into your mouth, while fists squeezed and twisted at his veiny base in rhythmic circles.

Air whistled harshly through House’s clenched teeth, chest lurching, his hand flexing in restraint at his thigh as he battled the almighty urge to grip your hair and slam you down until your nose was buried in his wiry curls. But he didn’t. Yet.

Behind you, Wilson gave in. You heard it in the clatter of his belt hitting the floor, the hiss of his zipper yanked down too fast to care, the rustle of fabric shoved aside with the grace of a man losing the fight to keep his hands off you.

Then: heat. The soft planes of his body blanketing you, his member nudging your entrance with shameless intent—a tad bit stubbier than House’s (if we’re being petty about it-) but girthy enough to stretch, to quell that blistering ache in your womb in a toe-curling way. He dragged himself through the weeping slit of your vulva, cockhead gliding right over your puffy clit, before lining up and sheathing in you with a stroke so bone-deep, it scrambled your mind into a buffering screen and left your mouth full of static.

A garbled gasp bursted from your lungs and vibrated around House’s cock, spine bowing as you struggled to adjust to the intrusion, momentarily unsure whether to take it or tap the hell out. House jerked, faltering in a sudden unsteady surge, a low bitten off curse slurring out of him.

“Ngh!-… mm… you feel unreal,” Wilson whimpered into your shoulder, quiet desperation creeping up the edges of his voice. “remind me t-to write you a…. Hah… thank-you note after this—formal stationery, maybe a wax seal.”

“Uh-huh…” you answered absentmindedly, too far gone to process his incessant babbling. You were busy trying to survive the way he and House were pummeling your insides from both ends, your body caught in the relentless piston-esque snap and grind that haven’t even hit its stride yet.

Wilson’s hands, once so measured and clinical, were now splayed across your ribcage hard enough to brand you with his fingerprints, knuckles blanching as if he’d been edging himself for hours instead of minutes. He buried himself to the hilt with a gluttonous shove, cock lodged deep that the blunt crest of him prodded nerves you didn’t know had a name. When he retracted his hips, only the tip remained, nestled in your drooling hole. He paused to take a glimpse, unable to help himself—transfixed by how your juices clung to him in translucent webs, adorning his shaft like lacquered silk.

He gulped, crimson crawling up his neck as the sheer volume of it hit him: how fast he (and house) reduced you to such a state.

He snapped forward, pelvis colliding with your tail bone, picking up a pace with a foggy, half-drunk determination—sluggish at first, all clumsy momentum and no finesse, each thrust a feverish motion that rocked you onward in staggered bursts. Your lids drooped, the room careening at the corners of your vision in loops. Nerves alight. Blood whirring. Your senses awash in a whiskey blur and the spectral, shivery fog of it all.

You swallowed around House further, allowing yourself to slump into the metronomic rhythm they built between your holes—blitzed on cock, alcohol, and the brain-dead high of being used just right. Every sturdy push and pull from Wilson drove you farther down, until House’s dick was battering the roof of your mouth, the squishy crown ramming the very back of your soft palate nonstop.

Your mewls resonated along House’s length, drawn out and giddy, the pitch climbing each time Wilson bottomed out. It was pure pornstar-grade debauchery: spit dribbling unchecked down your chin, your sweaty body rocking like a buoy in a storm, anchored only by the cocks working you from front to back.

“Agh—-ah… Fuck… don’t you dare stop. Keep going,” the swear fled House on an airless murmur, pleasure unspooling at the seams of his composure. His jaw clamped shut as your tongue skimmed the underside of his dick, tracing near a particularly sensitive vein before delving lower to lick a filthy stripe onto his testicles, suckling one of them until it slipped free with a lewd pop.

“…Even if you are slobbering like a saint bernard.” He snickered, glassy eyes glazing over your disheveled moving form.

Glowering up at him, you whined a sharp, wounded noise around him, partly from offense, mostly from being too cock-dumb to coordinate a middle finger without choking.

He grinned, all mean affection. “There it is. My favorite sound.”

Meanwhile, Wilson had narrowed his focus to a single, frantic mission: making the absolute most of tonight. He undulated his hips to the tempo of his rapid heaving, jackhammering into your tender g-spot with a kind of dumb, reverent devotion—not so much to you, but to your pussy, which he might never get the honor of visiting again. He was so lost in the moment that a sound tore up from the well in his chest—raw, croaky, and almost humiliating in its sincerity.

He sank deep with a stuttering grind, balls snug against you, and just froze there—as if he was internally bargaining with himself not to bust already.

“Oh my god—-” he wheezed, still unable to believe his dick had landed him here. “She’s—she’s milking me to death!… I almost saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Then, quieter and borderline-delirious: “I think I’m being spiritually harvested…”

You blinked once. Mildly confused. Though kept going.

And House, who had been casually tugging the loose collar of your shirt down to spill your perky tits free, made a noise like a judge scoffing from the bench. “You know, I once had a hooker ask if she could write me off on her taxes. That was less depressing than what just came out of your mouth.”

Wilson gave a ragged laugh, breath catching. “You think she’ll still be able to stand after this?”

“I’m hoping not,” House replied, dragging his thumb along your moist bottom lip as you pulled back, gasping for air. “Dead weight’s hotter when it’s earned.”

You dove right back in, rear jolting backward vigorously, chasing the molten pressure crushing low within the depths of your loins. Your hamstrings had long since liquified, but that didn’t stop you—it couldn’t. One couldn’t say the same for Wilson, who was clearly struggling to rein himself in, and you, ever the conniving brat, clenched down on him the second he tried to pull free. The embrace of your spongy muscles held him hostage, walls all suffocating squish and suction, amplifying the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, a soundtrack so shameless it bordered on illicit just hearing it.

Teetering over the edge, Wilson shut his eyes, clinging to his dwindling resolve behind pinched lids. His hands fumbled blindly up your writhing torso, pawing your breasts with the panicked fervor of a man gripping twin stress balls—palms clutching, fingers knotting, in need to ground himself in the middle of an absolute neurological wipeout.

Calm down, Wilson.

Pace your breathing.

Think about baseball. Or the mountain of charts waiting on your desk. Or—no. That made it worse-

He tried to mentally wrest back focus—the kind he’d rely on mid-panic in an oncology consult, except he’s now balls-deep in a threesome he still wasn’t entirely convinced was real.

Just… focus. If you can tie a suture in a chest cavity, then you can last another minute without losing your goddamn mind.

Don’t screw it up like some—god, some overeager pre-med who’s never seen a real breast before!

House picked up his forgotten glass and took a long, unnecessarily noisy sip—sluuuurp—purely to make sure Wilson knew he was being scrutinized. He leaned back with a shit-eating grin, eyes flicking to Wilson like he was watching a nature documentary: ‘Man Losing Grip in Real Time.’

“I—dammit—think I’m going to…” Wilson grit out, strained and unsteady, as if the admission cost him. His hips quivered, a clumsy twitch that made you arch slightly, pressing back into him as if to say—keep your shit together or else!!

“What, blow your Hippocratic Oath all over the place?” House interjected, likely been waiting to use that line all night. He looked downright gleeful. “God, Wilson. At least try to last long enough for her to gag on it.”

“You’re not even doing anything!” Wilson snapped, grappling to preserve his dignity as your cunt clasped around him like a vice.

“I’m coaching. Like any great man in history.”

Wilson grunted, jaw slackened and too blissed out to argue. His balls tightened, cock pulsating while his thrusts into you grew shallow and sloppy. The world funneled into a brilliant flare—white-hot and crackling—pinpricks of stars jittered behind his eyes, ready to detonate. The tide surged, and he barely managed to yank out in time, his climax overtaking him as white ribbons violently painted your back.

The feeling of him spurting onto you tipped you headfirst into your own high, a muffled moan escaping as the coil in your belly unraveled, erupting trails of goosebumps over your skin.

He collapsed onto you, forehead thunking against your shoulder blade, sweat-matted wisps of his once-neatly styled hair sticking to his temple. His arms went boneless to his sides as he tried to remember how lungs worked.

House let out a breathy chuckle—not quite kind, but not entirely cruel—his hand lazily cradling the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair like he was petting a pup that did a trick. “Aw. Look at him. Poor thing’s gonna need a juice box and a nap.”

Wilson groaned, not bothering to lift his head. “Screw you.”

House saw how you were still obediently taking him to the root like you hadn’t just been railed senseless. He Idly massaged your scalp as you bobbed your head—a sign of affection, maybe. Or he simply needed something to fidget with while getting head.

“Don’t mind Sleeping Beauty here,” he drawled, his voice thinning as his hips gave a roll against your tongue. “He always finishes the race before the rest of us even put on our running shoes.”

Wilson exhaled a weary huff, cheek still mashed against your back. “Big words from someone who’s spent this entire ordeal horizontal.”

“Delegation of labor,” His tone tightened as the treatment subjected to your poor mouth grew rougher. “Besides- someone’s gotta counterbalance the limp. Be a shame if I went toppling over like bambi on ice.”

Wilson snorted, laughter tangled in a cough. “Right… tragedy of the century. They’d write eulogies.”

House ignored him, his attention locked on you, and the fact he was on the brink of losing control.

One hand clawed into the backrest for leverage, the other cinching your hair with a force shy of brutal. The flow of his thrusts splintered, erratic and uneven, each movement punctuated by wrecked sounds he didn’t bother to bite back. “Look at you,” he panted. “Didn’t even flinch. Even after lover boy back there nearly folded you in half. And you’re still taking me so well…”

He hovered right above his seat, limbs taut, breath sawing between his teeth. He trapped your skull in place, fucking your face with abandon as his cock drilled mercilessly into the confines of your throat. You were stretched to your limit, tears needling at your waterline as you blinked up at him, doe-eyed and so ruinously eager.

He choked on a noise that was a blend of groan and laugh. “Agh-… overachiever...” his head lolled back over shoulder, the last word dissolving into a strangled sound. With a final, forceful pump, he held you close and spilled his seed inside you. You steadied, gullet flexing around the gooey burn of it, swallowing him in practiced pulls while he trembled through the comedown.

House eased you off him with surprising gentleness before sagging back into the sofa. His gaze flickered down to yours again, bleary but bright with the afterglow of post-orgasm satisfaction. “See?” He managed between shallow puffs. “Eighty-three percent success rate. Science bows to me.”

You face-planted into a throw pillow, voice muffled but laced with reluctant amusement. “…Worst… study… ever.”

House gave your bare asscheek a light, celebratory smack, earning a pitiful whine from you.

“Oh come on,” he drawled. “That was a landmark trial. Peer-reviewed by the neighbors.”

From the other end of the couch, Wilson groaned, one arm slung over his eyes like he was warding off the world. “Don’t even start. I think I pulled something.”

“You pulled out. That’s the part I’ll never forgive.”

pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

🏷️ : @do-double-g @igalol @crimin4llyins4ne @yourgirlcarol @corrosive-agent @ceces-pizza @kitkat272 @shemsworth01 @wildgirllz @metalsbites @crashoutqueenie @svp625 @discombobulateddisco007 @jiqsaww @cyacola @crikeyitschase @mychemstat @emotionallybruisedx @catharticdesire @slut4jlgibbs @ikissm1kasa @d1sgr4c3ful

A/N : I tried to tag everyone who commented for this fic! sorry if some of u guys are over it tho as it’s been months. feel free ignore if so. and ye I’m finally back blah blah, yall know the drill, but this time I was dealing with some personal stuff 🫠

oh and I’ll get to answering some asks in the next couple of days!! missed u guys 💗

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artfight · 1 year ago

Note

so, for the team cards, what would fall under each category? I know human is obviously humans, anthro is obviously anthropomorphic creatures and feral is non-anthro animals, but what about monster, worm and mech?

(if I may suggest, I think it may be a good idea to put explanations for each term in faq)

Humanoid: An oc that is or resembles a human.

Anthro: An oc that stands on two legs like a human but have animal features like an animal head.

Feral: An oc that is an animal

Monster: An oc that is a beast or being that doesn't fall under the other categories.

Worm: An oc that is a worm on a string.

Mech: An oc design with mechanical parts.

#Art Fight #Artfight #Artfight2024 #Artfight 2024 #Inbox #Characters

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tj-crochets · 8 months ago

Text

Thanks! My phone really doesn’t like to photograph this fabric and would only get the color even sort of close if I put my hand in the picture, but here are the fabrics I am thinking for the worm!

I was originally going to use the regular minky for the nose part but looking at it I think I’ll go all faux fur for maximum fuzziness

Hey someone please remind me tomorrow: worm on a string but giant

#sometimes you just gotta make a giant worm #my grandma hated the earthworms I made and said I should have made them fuzzy. and with legs. so caterpillars #I don’t think she’s going to like this worm off a string better lol #(I don’t mind when my grandma dislikes things I make #I think it’s funny)

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lieslab · 5 months ago

Text

Go fish

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Minho X gn reader

Summary: You decide to go on a fishing trip with your boyfriend, not realizing that it means you have to actually fish.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: Which member of management do I have to fight to let Minho make a fishing video? Let him show us his skills. I haven't forgotten that he's wanted to make one for a while now. Until it happens, I imagine it'd go something like this if you were there and hated fishing.

_ _ _

“This is the worst day of my life,” you mumbled beneath your breath.

Across from you, Minho looked over with an unamused frown. “Hey, I heard that. I don’t know what you’re talking about. This morning, you were so excited to come with me on this trip. I told you what we’d be doing, but you were all like ‘no, I want to go! It’ll be so much fun!’” He kicked his leg up and waved his hands around to mock you.

“Don’t belittle me. That was before I found out you were going to use actual worms. That’s disgusting.”

His dark eyes squinted. “How else do you plan on catching fish? Have you been watching too much American TV? Are we going to go fishing with our bare hands?”

“I thought you were using rubber ones!”

“The correct term is fishing lures.”

With a huff, you silently pouted beside him. High on his own amusement, he popped the plastic lid off the worms he purchased twenty minutes ago. His solo fishing trip turned into a duo trip. Never in a million years did he think you’d join him for something like this, but here you were beside him.

Your nose scrunched up in disgust. The pink-noodle worm squirmed along his fingers. Bits of damp dirt clung to its naked body. With the lid off the container, the wet mildew smell floated your way. You pinched your nose and turned around. “How can fish eat that? It stinks.”

“For the same reason you like blue cheese, you think it tastes good.”

You shot him another glare. He grinned, held out the worm in your direction, and let it dangle. “So do you think you can bait your own pole or should I do it?”

“You do it. I don’t want to be responsible for causing the worm pain. It’s going to give me nightmares.”

“It’s a worm.”

“And hooking the worm is going to hurt it. Don’t you have ear piercings? You know what it feels like to be pricked with a needle. It hurts.”

He sighed, attached the worm on the string, and casted the string out into the murky water. “You know how a bobber works, right? You know how to reel in a fish slowly and then-”

“Okay, just because I didn’t want to put the worm on the hook, it doesn’t make me stupid.” You grabbed the pole from him, headed towards the edge of the bank, and focused on the white and red bobber.

“You’re going to be in a world of trouble when I pull out the fileting knife.”

“I’m going to filet you.”

“Tough talk from the person who couldn’t put a worm on a hook.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and took your attention back to the bobber. Your feet dug in the oversized grass and you stayed quiet. Behind you, Minho began to set up a new fishing pole for himself. Attached with a worm and a hook, he set up a few feet away from you and threw out his own line.

For months, he spent so long talking about how eager he had been to go fishing. When the cold cleared up and the sun began to warm South Korea, he planned a fishing trip. He never planned for you to tag along, but you insisted.

He didn’t find your presence annoying, but rather amusing. For as long as he dated you, you were a little more sensitive. Your ideal free time wasn’t spent fishing, but rather hanging out with your friends or watching Netflix. He started to pack up when you asked if you could join him, but he agreed instantly.

He learned how to fish years ago. Childhood was full of his parents, family friends, and his own friends trying to see who could catch the largest fish. Bets were made. Recipes changed over time. The wholesomeness and memories created, they were irreplaceable.

Something about taking the time out of your day, catching the food, preparing it, and consuming it; it made everything extra special. The taste of fresh fish, not everyone could recreate that flavor. The extra work made it all worth it.

“It’s moving! I caught something! I caught something!”

Your voice broke him from his own bobber. He glanced over and, sure enough, your bobber slowly moved towards the bank. With each rotation of the handle, you tugged it closer and closer. Water splashed, a yellow webbed tail smacked the water, and disappeared beneath the surface again.

He dropped his pole and hurried over to you. “Do you have it?”

“Yeah, but whatever it is, it’s huge. I can feel the weight on the end of the line.” You continued to slowly bring it in. When it jerked and the bobber tugged, Minho leaned over to assist you.

After a few moments, the tip of a face popped out from the surface. Beady rotten eyes caught yours. A mouth opened and shut. Sunlight reflected off the glimmering scales.

“No fucking way,” he mumbled.

“What? What is it?”

“Hang onto it, I’m going to get the net!” He spun around and hurried back to his car. A metal hoop laced with a black net and a long handle.

You gagged when the fish splashed water. Water splashed over your legs, soaked your shoes, and seeped into your socks. You grumbled, feeling disgusting, but kept your hold on the handle.

Minho rushed back, trailing through the grass. The netting disappeared through the water, tucked beneath the murky surface, he clung to whatever you caught, and yanked it up. His eyes widened when he brought the fish to the surface. “Oh my god.”

“Why is it that size? Are fish supposed to be that big? Is that normal? Is it sick?”

The seriousness of the moment chipped away with your concern. His infectious laughter filled the air. “You c-caught-” He burst into another round of laughter.

“It’s not funny!” You cried out. “Why is he that big? Minho, he’s like a fucking giant! Is it normal?”

He nearly dropped the net back into the water. Sniffling, he wiped at one of his eyes. “This is what we call a Common Carp. I don’t know how you managed to catch one this size. It’s got to be over ten pounds, at least.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It means that we don’t have to spend hours searching for dinner.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped. “We’re going to eat him?”

“It’s a fish. You don’t know the sex, but yes. We’re going to eat this fish. Do you think I came out to catch fish for fun? If I’m going to put a hook through the mouth, I’m going to consume a fish or two.”

You grumbled and groaned. Like a lost puppy, you followed Minho back up the bank. The mildew colored fish’s mouth opened and shut, trying to gain air. The moment Minho put the net on the ground, it flopped out.

“No!” He cried out and reached for it. The wiggling fish managed to avoid his grasp. Squirming and flopping back in the direction of the water, you dropped down in front of it on your knees.

A wet tail slapped a small section of your bare ankle. You gagged, but didn’t pull away. Instead, you stretched out with two hands, dived forward, and pinned the slimy creature to the ground. Fish slime hit your tongue and you nearly lost your lunch. Thankfully, Minho dived forward and took over from there.

Once he removed the hook, he grabbed the lower jaw and placed it in a large blue bucket of water. And you? Well, you lost it. You gagged and fought against the urge to vomit. Your hands splashed the murky water repeatedly. The scent of wet fish clung to your skin.

“Are you okay?” Minho called after you.

“I’m fucking dying. He touched me with his germs! I’m going to have-” You gagged again and spit. You vigorously rubbed your hands against the springy-green grass. “Ew, gross! I can still feel the scaly skin!”

“You big baby. How are you going to learn to filet a fish, if you can’t handle catching one?”

“Don’t make me do that. I don’t want to watch! I’m going to-” Another one of your loud gags tipped Minho over the edge. He burst into another fit of laughter and collapsed to his knees.

“Hey! It’s not-” Another gagging sound brought tears to his eyes. He tried to stop, but you looked so distressed. Fishing had always been normal to him, but you acted like you touched bio-medical waste. Your reaction was so dramatic, he couldn’t help it.

“Stop laughing at me!”

“Stop g-gagging!” He shot back, breathlessly. He sucked in a deep breath and tipped his head towards the ground. “I think I’m going to pee myself from laughing so hard.”

“You’re not helping!”

It took a while for the two of you to contain your composure. He rose back to his feet, grabbed his pole, and started to try to catch another fish. Minutes ticked by, but the water remained still. Not daring to touch your pole again, you walked back to the bucket the carp was in.

“I’m sorry I caught you.” You plopped down beside him. “Soon, you’ll be in my stomach and I apologize for that. I was trying to do what was best. I didn’t realize we were going to eat you. If I would have known, I wouldn’t have stuck a pole in the water, Mr. Fish. “

“Stop talking to the fish,” Minho called over his shoulder. “It can’t hear you. Fish don’t speak English.”

“Tough talk for the guy who barely speaks English himself.”

You didn’t know what he said in Japanese, but you could only assume they were strings of swear words. You sighed, turned back to the bucket, and leaned closer. “I’m really sorry about all this. Soon your suffering will end and-”

Splash!

Minho glanced back over his shoulder to see you frantically wiping at your face. “You stupid fucking fish! Screw being nice! I’m going to eat you with zero remorse!”

Minho blinked, taken back by your sudden change to demeanor. “What did you-”

“He splashed me!” You grabbed the edge of your shirt and wiped it over your face. “I’m going to get pink eye or something!”

He sighed, tipped his head back, and rolled his eyes to the sky. Maybe this would be the first and only time the two of you went on a fishing trip together. Fishing obviously wasn’t your forte.

After your fight with the fish, and no luck catching another, Minho packed up the pole to go home. You sat in the passenger’s seat with your arms crossed. The bright blue bucket held steadily between your legs. The oversized fish rocked with the sloshing water.

Silence sat between you and Minho. In his head, he focused on recipes he could make with fresh fish. You avoided looking into the bucket, until you gave up. You sighed and glanced down at the fish.

“I’m sorry that I said I’d happily eat you. I didn’t mean it. The words came out in the spur of the moment. I grew angry at you because I don’t like fish germs.”

Only the sound of sloshing water greeted you. You looked further down and your face softened. Beneath the murky water, beady dark eyes met yours. Your heart ached at the idea of being pulled from your home and being forced into such a confined small space. Like being trapped in the jail cell, the fish did nothing to deserve it.

“Minho?”

“Huh?”

“How are you going to kill him?”

“As humanely as possible. Just because I’m going to filet him, it doesn’t mean I have a black heart. I’m going to show what compassion I can. Just because we’re larger beings and above fish in the food chain, it doesn’t mean I want the fish to die in a tragic way.”

“I don’t want to watch.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m going to name him Minnow.”

“That’s a carp, not a-”

“Minnow. Short for Mini Lee Know.” You glanced over innocently and smiled. “Because just like him, you’re a pain in my ass too, sometimes.”

“You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You’re on fish cooking duty.”

“As long as you promise to do the filleting and cleaning, I have no problem doing that.”

“Wanna scale him?”

“Over my dead body will I ever touch another disgusting, slimy, wet, smelly fish ever again, bucko.”

And from that point on, you kept your word; never again.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #lee know #lee minho #lee know fanfic #lee know fluff #lee know x reader #lee know x you #lee know x y/n

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loveshotzz · 2 years ago

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My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Melt With You

summary: A cancelled movie night, Steve’s first high, and a realization you weren’t expecting.

wc: 2.7k

warnings: my blog is 18+ but this will be pretty safe for work. takes place in 1988 when Elvira Mistress of the Dark came out. post season four but no mention of the upside down, fem!reader, mentions of weed smoking, mentions of being stoned and being high for the first time, mutual pining, cuddling.

A/N: first I want to dedicate this to @bewilderedbunny for pointing out that Steve Harrington is Bob coded which made me fall even more in love with him. You can also thank @dr-aculaaa for putting this brain worm in my head where it spiraled and then she entertained it again and it spiraled some more. p.s. I know her movie macabre was cancelled in 86 but brought back in the 90’s but let’s pretend.

mini series masterlist -> chapter two 🎃

Steve was close. Too close.

His thigh is warm pressed against yours, long legs spread wide taking up most of the room on the couch. The cedar that clings to the threads of his maroon sweater mix with the old spice that he’s almost sprayed too much of, and you’re surprised at how much you actually like it. You blame it on the joint you both shared, and you do it again when his socked foot touches yours from under the blanket draped across your laps and your heart rate kicks up a few beats. This was just Steve, your new friend. Eddie’s new unlikely friend.

The living room in your apartment is dimly lit in a mess of Halloween colored string lights strung up along your walls that Eddie helped you hang up last week on the first official day of fall. They fill the small space in bursts of warm orange pumpkins and tiny purple bats while Elvira Mistress of The Dark glows from the screen of your TV in front of your couch. The couch where Steve is still sitting too close.

The flicker of your candles dances across your walls and you’re tempted to blow them all out when they keep catching the corner of your eye. Maybe that's why you can't focus on the movie you were so excited about. The movie you raised a big fuss over when the group canceled your weekly night in favor of dates and work. The movie Steve still offered to watch with you saying he had no plans anyway. You really contemplate it when you realize it’s filling your living room with the kind of smell that’s eerily similar to the one embedded in the leather of the BMW you recently started getting more rides in.

When Steve laughs you can smell the berry on his breath from the Red Vines he can’t stop eating, his fingertips glisten from the half finished tub of popcorn on the coffee table. His arm brushes the length of yours when he leans forward to toss the almost empty pack of candy with the rest of the snacks and your stare immediately finds the sliver of tan skin revealed to you when the maroon hem rides up. Stomach flipping when you spot more freckles than the ones that seem to dot the endless expanses of his perpetually sun kissed skin.

“Wow, she’s funny!” He snickers like he just got a good surprise, leaning back into the cushions. “I didn’t know she was so funny.”

The shift in his weight makes the couch dip, bringing you closer to him. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Why is your chest tight?

Turning your head, you meet his blood shot, heavy lidded gaze and lazy smile that pushes up his pink cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve Harrington so content. So relaxed. It might have something to do with the fact that the joint you both shared was his first.

“Beauty, humor and brains? How could you go wrong?” You grin and it makes the amber in his eyes light up.

“Yeah,” He stares at you for a second longer than he’d have the guts to on a normal day before adding with a sigh “tell me about it.”

There was something different about the way he was looking at you tonight, and it makes your palms sweat. The fly away honey strands that stick out wildly by his ears look softer than normal too. Why do you want to find out? Clearing your throat, he raises his eyebrows up at you in an unphased offering of his attention.

“How are you doing big boy? You coughed quite a bit earlier.” His gaze narrows at the nickname letting you know that Steve was still very much in there.

“I think it’s perfectly normal for someone who hasn’t smoked before to cough when they take an accidental big hit,” he challenges, his sock covered toes finding yours again seemingly on their own, “and to answer your rudely asked question, I’m having a very nice time.”

He tries to keep his face straight but the smile that stretches a mile wide across yours makes him snort, the whites of his perfect teeth blinding in the dark when you wiggle your feet with his.

“Good, I wouldn’t want Robin to come hunt me down or something.” You giggle leaning back letting your own high relax you into the couch.

Your eyes find Elvira’s generous cleavage on the screen as you try to ignore the feeling of Steve’s hand touching yours when he scratches his thigh and again when he leaves it there.

“Robin won’t care, it’s Nance you gotta worry about. Worry wart Wheeler.” The nickname rolls off his tongue too easily and makes you both stop, letting the sounds of the towns committee trying to get Elvira out fill the silence before you both fall into a fit of laughter.

It was the kind of laughter that left hot tears streaming down your faces as you leaned even further into each other trying to catch your breath, only for one of you to mutter ‘worry wart wheeler’ when the other would finally be holding it together just to start all over again. By the time it was done, and the last few chuckles subsided, his head had found a new home on your shoulder with his forehead buried in the crook of your neck.

The smell of his hairspray, and the soft flyaways you’d wondered about tickle your nose with his hair pressed to your cheek. Your socked feet stay tangled together as you try not to think about the size difference and that stupid saying you’d heard in middle school, and you definitely try not to think about how the tip of his pinky bumps into the side of your hand and how you don’t hesitate to hook it with yours.

Cozy. Too Cozy.

There’s a comfortable silence that falls between you both when your attention is finally brought back to the movie and you wonder if he’s having the same existential crisis as you at how good this feels. Eddie would never let you live it down. You and the hair?! Steve’s amused hum breaks you out of your train of thought and you already know you’ll have to watch this again when you aren’t so…distracted.

Elvira and Bob are fighting with a monster she accidentally concocted inside of a pot instead of the casserole she was trying to make, and his finger tightens around yours when Bob almost loses the fight before he shakes against you with a chuckle. The longer the movie goes on, the more you start noticing Steve’s similarities to the hunk who stole the Mistress of the Dark’s affections, mumbling an ‘oh my god’.

God dammit, you have a crush on Steve Harrington.

The weed makes the realization floor you more than it probably would on a normal day, because you aren’t blind, anyone could tell you how handsome the former king of Hawkins is. But no one could have warned you about how soft he is, especially right now with sleepy eyes and messy hair that smells like pine and too much hair product. They wouldn’t be able to tell you how big of a dweeb he is, or as Robin affectionately calls him a ‘dingus’. They also don’t know how good of a friend he is to anyone who’s lucky to have him, like refusing to let you spend the night alone and watching a movie he knew you were excited about just because he’d actually listened when you talked about it for weeks, even saving you the first copy in Keith’s possession.

Too bad you’ve barely retained any of it.

As if he could hear your thoughts, you feel the slight turn of his head and the heavy weight of his stare on the side of your face. You try not to give yourself away and keep your gaze locked on the TV where the town has Elvira ready to be burned at the stake, and Bob has to rescue her. You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, the universe just rubbing it in now.

The side of your body he’s been leaning against starts to go numb, and no matter how much you want to stay exactly like this for whatever is left of the night, the need for circulation becomes too much. Your eyes flick down to his that haven’t haven’t wavered and that slow happy smile spreads across his pink lips when they meet.

“You doing okay, honey.” The nickname he’s called you sarcastically in arguments sounds different when it’s wrapped in affection like this.

“Not that I’m not enjoying -,” nerves make your throat close up and you have to clear them out before you finish, “not that I’m not enjoying this. My arm is just kind of going numb.”

Heat rises to your cheeks with embarrassment that you know is misplaced, and his eyes go wide when your words click. His reaction is fast despite the smoked joint that's snuffed out in an empty coke can on the table when he pulls away. The warmth of his body that’s invaded what feels like every inch of yours for the last hour is gone and the tightness in your chest worsens now that you miss it. Stupid crush. Stupid blood flow.

“Oh my god, sorry, sorry, I was just so comfortable I wasn’t even thinking.” There’s stress in his tone that you haven’t heard all night and you decide that you hate it, he’s always stressed.

“Hey,” Your fingers curl around his bicep, and it flexes under the thick material of his sweater when his eyes meet yours, making you forget how to speak for a moment, “if we lay down on our sides we’ll - we’ll be more comfortable?”

Your heart beats loud in your ears after you throw out your suggestion fully knowing there’s gotta be less than twenty minutes left of the movie at most.

“Yeah, we can do that, like, big spoon?” He points to himself, with eyes as red as his cheeks before pointing to you with a small grin, “little spoon?”

You bite your bottom lip to contain the smile that threatens to break across your face, and it only makes his grow.

“Yeah, just like that Harrington.” You giggle and you don’t miss the kind of glint in his eyes that sparkles because of it.

“Harrington? I thought I was big boy?” He mocks with fake offense, clumsily clambering back onto the couch letting himself fully extend.

His socked feet almost hang off the armrest but the problem is quickly solved when he turns onto his side leaving just enough room for you. One of his big hands patting the cushions in an invitation that makes you both laugh.

“I thought you hated that nickname?” you tease, butterflies that never existed before erupting when he watches you with soft eyes climb into the spot next to him.

Your head lands in the crook of his elbow, amber and spice enveloping you while one of his long fingers curl around your hip not hesitating to pull you flush against his chest like he missed you. Maybe you weren’t the only one with a wandering mind tonight.

“I don’t,” he agrees, lips coming up right next to your ear and you wonder if he can feel the shiver that runs down your spine, “but I kinda like it when you say it.”

Your body curls into him when you giggle with a throb in your core that makes your thighs press together. Steve chuckles, hooking his chin over your shoulder and his feet find yours at the end of the couch like they did under the blanket. Grabbing the throw off the floor, you drape it back over the two of you when you both finally get situated.

He feels like he’s everywhere and it’s even harder to concentrate like this, especially when all his fingers are laced with yours now. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on the top of your hand, and you can feel the way his cheeks push up into a grin every time something makes him laugh. You spend the last bit of what’s left of the movie tangled up with him like this, and neither one of you try to move when the credits roll or when the screen goes black.

The air buzzes with the kind of tension that’s laid dormant until there’s nothing to distract you from it anymore in the new silence. His breath fans hot across your neck while the strokes of his thumb get slower, adding a little more pressure to the muscle there, and feels good enough to have your eyes flutter closed.

Maybe it’s the darkness of your living room, or the way the tip of his nose starts to trace the shell of your ear but you get the surge of confidence you need to turn around and face him. Steve doesn’t protest at all, letting you move with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if he was waiting for it all along. The small smile on his face tells you he absolutely was.

The new angle has you looking up at him from under your lashes, while his hand that held yours all night covers the middle of your back bringing you to his chest, getting you just as close as before. Your legs slot together while warm lights flicker across his face, they bounce and reflect off the lingering glaze that coats his eyes. Embers burning in a mossy ground.

It starts to feel like Steve Harrington wants to kiss you, and you’d be lying if your said you didn’t want him too.

“Hi” You whisper, the corners of your lips pulling up because they can’t help it when he looks at you like this.

“Hi” the rich honey of his voice comes out low as he dips his head down to rest on his forearm right above yours.

The tips of your noses are dangerously close to touching, and you swear you hear his breath hitch when your feet find his again. Holding his gaze, you silently dare him to read your mind so you don’t have to say it out loud. You do it first.

“I had a lot of fun tonight.” You try not to think about how it sounds like something you’d say at the end of a date.

“Me too, I’m uh -“ a puff of hot air fans across your face when he laughs, and you notice his first sign of nerves all night, “I’m glad I didn’t make a fool of myself or anything.”

“I have to say I’m impressed, you handled your first joint like a pro.” Your hands dare to run up his chest, plucking a piece of lint from the threads of his sweater. You feel the way the muscles in his stomach flex for you, and you have to bite back your smirk.

“I had good company is all.” He hums, the blunt ends of his nails scratching along the dip of your back, before whispering “Is this okay?”

Your eyes flutter shut with contentment you haven’t felt in a while, your whole body melting into his with a mumbled ‘mmmhm’

“Does Elvira have any other movies we could watch sometime?” His question makes your eyes pop open, and he tries to look as nonchalant as possible before adding, “you know just me and you.”

“Not a movie, per say but she has a show I like to watch where she does funny commentary on B rated horror films.” Your two feet trap one of his between them playfully to try and ease the nerves he shouldn’t have, earning you that megawatt smile that’s made half the ladies in Hawkins swoon.

So, Steve Harrington wasn’t a mind reader.

“That sounds like fun,” He lets out a relieved sigh that you didn’t know he was holding, close enough now for your noses to touch.

“Yeah? You wanna come have fun with me?” You tease, but it comes out sounding like a double entendre that makes your skin heat up, especially when Steve closes his eyes and groans. The nails that scratch your back freeze as he tries regaining some semblance of self control. Licking his lips, he exhales a breath out of his nose before he speaks,

“Abso-“

His answer gets cut off by the sound of your front door slamming open, followed by the bellowing voice of the only other person who has keys to your apartment.

“I’ve come for boobies and I brought beer! Better late than never am I ri- Whoa, whoa, WHOA, what is going on here?” Eddie’s shock is quickly replaced by amusement, dimples poking deep holes in his cheeks when he grins wildly as he takes in the two of you on the couch.

What was going on here?

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington thoughts #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x fem!reader

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cloudyluun · 5 months ago

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The Last First Time | Patreon Series

neighbour!harry

New series out now on Patreon!

Tropes: Strangers to Lovers, Domestic Fluff, Slow-Burn

Series Summary: Y/N has sworn off love after a string of bad relationships. She’s content with her quiet life, her bookstore job, and her dog. That is, until Harry moves into the apartment next door—loud, charming, and annoyingly irresistible. He worms his way into her life in ways she never expected, making her question if she’s really done with love… or if she’s just been waiting for the right person all along.

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Part 1: New Neighbours

Summary: Y/N is perfectly content with her quiet, predictable life—until her obnoxiously charming new neighbor, Harry, barges in and ruins it. Between his loud music, his infuriating smirks, and the way he somehow keeps worming his way into her life (and maybe, just maybe, her heart), she’s starting to think that swearing off love might not be as easy as she thought.

A/N: Listen, I, too, would be deeply annoyed if a gorgeous, overly friendly British man with a dimpled smile moved in next door and flirted with me against my will. Would I fall for him anyway? Probably. Would I go down kicking and screaming? Absolutely. Enjoy the chaos.

Word Count: 3,6k

Warnings:

Mutual pining (they’re both clueless)

Annoying (read: hot) neighbor behavior

Forced proximity (thank you, broken elevator)

Sexual tension you could cut with a butter knife

A dog who definitely likes Harry more than Y/N does

Y/N’s slow descent from “I hate him” to “Okay, maybe I don’t”

A dangerous amount of fluff, with just the right amount of angst sprinkled in

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The bell above the door jingles softly as Y/N pushes it open, stepping into the familiar scent of old pages and vanilla candles. The bookstore is quiet, just the way she likes it, save for the faint hum of a jazz record playing from the old speakers behind the counter.

She loves this place. Loves the way the shelves are slightly overstuffed, books stacked on tables and tucked into corners like they’ve made a home here. Loves the slow pace of it, how she can spend her afternoons helping customers find the perfect read or organizing displays without the pressure of a corporate job breathing down her neck.

It’s a simple life. But it’s hers.

Her shift goes by peacefully, the kind of day where she barely has to interact with anyone aside from a few regulars. Mr. Dawson, the elderly man who comes in every Tuesday for a new historical fiction novel, tells her she should read more books about war—she politely declines. A mother and her daughter giggle together in the children’s section. A college student hovers near the poetry shelf, reading Rupi Kaur with the kind of heartbreak only a 19-year-old can have.

By the time she locks up for the night, the sun is setting in shades of orange and pink. She tugs her coat tighter around her shoulders as she makes her way home, her dog waiting eagerly by the door when she steps inside. The apartment is warm, cozy—dim lighting, soft blankets, a candle burning low on the coffee table. Her little haven.

She changes into sweatpants, makes herself a cup of tea, and curls up on the couch with a book, her dog curled against her legs. It’s quiet, and it’s enough.

It has to be.

Because love? Love has only ever been a distraction. A complication.

She’s tried, over and over again. Different faces, different names, but the same inevitable ending. Misaligned priorities. Growing apart. Someone leaving first.

She’s done trying.

So this is her life now. Her books, her dog, her peace.

And it’s all she needs.

For now.

That was the promise she had made to herself. That this quiet life—her books, her dog, her solitude—was enough. That she didn’t need anyone else in it, that she was perfectly happy keeping the world at arm’s length.

And for a while, it worked.

Until the noise started.

It begins subtly. A few extra footsteps in the hallway. The distant sound of someone talking on the phone. The scent of unfamiliar cologne lingering in the air near the mailboxes.

Then, the boxes appear.

They’re stacked haphazardly near the apartment next to hers, some labeled with scribbled words she can’t quite make out. A pair of sneakers—large, well-worn—sit by the door. Someone’s moving in.

Y/N doesn’t think much of it at first. People come and go in this building all the time, and she has no reason to care who takes up residence next door. As long as they mind their business and—most importantly—keep quiet, she has no problem.

She doesn’t meet her new neighbor right away, but she hears him.

Furniture scraping against the hardwood floors. A deep, melodic hum filtering through the walls, sometimes accompanied by actual singing—and okay, fine, it’s not bad, but that’s beside the point. The thud of something heavy being dropped, followed by a muttered curse.

She grits her teeth and ignores it. New people make noise when they move in; that’s normal. It’ll stop soon.

Except it doesn’t.

One night—well past midnight—just as she’s drifting off to sleep, a loud BANG echoes through the apartment, the unmistakable slam of a door reverberating through the walls.

Her dog yelps, scrambling upright from his bed.

Y/N bolts up too, heart hammering, pulse spiking with adrenaline before she realizes what’s happened. She throws a glare toward the wall, as if that alone will silence her inconsiderate new neighbor.

Then, muffled footsteps. A moment of silence.

Then—music.

Loud enough that she can hear the bass vibrating softly through the walls.

Y/N lets out a slow breath, pressing her fingers against her temples. She should let it go. It’s late, and she’s too tired for confrontation. She burrows back beneath the covers, willing herself to sleep despite the faint rhythm pulsing next door.

She tries to brush it off.

She really does.

But the next morning, when she opens her apartment door and nearly trips over a pair of discarded boots in the hallway—boots that definitely weren’t there yesterday—her patience wears dangerously thin.

It’s official.

Her new neighbor is going to be a problem.

She’s sure of it now.

The boots, the music, the way he seems to move around his apartment with the grace of a baby deer on ice—it’s all too much. She tells herself she’ll ignore it, that she won’t let some stranger disrupt her life.

And then, of course, she meets him.

It happens in the hallway. Y/N is juggling her keys, her bag, and a leash wrapped tightly around her hand as she pulls her dog toward the stairs. They’re halfway down the hall when the door next to hers swings open, and before she can react, her dog—traitorous little thing—lunges forward, tail wagging wildly.

The leash yanks through her fingers as her dog barrels straight toward a pair of long legs clad in black joggers.

“Oh—hello there, mate!”

Y/N barely has time to process the deep, amused voice before she looks up—way up—and gets her first real look at him.

And, of course, the problem neighbor is hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, green-eyed—he’s got the kind of messy curls that look perfectly unintentional, a sharp jawline that could probably cut glass, and dimples that appear the moment he grins down at the overly affectionate dog currently climbing up his legs.

Y/N immediately dislikes him.

“Sorry,” she mutters, stepping forward to grab her dog’s leash. “He’s not usually like this with strangers.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the stranger laughs, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “I’m flattered, honestly. Haven’t had this much affection in a while.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. She’s met his type before—charming, overly confident, completely unaware of how irritating they are. She yanks the leash gently, pulling her dog back to her side. “Right. Well. Have a good day.”

She turns to leave, but his voice stops her.

“Wait, you’re my neighbor, yeah?”

She exhales slowly before glancing back. “Unfortunately.”

His grin widens. “That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been getting to know you through very thin walls.”

Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something suspiciously close to guilt. “Ah. You, uh—heard that, did you?”

Y/N crosses her arms. “Oh, you mean the moving furniture, the late-night door slamming, or the impromptu concert at midnight?”

His dimples reappear, and she immediately hates that they’re kind of—charming. “So… all of the above, then.”

She glares. “Some of us actually enjoy peace and quiet.”

“Noted,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll keep it down.”

Something about his easy agreement throws her off. He’s not defensive, not making excuses—just… accepting it.

She studies him for a moment before nodding. “Good.”

But as she pulls her dog toward the stairs, she hears his voice again.

“Y’know,” he calls out, “you’re kinda grumpy, aren’t you?”

She stops dead in her tracks.

Slowly, she turns to face him. He’s leaning against his doorframe now, arms crossed, watching her with an amused glint in his eye.

She narrows her own eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Not a bad thing,” he continues, completely unfazed by the sharpness in her tone. “Just an observation. Thought we were having a friendly chat, and you looked about two seconds away from strangling me.”

Y/N clenches her jaw. “Maybe you’re just annoying.”

His smirk deepens. “Maybe.”

Oh, he’s insufferable.

With one last glare, she storms down the stairs, ignoring the sound of his quiet chuckle behind her.

Y/N tells herself she won’t think about him again.

Spoiler alert: she will.

It’s not even a conscious decision. It’s just—impossible not to.

Her once quiet, peaceful apartment now has an uninvited presence, even when he’s not physically there. It starts with the little things. The muffled sound of music filtering through the walls, always something classic—Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, Elton John. The occasional deep, melodic hum accompanying the songs, sometimes breaking into actual lyrics.

Then, the phone calls.

He talks loudly—and a lot. His voice carries easily through the thin walls, his deep accent making every conversation impossible to ignore. He laughs often, a warm, infectious sound that she really shouldn’t find charming, and yet—she does. She doesn’t want to, but it’s hard to be annoyed at someone who sounds so genuinely happy all the time.

Still, she does her best to ignore it.

But her dog? Her dog is a traitor.

Every time Harry’s voice filters through the wall, the little traitor perks up, ears twitching, tail wagging, sometimes even whining. If Harry’s walking in the hallway, her dog runs straight to the door, tail thumping against the floor like Harry’s his long-lost best friend.

It’s humiliating.

And then, one night, it gets worse.

She’s curled up on the couch with a book, finally enjoying a rare moment of silence, when she hears it.

Harry’s voice.

Singing.

It’s not unusual—she’s heard him hum before, caught snippets of songs—but this is different. It’s full-fledged, unabashed singing, smooth and rich and ridiculously good.

She doesn’t recognize the song at first, but then the words hit her.

"I can’t help falling in love with you…"

Oh, come on.

Of course he’s the kind of guy who sings Elvis while cooking.

She clenches her jaw, determined to ignore it, but her dog is already sitting up, ears perked, tail wagging. Y/N glares. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers.

The dog ignores her completely, trotting over to the wall as if he can somehow get closer to Harry through sheer willpower.

Y/N sighs, throwing her head back against the couch.

This is her life now. Living next to an infuriatingly loud, annoyingly talented neighbor who seems to be winning over her dog and her subconscious.

She’s not thinking about him.

Not at all.

Not even a little.

That’s what she tells herself. That’s what she repeats in her head whenever she hears him through the walls, whenever her dog practically vibrates with excitement at the sound of his voice, whenever she catches herself humming the songs he sings when he thinks no one is listening.

She’s doing a great job of ignoring him.

Until the elevator breaks down.

It happens on a morning when Y/N is already running late. She’s juggling her bag, her keys, and a travel mug of coffee as she rushes out of her apartment, her dog watching her with judgment from his bed.

She takes the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with the very last person she wants to see.

Harry.

Of course it’s Harry.

Standing by the elevator doors, coffee cup in hand, looking way too put together for someone who probably just rolled out of bed. His joggers hang low on his hips, his hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal a white T-shirt underneath, curls a little messy but in a way that seems intentional. He’s leaning casually against the wall, and the moment he spots her, a slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawls, taking a sip of his coffee. “Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.”

Y/N exhales sharply, pressing the elevator button. Nothing happens. The doors remain firmly shut.

A sinking feeling settles in her stomach.

Harry watches as she jabs the button again, then chuckles. “Yeah, that’s not gonna do much. Out of order.”

Y/N turns to him with narrowed eyes. “How do you know?”

“Because I just watched poor Mrs. Patel from 3B mutter a string of very impressive curse words when she realized she had to take the stairs.”

Y/N groans, tilting her head back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry grins. “Not kidding.”

Of course. Of course the elevator breaks down today. And of course he’s here to witness her suffering.

With no other choice, she adjusts her bag on her shoulder and heads for the stairwell. “Great. Love this. Perfect way to start the day.”

Harry falls into step beside her, sipping his coffee as if he has all the time in the world. “You in a rush?”

“Yes,” she says shortly.

“Hot date?”

She shoots him a glare. “Work.”

“Ah.” He nods, glancing at her with mild curiosity. “What do you do, anyway?”

Y/N hesitates. Part of her doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to entertain any conversation with him. But the other part—the one that grew up with manners—sighs and mutters, “I work at a bookstore.”

Harry brightens. “No way. That’s brilliant.”

She looks at him, suspicious. “Why is that brilliant?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Something very fitting about you working in a bookstore.”

She raises a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins. “You’ve got that whole quiet, brooding, mysterious thing going on. Like the main character in a slow-burn novel.”

Y/N blinks. “Did you just call me brooding?”

He takes another sip of coffee. “Bit, yeah.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”

They reach the first landing, and Y/N speeds up, determined to put some distance between them. Unfortunately, Harry seems to take this as a challenge, easily matching her pace.

“So, tell me,” he continues. “Is there a reason you hate me, or is that just your default setting?”

Y/N clenches her jaw. “I don’t hate you.”

His smirk deepens. “No?”

“No.”

He hums, unconvinced. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you glare at me an awful lot.”

“I glare at everyone.”

“Oh, so I’m not special?”

She exhales sharply. “Correct.”

Harry grins. “Bit disappointing, that.”

They climb another flight of stairs, Y/N gripping the railing a little tighter. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I have good company.”

She shoots him a sharp look, but he just winks at her, taking another lazy sip of his coffee.

She groans. “You are insufferable.”

He chuckles, unbothered. “And yet, here we are. Forced to spend quality time together.”

She picks up the pace, practically jogging up the last few steps just to get away from him. But as she reaches the next floor, she hears him call out behind her—

“See you later, neighbor.”

She doesn’t turn around.

But her dog will be way too happy to see him when she gets home.

And Y/N?

She’s starting to suspect that maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t mind him as much as she claims.

She doesn’t think much of it at first. It’s just tea. Just a small act of kindness returned. Just a few minutes of conversation that—shockingly—don’t make her want to strangle him.

But then, a few nights later, the power goes out.

It happens just after sunset, plunging the entire building into darkness. Y/N is in the middle of reading when the lights flicker and die, leaving her blinking in the dim glow of a single candle on her coffee table.

Her dog whines at her feet, restless, unsettled by the sudden quiet. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint buzzing of the heater—gone. Even the usual muffled sounds of the city outside seem distant, swallowed by the storm rolling through.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair.

Great.

After a few minutes of sitting in the dark, she decides to take her dog out into the hallway—mostly to distract him, but also because the idea of sitting alone in the silent apartment feels strangely isolating.

And that’s when she finds Harry.

Sitting on the floor outside his apartment, legs stretched out, surrounded by the warm flicker of candlelight. A deck of cards sits between his hands, his fingers idly shuffling, the rhythmic sound filling the empty hallway.

He glances up when she steps out, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Didn’t take you for the type to get lonely in a power outage.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “I’m not.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, studying her. “Then what brings you to my humble doorstep?”

She gestures to her dog, who is currently sniffing at Harry’s socked foot. “He was restless.”

Harry hums. “Right. He was restless.”

She narrows her eyes, but before she can snap back, he lifts the deck of cards and raises a brow.

“Wanna play?”

She hesitates.

The smart thing to do would be to say no. To go back inside, curl up with a blanket, and wait for the power to come back on.

But instead, she finds herself sinking onto the floor beside him.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you cheat, I’m leaving.”

Harry grins. “Noted.”

Somehow, she stays.

Longer than she means to.

Longer than she should.

The game is simple—just a casual round of War, nothing complicated—but it becomes less about winning and more about conversation.

Somewhere between the second and third round, they start talking.

Not just the usual teasing back-and-forth, but real talking.

Favorite books. Favorite cities. The places they’d love to visit but haven’t yet. The things they miss about childhood—the way summers felt longer, the way certain songs could instantly transport them back to a specific moment in time.

Y/N doesn’t even realize how much she’s letting her guard down until she’s laughing at one of Harry’s stories, her shoulder brushing his, their legs stretched out side by side.

And the worst part?

She doesn’t hate it.

She’s comfortable.

Which is dangerous.

Because comfort leads to familiarity. And familiarity leads to feelings.

And she’s not supposed to have feelings for her neighbor.

But then there’s the way Harry watches her as she speaks, his eyes a little softer than usual. The way he leans in just a fraction when she gets caught up in a story. The way his fingers brush against hers when they both reach for the deck of cards at the same time, and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

The way the air between them suddenly feels charged.

Like something unspoken is settling between them.

Like something could happen, if she let it.

And for a second—just a second—she wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

To close the small distance between them.

To let herself want him.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she clears her throat, shifts back, and focuses on the game.

Because this—whatever this is—can’t happen.

It’s nothing.

It has to be.

The power returns an hour later, flooding the hallway with artificial light.

Y/N blinks against the sudden brightness, reality crashing back in.

Harry stretches, rolling his shoulders before looking at her with a smirk. “Guess that’s our cue to go back to normal.”

Normal.

Right.

She nods, pushing herself to her feet and dusting off her jeans. “Right.”

She expects him to say something cocky, to make some snarky remark about how much she must love spending time with him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just looks at her for a long moment—something unreadable flickering across his face—before giving her a small, lopsided smile.

“G’night, neighbor.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone.

Y/N still insists that Harry is annoying. Still claims he gets on her nerves.

But something has shifted.

She doesn’t avoid him as much. Doesn’t glare as harshly when he teases her.

And maybe—just maybe—she finds herself noticing little things about him.

The way he always holds the door open for their elderly neighbor, even when she insists she doesn’t need help.

The way he hums under his breath when he’s deep in thought, a melody she can’t quite place but somehow recognizes.

The way he never forgets to greet her dog before he greets her, like he knows exactly where he stands in the hierarchy of importance.

Harry, for his part, still seems to enjoy getting under her skin.

But his teasing is softer now.

More familiar.

She still tells herself she’s not looking for love.

She still tells herself that he’s just her neighbor.

But as she closes her apartment door that night, she can’t help but smile to herself.

Just a little.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

If you love angst, tension-filled romance, slowburn and strangers to lovers, The Last First Time is for you!

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