#and i want to bash my head against the wall when i think of the red flags i watched pass by | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr was acquired by Yahoo for $1.1B in 2013.

#and i want to bash my head against the wall when i think of the red flags i watched pass by

ickadori · 5 months

Text

i think yuji has a thing for spoiled, bratty girls. the ones with borderline bad attitudes, who roll their eyes more than they smile, and scowl and huff when things don’t go their way.

sure, it can be annoying sometimes, but you’re never like that for long, not with him at least. you try, but all he has to do is wrap those steel arms around you and gush about how pretty you are, how he loves you so much, how much he missed seeing you and then you’re like putty in his hands.

you’re sweet, bashful, doting, clingy, glued to his side and rubbing yourself against him like some baby kitten. it’s cute, you’re cute, and he’s head over heels for you.

but like all things, that doesn’t last long either. your moods are fickle, changing at the drop of a hat, and your little outbursts can be explosive, sometimes offensive. yuji usually lets you get your frustrations out, lets you rant and rave while he sits and listens, and then when you’re all tuckered out he’s dragging you into his embrace and whispering comforting words into your skin followed by sweet kisses.

sukuna always tells him how soft he is when he does that - she’ll never respect you if you keep letting her off like that, he says. put her in her fucking place, he hisses. back in my era, the only time a woman opened her mouth around me was to suck my cock, he reminisces.

but yuji isn’t like sukuna, he doesn’t need to do those things to get you back how he likes you most, sweet and soft and eager for his love..but sometimes you really try his patience, so he figured he could do something, nothing close to the cruel things sukuna had suggested, but something to let you know that you couldn’t just do and say whatever you wanted all the time.

he figured he’d take something away from you, like you’d do with a misbehaving child, something that you loved and couldn’t get enough of, no matter how much he gave it to you.

his cock, obviously.

“yuji!” he’s had you like this for a while, your stomach flush against his bedroom wall as he forces you to stand while he squats behind you. you’re dressed in a little skirt and an equally as little top, no panties in sight. the skirt is hiked up around your hips, and he swallows past the lump in his throat as he thrusts the pink dildo into your drooling cunt once again, his ears twitching at the lewd squelch that sounds.

your thighs tremble, knees buckling, and he lets his free hand come down against your ass, his lips soothing the sting after when you let out a whimper. “m’sorry,” he mumbles against your skin, “but you have to stand up straight for me, baby.”

“mm-nn,” you shake your head, and yuji tsks, wrist pulling back to slide the dildo out until only the top remains, and then he’s quickly slamming back in, lips still peppering kisses along the curve of your ass. “ah! i want you, yuji. i wanna feel you..”

“you don’t get my cock until you start being nice to me.” he builds up a steady pace, his breathing ragged as he listens to the squelching coming from your cunt. needing to see it and not just hear it, he pulls his head back, marveling at the way your pussy grips onto the silicone, your slick coating the shaft along with his fingers. “such a pretty pussy for such a mean girl.”

“s-shut up!” he sees you clench, feels the resistance when he goes to push the silicone cock back into you, and he practically salivates as he watches a fresh wave of slick ooze down the shaft.

“see? so mean to me… i shouldn’t play with your pussy at all.” he slips the dildo out of you, jaw going slack as he watches your hole clench around nothing, your desperate protests and pleas falling on death ears. there’s a string of your arousal dripping down between your trembling thighs, and yuji swipes it up with his finger before pushing it into his mouth, lashes fluttering as he groans around the digit.

“please, yuji, m’sorry! i-i’ll be nice, i promise!” you plead and cry, and yuji knows you’re only thinking with your pussy right now, that overwhelming urge to come clouding your mind. you’ll be fussing at him by the end of the night if he gives in, he’s sure of it, but he’s not a mean man. how’s he supposed to tell you no when you beg for him like that? when your pussy weeps for him like this?

he can’t.

it only takes a second for him to free his own cock from his pants, replacing the dildo with the real thing, and he moans loud and guttural when he slips inside, your hot cunt wrapping around him like a vice. “fuck, baby.” his pelvis grinds into the fat of your ass, his hands pinning yours against the wall above your head as he thrusts in and out of you. “you feel so good.”

“yuji,” you keen, and he knows you and your body well enough to know that you’re milliseconds away from coming.

“you gonna come?” he breathes in your ear, low and raspy, and you weakly nod, his name leaving your lips like a chant, and the muscles in his thighs and calves flex as he bends at the knee to fuck you at a slightly different angle, tip of his cock pushing into that spot that always leaves you a babbling, sniffling mess. “go ahead and come, baby. make a mess.”

that’s all the encouragement you need before you’re creaming around his cock, pussy clenching and fluttering around him as declarations of love tumble free from your lips, and he wonders how long it’ll take for you to change your tune this time.

#yuji x reader #jjk smut #++ yuji #IM ILL #MY BFFFF #i have 10 million thoughts about him and will probs only write like 7 at most v.v #++ yuji/brat

9K notes · View notes

usereddie · 30 days

Text

chimney being the reason maddie calls buck over in the first place because he comes home from the basketball ball game looking like he’s two seconds away from bashing his head against a wall and maddie is like ???? and chimney looks at her and his hair is a mess and the look is his eyes is crazy in a i can’t take this bullshit anymore sort of way and he goes “you need to call your brother over.” and maddie’s like “since when do you call him my brother. he’s just buck.” and chimney laughs a little manically and goes “nope. i want as many degrees of separation as i can from that emotionally constipated idiot. ‘at least when i date someone i actually date them’ my ass. i think he’s gonna try to stealth tattoo ‘property of evan buckley’ on eddie’s forehead, maddie.” and maddie just nods solemnly and pulls out her phone and goes “i understand. start the coffee.”

#canon to me btw #911 abc #buddie #evan buckley #madney #chimney han

1K notes · View notes

vanderilnde · 3 months

Note

I don't know how much it fits but, keeping with the theme of butcher!simon's neighborhood being a bit dangerous:

where I grew up (rough neighborhood) there were often bars/pubs and even gas stations nearby that operated all afternoon/night and guys often congregated outside smoking cigarettes and what not. they never bothered the residents, but they damn well worked as guard dogs and warded off strangers.

so... idea: simon and his buddies hanging out outside the corner pub when reader is coming/going to her second job in the weekends, watching closely to make sure she makes it from the bus/train stop to the building door, especially after dark.

alternatively!! simon who stays up and checks out of his window when reader is coming home after dark and doesn't let himself go to sleep until he hears her door unlocking and her making some type of sound (like closing her rickety door or whatever).

i dont think you understand….. reading this altered my brain so viscerally. guard dog simon. yeah.

“Still got yer balls in her purse?”

Simon lights his cigarette. The soft smoulder of it barely offsets the flickering streetlight above them, scarcely illuminates the sidewalk. It shines over his face, hanging from the threshold of his lips.

“Yup,” he hums. “Right where I want ‘em.”

Johnny cackles through the plume of smoke curling up and out of his lips. He pats Simon on the back, taking a long drag of his cig, and bumps his shoulder with Kyle’s.

“When’d’ya reckon he’ll let us meet the Bird?”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “When he finds someone to pay.”

“Put a sock in it,” Simon snarls. Taps the ash off his cig.

Photo is a generous word for it. But it was the only thing Simon had to testify to your existence. A blurry, smudgy picture taken on his phone. Half-eclipsed by his thumb which was accidentally in the corner of his camera. A picture of you leaving the lift—a shallow angle of you walking in some leggings, returning from work.

It was privy to Simon. A likeness to indulge in during his work days. But in a flitting moment, Johnny laid his eyes on it. Read him to filth for it.

And now, they’re here.

Off-white sheets of rain running off the canopy they’re situated under. Each holding a cigarette to their lips, resting against the wet brick of a hole-in-the-wall pub. The warm hum from inside pooling into the empty streets of Manchester.

A thin sound arises from it. The chime of a shopkeeper’s bell, signifying the door is being opened. Into the diving rain, you step out, clutching a backpack against your shoulder, your uniform sticking to your skin.

It’s a heavy mass of muscle you almost run into. You stop yourself with a hand split against their chest, against the fleetly rise-and-fall of their jacket.

You have to hoist your neck up to see him. It takes you a while to reorient yourself, to recognise the depthless copper of his eyes. And it takes you even longer to register the underside of his face. Bare, flooded under the soft light of streetlights.

“Simon!” You squeak. The succession of his heartbeat pumping under your palm. Two men hovering behind him, exchanging puckish smirks. “What are you doing here?”

Simon’s eyebrows purse like he’s confused. He tilts his head, looking at you like a puppy, and shrugs. “I’m here to pick you up.”

“Pick me up–” a chord of bemusement strikes you, collapsing your sentence. Your reservations catch up to you, hitting you like bricks. “Pick me up?”

Simon grunts. His eyes flicker down to your skirt, how it flurries in the wind, and pulls you beneath the awning.

“Getting y’rself all wet under there,” he grumbles. “Brought you this.”

Simon holds up an umbrella. He waits for you to take it before splaying his big hand on the hind of your spine and turning you around, shepherding you forward.

Your voice is warped with bashfulness when you speak. “Where’re we going?”

“Home,” he says. Three pairs of footfall tread on your heels. Each one more intimidating than the other. Sticky and wet as they trail behind you.

“Just keep walking, Trouble,” Simon mumbles. “‘m here.”

It’s a shield that keeps everyone away. The invasive eyes, the creeping men that usually accompany you on your walk home after work. But today, they’re silent.

The three men are a pack of dogs behind you.

Simon, kissing the ground before you walk on it.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #simon writing #writing

2K notes · View notes

mockerycrow · 1 month

Text

ON MY MIND (Roommate!Gaz x GN!Reader)

roommate!gaz masterlist

summary; you wear kyle’s hoodie and he’s forced to confront some suppressed emotions.

[WARNINGS; gaz is a smoker & is emotionally weary, fluff!]

“Kyle!”

His head tilts a bit from the call of his name, muffled and frustrated. His eyes focused on the glass plate in his hand, his other hand scrubbing the thing with an overly-used sponge. “Yeah?” He calls back, only turning his head by his left shoulder a tad bit so you can hear him better as he’s assuming you’re not near the kitchen.

Kyle hears you shuffling around, your shoes scuffing against the floorboards. You don’t respond for a second, but Kyle knows you’re focused on.. Whatever you were doing. He puts the soapy plate in the other side of the sink in the next tub, reaching for the next dish. However, his sleeve slips down his arm a bit, getting wet and soapy. “Ah..” He cringes out loud, his lips pulling uncomfortably as he uses two fingers to tug the now wet sleeve back into place.

Kyle hears your footsteps approach from the next room, causing him to tilt his body so he can keep his wet hands over the sink whilst also looking at you. You enter the room with a frustrated look upon your face, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip curled ever so slightly curled. Kyle chuckles, unable to help himself at how pathetic you look at the moment and he knows it’s not over anything important. “What’s wrong?” He murmurs, already amused.

You’re holding up one of Kyle’s hoodies, one the ones that has his last name sprawled across the back. He blinks for a moment before you begin to speak. “I gotta run to the corner store real quick and all of my hoodies are still damp in the dryer,” You exclaim, putting the hoodie down a bit so you can look at him. “Do you mind if I wear your hoodie to walk down there?”

Kyle’s lips purse for a moment, a weird sensation manifesting in his chest cavity as he thinks about wearing his hoodie. “Go ahead, don’t need you getting sick, yeah?” Kyle utters as he turns back to the sink, pinching the front of his shirt and pulling it from his chest as if it’ll ease the sensation. “Sick! Thanks, Kyle. You want anything?” You ask, quickly pulling the hoodie on, adjusting the sleeves.

Kyle’s back is to you as he grabs another dish, mindlessly cleaning it. “‘Course, sweetness. Grab me some crisps, won’t you?” He says, putting the.. clean(?) dish into the other side of the sink on top of the soapy plate. “Yep, I got it. Bye, Ky!”

The door shuts.

Kyle blinks, staring at the soapy water with the tightness in his chest remaining, even after your exit. He sighs slowly, pushing his thumbs into the corners of his eyes—then he shouts, because now soap is in his eyes. “Shitshit—” He hisses, quickly turning on the faucet to wash his eyes out.

Kyle never asked for his hoodie back—a part of him expected for it to appear folded on his bed, washed and taken care of and the other part wished he never saw it again except for you wearing it. You always seemed to lose your hoodies after that, or you went through your collection much faster than you previously had. Neither of you pointed it out, especially Kyle. He was quite alright with a couple of his hoodies disappearing conveniently right at the times you were planning on leaving for a store, or just an outing in general.

Something sickly sweet twists in Kyle’s gut when he sees you wearing his hoodie. It’s something clawing at his insides, gnawing at his bones—energy that makes him want to bash his head into the wall and he isn’t completely understanding why. The second he sees you wearing one of his hoodies, especially the ones with his name on it.. It’s like a little feral squirrel in his body goes wild.

Kyle turns in his bed, groaning softly as he rubs his hand over his face, trying to focus on the coolness of his sheets as he rolls over. He thinks about Soap and Price, thinking about the night where you embarrassed him in front of his mates. Kyle stares into the darkness of his room as he thinks about how proud you seemed to be after making them laugh—how you seemed to beam at him after sharing a reassuring look.

“Bloody hell.” Kyle mumbles, his words muffled as he turns his face against the warm of his pillow, his breathing harsh for a moment. A pleasant warmth trickles into his chest as he thinks about his missing hoodies. How he isn’t able to help the giddy smile on his face when he sees you walk through the door, coming home wearing something with his name on it. His. His. His.

Kyle lifts himself from his bed, grunting as his feet hit the cold floor. He patters across the floor, quietly exiting his bedroom. Kyle’s heart thumps harshly against his chest. He shakes his head and gently slaps his cheeks as he walks down the hall towards the living room and kitchen, trying to rid himself of these thoughts—of thinking of you like that. He pauses for a moment when he hears the television on, playing at a low volume. Kyle slows his footsteps as he makes his way past the hall, coming into the living room.

The television is gently illuminating the room and he hears you before he sees you. You’re sleeping on the couch, your favorite blanket sprawled across your lap, your back and head supported by the stupid throw pillows Kyle insisted that you two needed for the couch. Your head is tilted down in a position that looks slightly uncomfortable, your lips parted—wearing his hoodie.

Kyle stares for a minute, his eyes softening as he leans forward, his fingers gentle as he takes your head in his hands and slowly but surely, adjusts the positioning of your head. Kyle watches the way your eyebrows furrow for a moment, your lips pressing back together closed. His lips twitch into a soft smile as he watches you shift in your sleep, your face leaning more into his palm.

Kyle’s heart stops for just a second before he brushes the pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, your skin hot under his touch. So warm and full of life.

His chest tightens again and Kyle carefully pulls his hand away from you, his feet quick as he grabs his cigarettes and lighter from the counter near the backdoor, escaping out the back to forget about what his feelings truly mean.

🏷️; @kivino @mlmxreader @soapybutt17 @microwavedcheetos @frazie99 @narcolepticduck @ch3rrykoolaid @kimdiedlater @glossysoap @thisuserloveshalloween @ornateorchid @missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @lieutenantlashfaz @queen-leviathan @specter319 @theunplannedvariable @spacelia @1117sblog @snoowply @dumb-fawkin-bitch @abigatorchomp @s8nsbride @talooolalolla @sstormyskyess @spicyspicyliving @nyushkawritesstuff

this is from my overall taglist which you can find here. if you would like there to be a roommate!gaz taglist, comment below! mistakenly tagged/wrongly tagged? let me know, no hard feelings.

697 notes · View notes

feyascorner · 3 months

Note

Imagine Tav who has a thing for deep voices (ahem Astarion’s when he gets all low and breathy and AHHHHH) and he notices. I’d combust

AGLAGKJL I HAVE OTHER REQUESTS BUT I SAW THIS AND I HAD TO WRITE IT IMMEIDATELY HES JUST SOOO....also warning this is a bit suggestive nothing terrible but i also haven't written anything other than fluff and angst in ages so i might be a little rusty....

You have barely any breath left in your lungs, and you think you wouldn't mind dying this way. He shoves the door to your shared room open with his back as you push him through it, lips molding against his in a heated wave of passion. Your fingers entangle themselves in his white curls, pulling at them just gently enough to draw out a low groan from his throat, and in an instant, he has your back pressed against the wall, both hands holding either side of your face as if it's the last time he'll get to touch you.

And as much as you wouldn't mind dying from suffocation here, being ever so perceptive, he pulls away to lean his forehead against your own, watching as your chest heaves up and down in a helpless attempt to catch your breath. He pinches one of your cheeks. "It's a relief that one of us needs air to remain conscious. If you were to become like myself, I'm not confident we'd actually ever stop."

"I never said we needed to stop," you say breathlessly.

"You don't need to tell me," he leans forward to press his lips against the area where he usually sinks his teeth into your neck. Instead of the familiar prick, all you feel are his cool lips peppering kisses on your skin. "Your body, and how it responds to me...it does all the talking for you."

And much to your embarrassment, his words are sent straight to the hammering of your heart. It must be the way he says it---so softly, yet rough. Teasing, yet honest. Low enough to drop his voice an octave but not enough to take away its usual charm. And the worst is the breathiness adorning his very words. For someone who doesn't need to breathe, he certainly sounds like he does it a lot.

You feel him nip at a sensitive spot of your neck and practically yelp, earning a snicker from the culprit in front of you.

"Your heart's beating quite fast, darling," he says slowly, almost in a whisper. "Are just a few words enough to rile you up so much?"

You remain silent, afraid all sanity you have left will snap if you dare to speak.

"But that's not all, is it? No, my sweet, you only feel this way about my words because I'm the one saying it," you can hear the grin in his tone. He pulls away from your neck, lifting his head back where he can meet your eyes. "Do you like when I say things like this? Vulnerable? Sensual? Seductive?--"

You slap your palms across his mouth, heat practically radiating off of your face, as you feel his fangs through his smile. He knows, you think, face paling. He knows how you respond to just his stupid voice, and you know him more than enough to expect the worst from the power you've given him. It's humiliating almost---but more than anything, you want him to shut up. To stop talking to you in that way that brings butterflies to your stomach, to stop looking at you as if you're the most desirable person in all of Faerun, to stop just existing in the moment---

Astarion gently pries your hands away from his face, satisfaction more than apparent in his expression. "No use being bashful now. I'm not offended at all. If anything, I'm rather flattered to know you find even my voice as attractive as the rest of me."

"Please stop talking."

"You don't mean that, clearly."

You grab a nearby pillow and smush it against his cheek, pushing him away.

With a soft laugh, he takes the pillow from your hands, placing it beside him to look at you properly. You want to hide away in a hole forever, but you can't do much other than look to the ground, beyond embarrassed. His obvious amusement doesn't do much to soothe you.

"Look at me, darling."

"Hells no."

"Will you listen if I whisper it to you?"

You shoot him a glare, and he laughs again.

So instead of convincing you any further, he takes either of your hands. His voice is low again, and you swear he's doing it on purpose. "We all have our quirks, my love. I enjoy drinking your delicious blood in our nights of passion, and you enjoy listening to my wonderful voice during them."

"Did you just compare this to being a vampire?"

"This and that. Same thing."

The quirk of your brow is enough to tell him of your annoyance, making him squeeze your hand with a grin. You'd throw him out if he weren't so pretty. Those long lashes, the white curls, that irritatingly beautiful shade of his eyes...Gods, you're helpless. But something tells you that the feeling is mutual. Wordlessly, you find yourself leaning closer again, and his grin stretches wider. "So talking lowly does seem to work its charm on you."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Shut up and kiss me."

"As you wish."

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #bg3 #fluff

996 notes · View notes

m00nlight-ramblings · 1 month

Text

Talk

As a famous singer, you find yourself at the same terrible party as Hozier, but you two decide to do something about it.

Pairing: fem reader x Hozier

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, p in v (protected) sex, fingering, 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who waited for this one...I'm so sorry it took so long. Please enjoy, and remember, my inbox is open for requests!

This party sucked.

Somehow, at one of the biggest album release parties of the year, you found yourself bored out of your mind, sipping on a weak gin and tonic. Leaning against a corner wall, the bass of the music from the DJ vibrated through you as you watched other people dance – your bandmates were somewhere amongst them, but for whatever reason, you just weren’t feeling it. Maybe you were just in a mood, maybe it was the music (one good song for every ten awful ones), but you sipped your drink, checking your phone every so often until it became a polite time to excuse yourself. You could already taste the revelry of getting back to your house before midnight – pajamas, Thai takeout, and scrolling aimlessly on your phone while Grey’s Anatomy reruns played in the background.

Suddenly, you saw a head bobbing around the others in the crowd – standing what seemed like almost a full foot above everyone else, his thick, curly hair pulled back in a half bun, he smiled and tilted his head to the music distractedly. Your breath hitched for a moment as you saw him – you had seen Hozier at countless red carpets and events in the past year it seemed, but he was also more handsome than the last time. He turned his head and your eyes locked, making you blush, and making him smile. He gently pressed a hand on someone’s back to alert that he was making his way behind him.

As if the giant could ever go unnoticed.

“Hi,” He said as he landed next to you, sipping from his drink. Something brown and in a rocks glass, one giant ice cube anchoring the liquid.

Of course.

“I feel like I needed to come over and speak to you – we seem to orbit each other at basically every red carpet this year.” He spoke, seemingly reading my mind. You smiled.

“That’s funny – I was just thinking that.”

Hozier nodded and his eyes scanned the crowd before landing back at you. It was like he was staring into your soul. Extending a hand, he smiled, “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m –”

“I know who you are,” You admitted, somewhat bashfully as you shook his hand. “I’m a big fan. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” He echoed, a smirk playing on his lips mischievously, “I’m a big fan.”

You could feel your blush deepen as his smooth words washed over you. His accent was enough for you to want to drop your panties, and his smile was already sending your head upside down.

“Your ‘Best New Artist’ win was well deserved,” He continued. “Your album was one of my favorites this year. Selfishly, I hope you guys are working on another one.”

“Wow, thank you,” You breathed, your heart thumping in your chest, “That means a lot coming from one of like, the best lyricists of our generation.”

“Ah,” Hozier waved his hand, bashful, “Come now.”

You cocked an eyebrow and smiled, “You’re going to write something like ‘I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found, I'd be the choiceless hope in grief, that drove him underground’ and not expect to be considered that?”

He simply shrugged and sipped his drink. He was blushing, embarrassed.

“This album was also very good,” He changed the subject, speaking of the current album release party. He cleared his throat, “Even though this party sucks.”

You laughed and gently grabbed his forearm in agreement, “Yes! What is that about?!”

“I think it’s the DJ,” He admitted, leaning into you, “The guys releasing this album are buddies of mine, but I’m starting to think if I need to end our friendship based on the DJ they picked for this party.”

“The music he’s playing is making me feel old,” You admitted, “I don’t know any of the songs, and I don’t seem to really like it, either. Is this what our parents feel like when we were listening to Good Charlotte and Britney Spears?”

“Not mine. My mom loves Good Charlotte.” His eyes twinkled.

You laughed. Your eyes fell on your bandmates dancing to the music, obviously drunk off of the expensive beer being served at the open bar. You were acutely aware of Hozier standing next to you, his heat seemingly radiating.

“Is it an inappropriate time to tell you that I think you look beautiful tonight?” He asked, his breath warm on your ear as he leaned down to whisper it. Shivers were sent down your back as he spoke. You turned your head and looked at him, trying to play it cool with the smile that played on your lips.

“Probably not, considering how I’ve been thinking about how handsome you look since I saw you from across the room tonight.” You retorted, titling your head. He smiled and nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“I’m reminded of your beauty every time I see you at events,” Hozier said, his hand finding the small of your back, “And, admittedly, every time I scroll your Instagram feed.”

You laughed, “Hozier is my internet stalker, eh?”

“Can you blame me? That number you had on at the Grammy’s this year?” He made a face, whistling, “It took every ounce of strength not to follow your account as soon as you were done presenting on stage.”

“Do you want to get out of here?” You asked, almost interrupting him. He seemed taken aback, so you tried to backtrack, “I mean…in a bit. We could go somewhere where…the DJ doesn’t suck? After we finish our drinks.”

Hozier quickly chucked back the rest of his drink, putting the glass on the nearest table. “Let’s go.” He took your hand as you chugged the rest of yours as well, finding the spot next to his glass for yours.

He guided you through the party, his hand never leaving the small of your back. You felt heat rushing through you as you made your way to front door, and Hozier handed the valet his ticket. He turned to you.

“Did you drive here?”

You shook your head. “Car service.”

“Great. We can take my car then.”

As the valet pulled up in a sleek Audi, Hozier thanked him and handed him a large bill as a tip. He waited until you were situated in your seat before he slid into the driver’s side, closing his door and pulling into traffic. Some sort of blues-y jazz was coming through the speakers softly.

“So where are you kidnapping me to, Mr. Internet Stalker?” You teased, looking out the window at the lights of downtown L.A.

He smiled, “My hotel,” His voice was a low purr. You exchanged a glance as he leaned his head forward, in explanation, “The bar there is really nice. Live jazz band tonight. It’s mellow.”

You nodded and smiled. As your heart raced, you were trying to calm yourself down, fiddling with the clasp on the purse in your lap. Hozier’s arm was resting on the console in between you, and every so often, his hand inched closer to you. By the time he pulled into the swanky hotel parking lot, his large hand was resting gently on your thigh.

Your stomach was in excited knots.

After another valet exchange, Hozier took your hand and led you inside the hotel. It was grand and beautiful – a $500/night type place. To the right of the entrance was a beautiful restaurant, speakeasy in style. As promised, a four-piece band was set up in the corner of the bar, playing soft tunes and creating the atmosphere of an underground jazz club.

“Told you,” Hozier said, raising his eyebrows playfully, “And the drinks are great as well. Had one before the release party.”

“It’s really nice.” You awkwardly agreed. Hozier stopped for a moment, his face unreadable. He stood before you.

“I also have a minibar upstairs in my room, if you want something to drink.”

“Oh, that sounds much better.” The coil in your belly was itching to be sated, and you didn’t know how much you could play this cat-and-mouse game of will they/won’t they. For a moment, a darkness of lust flickered in his eyes, but he simply smiled and took your hand, leading you to the elevator. He scanned his room card and pressed the button to the top floor.

The air in the elevator was thick, heavy. You both stood facing the door, saying nothing. As the doors open and he led you to his suite, your heartbeat doubled in time. Flicking the lights on, he shut the door behind you, placing the lock in it’s place.

It took all of 30 seconds before your bodies crashed together, teeth clacking and moans erupting.

Hozier grabbed you and pushed your floor length dress up so they he was able to wrap your legs around his waist as he carried you to the bed. Your arms snaked around his neck, fingers finding their way into his hair. You pulled back slightly, your breath ragged already.

“So what the fuck do I call you?” You asked, breathlessly.

Confused, he looked at you, “What?”

“I need to know what I’m saying when I scream your name later…is it Hozier, or is it Andrew?”

He barked out a laugh and bit your lip, “Andrew. Andrew is fine.” He pressed his lips on yours again, dropping on top of you as he guided you to the bed. His large hands ran their way up and down your waist, palming at the skin on your body. He was moaning, grunting into the kiss, as your tongues danced together. You felt his hands leave your waist and slip your heels off, your toes already curling.

Andrew pulled away and slipped off the tweed suit jacket he was wearing. He looked down at you as he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“So fucking beautiful,” He murmured, pressing hot kisses down your neck. “So fucking sexy. Every time I see you.”

You moaned and pressed your hips to him slightly, causing him to gasp lightly in surprise. He kissed down your neck, to your collarbone, gently slipping the thin straps of your dress off of your shoulders. Licking a stripe from your neck to just above your breasts, he smiled, looking at you.

“Fuck,” You breathed, looking down at him. You watched as he stood, slipping off his shoes and socks next to the bed. He unbuttoned his dress shirt and slipped that off, revealing his thin, hairy chest. He was lean, built lithly but strong. Biting your lip, you stifled a moan. He was on you once again, pulling you into a kiss, his hand cradling the back of your neck. His other hand made quick work of the zipper on the back of your dress, and he shimmed it down, before sliding it off of you completely.

Revealing the intricate…shapewear…you wore underneath.

For a moment, both of you stopped breathing, looking down at the ugly, functional corset that covered your body. Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together before looking back at Andrew. Suddenly, both of you were in hysterics.

“I really wish I was wearing some sexy lingerie right about now.” You said, throwing your head back and cackling. Andrew laughed and peppered kisses on your cheeks, shaking his head as he undid the shapewear and took that off as well.

“That was brilliant,” He said, wiping a tear away from laughing, “What a fuckin’ reveal.” As he took it off, you were completely nude, your skin softly pressed against his fingers. He groaned as he took you in, “That’s much better.” His voice was back to husky, low.

He kissed you once more before his fingers found their way to your clit, spreading your legs gently. He didn’t take his eyes off of you as his fingers felt your wetness. Quickly, he inserted two fingers, pushing his long digits all the way in. You moaned and furrowed your brow as he didn’t move for a moment, letting you adjust.

“You’re so wet for me already, darlin’.” He purred, his forehead on yours. You whimpered and nodded. He started to pump inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Immediately you started to squirm, which made me smile.

“Jesus Christ, Andrew.” You said, your eyes flickering to his fingers moving in and out of you. Heat rose in you as you watched him, the pleasure evident on his face as he licked his lips. When your eyes found his again, you found him looking at you, and not his handiwork.

“I love seeing you like this,” He said plainly, “You’re so beautiful when you squirm.”

He increased his speed, causing you to buck your hips. He nodded, his eyes twinkling, as he continued to pleasure you with his fingers. He leaned down to kiss you – a hot, open-mouthed kiss, with his tongue finding yours immediately. You moaned into it as he curved his fingers inside of you and took your bottom lip in his mouth, sucking gently. Pulling away, he dipped his head and moved his tongue to your hardened nipple, sucking on the bud as your body started to convulse under him.

The coil in your belly was tightening, and fast. Your hips started to buck faster, your wetness pooling out on to his fingers. You started to repeat his name like a prayer, and as you moved closer to the edge, your hand found its way into his hair again, tugging lightly.

“I’m close.” You whimpered.

“I know,” He smiled, moving his mouth to your ear, “Come for me. Be a good girl.”

You gasped slightly at his words as the coil snapped, bucking your hips one last time before your orgasm sent waves of pleasure through you. You moaned loudly, gripping the back of his head tightly as he bit down on your earlobe, never stopping his fingers inside of you.

“That’s it,” He groaned, his voice raspy, “That’s it, pretty girl. Give it all to me. Show me how pretty you are when you come for me.”

Your head swam and your heart raced, your eyes squeezed shut because you could focus. The pleasure that was spreading through you was warm, electric – it was one of the best orgasms you had ever had, and it was only with his fingers.

Jesus Fuckin’ Christ.

After a few moments, Andrew slipped his fingers out, causing you to open your eyes, your breath coming in heaving pants. He was smiling, obviously proud. Slowly, he licked his digits as he stood, moaning.

“Jesus, you taste delicious.” He said, looking at you. He undid the button and zipper on his pants, the obvious tent of his arousal very evident before he slipped them off. Down came his pants and boxer briefs, his large member springing free, wet with precum. He made his way over to a duffle bag thrown on a chair in the corner of the room and rifled through it, finally emerging with a condom in between his fingers. Opening it quickly, he slid it on himself, pumping himself a few times as he walked back to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Are you ready?” He asked, straddling himself in front of you, continue to stroke himself.

“Actually, if you’re not inside of me within the next few seconds I might lose my fucking mind.” You said, watching him. It was silly, but seeing him touch himself in front of you like that made him seem like a god. He smiled and crawled on top of you, slowly positioning himself at your entrance. As his tip teased your wet folds, you whimpered.

Finally, Andrew slid himself inside of you in a single thrust, his forehead finding yours again. Your moans filled the room, and as he started to pump inside of you, the familiar numb feeling of being filled spread throughout you.

“So good,” You said, closing your eyes and pressing your head to the pillow, “So, so good, Andrew.”

“That’s it,” He said, his breath hitching, “Wanna make you feel good. You make my cock feel so good.” He dipped his head in the crook of your neck as he started to slowly increase his pace, finding himself deeper inside of you. The sound of your wet skin slapping together filled the room, matched only by your breathy groans and his primal grunts.

“Fuck!” You shrieked, Andrew finding a particular spot that made your vision fuzzy. Andrew tilted his head up to look at you and he smiled.

“Yeah? Right there, darlin’?” He asked. You nodded, your brows knitted together. His hand found your chin, holding it roughly, “You like it when I fuck you right there?” You nodded again but he shook his head, “Lemme hear you say it, baby.” He gently commanded.

“Fuck. Yes, Andrew, right there!” You said, unable to take your eyes off of him. His eyes darkened as he continued to fuck you, his face flushing.

“My name sounds so good on your lips.” He groaned, continuing to pump in you. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he continued to hit your spot. His hand moved from your chin to your tits, and as he pinched your hardened nipples, you moaned. His thrusts became erratic, irregular.

“You’re close already, aren’t you?” You toyed with him, taking a moment to bite down on his bottom lip, “My pussy so good you’re gonna come for me?”

“Fuck,” He barked, furrowing his brows, “You’re so fucking tight…you’re so wet…I’m gonna come soon. I’m close,” His face flushed deeper as he stared into your eyes, making your heart thunder in your chest. Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut, his head thrown back, voice parted in a silent moan.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you, the condom filling with his orgasm. He jerked his hips, almost a spasm, as he moaned your name. His hands gripped the pillows on either side of you, his biceps flexing. You smiled as he finally opened his eyes, almost in submission as he rode out his orgasm. Your hands found their way to his back, gripping him and bringing him closer.

A few moments went by as he stayed inside of you, trying to catch up with his breathing. He placed gentle kisses on your cheek lazily, finally rolling out of you. Standing, he quickly made his way to the bathroom to toss the condom and clean himself up, but laid next to you again, scooping you up in his arms.

“You’re fucking incredible.” He murmured in your ear, his Irish accent coming out with his tired demeanor. You giggled and looked at him, brushing a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear.

“I’m really glad that party sucked so bad,” You said. He chuckled, his eyes still closed. Opening one, he looked down at you.

“Me too…” He paused for a moment, drawing you closer, “Though, even if that party was fun, I still would’ve made my way over to you.”

“Yeah?”

Andrew nodded and shifted so he was propping himself up on his elbow, “Yeah. I had been trying to muster up the courage for like…three awards shows to come over and say hi to you, now. Months worth of time.” He was somewhat bashful. You blushed.

“Well I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” He reached out and started to brush his fingers through your hair, and you couldn’t help the fluttering in your chest.

That party sucked. But you were glad it did.

---

A/N: I'm actually kind of obsessed with their banter and relationship...should I make this multiple parts?! I was originally only planning on doing this as a oneshot but I kind love them (teehee).

As always, comments and reblogs mean a lot if you liked this one <3 Thanks for reading

#hozier fic #hozier fluff #hozier smut #hozier oneshot #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier fanfiction #hozier fan fiction

525 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 3 months

Text

valuable lessons - price x afab!reader

; your captain fucks you on his desk after you fucked up a mission, letting the entire base hear.

cw: semi-public, degrading, mocking. 18+ mdni

note: i'm gonna keep my requests off after midnight, because i'll hopefully go through them tomorrow afternoon.

shame, you felt humiliated walking down the hallway. each soldier glared at you with annoyance and disgust as you walked towards your captain's office, being ordered there for a ‘chat’. everyone knew, soldiers quickly began gossiping about the failed mission, how if you weren't there, it would've went to plan. as this was captain price's mission, he wanted to have a firm conversation with you, one that would leave you thinking about it for days.

his tone was stern, it was degrading when he began to belittle you for being so stupid. i mean, it was an honest mistake – but, your captain was beyond frustrated, and you were just the straw that broke the camel's back, sending him into fury.

but, you expected to be punished differently. you expected that you'd be forced to clean around the base, do an extra three laps around the field, or maybe he'd go rougher on you during sparring to teach you a proper lesson. but, this lesson was sure going to leave a lasting effect on you, with his grip tightening on your hair and hips, his hips slamming against your ass.

he grunted out hoarsely, a grumble emitting from deep in his chest. you felt lightheaded, not a thought behind your eyes as he fucked you stupid. your cunt swallowed each inch almost gratefully, taking him fully down to the base, where he grinded and pushed further into you, nuzzling and prodding at your cervix. he wanted to teach you an important and valuable lesson by fucking you dumb – or even dumber than you already are... – mocking and bashing you for being so idiotic. your moans and cries only got louder, clit sensitive to the smallest of touch, body jerking and twitching with your orgasm.

“see, this is what happens’ to naughty girls.” he spits, the smell of his musk and spicy cologne filling your nostrils, your cheek pressed against his desk as he held your head down, fucking harder into you. each thrust had your cunny pulsating, with his meaty cock stretching you out, balls tight and full of white, not release.

“c’mon, let everybody know what cock dumb whore y’are...” while each thrust has your body twitching and trembling, cunt drooling around him as your orgasm rushes through you, walls clenching and clutching onto his shaft, causing him to release deep within your slick, and pussy.

safe to say, you learnt your lesson, the lesson keeping you awake at nighttime, alone in your barracks with only your fingers to pleasure the ache between your thighs.

#orla speaks #captain price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #price x y/n #price x you #price cod #captain price #price call of duty #captain john price #mw2 price #price mw3 #john price mw2 #price mw2 #john price cod #john price call of duty #john price

802 notes · View notes

luveline · 2 years

Text

𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫? | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what it’s like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, you’re upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and-

A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality – a normal summer's day in Hawkins.

Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden.

"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of ‘hello’.

"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly.

You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips.

"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants.

"Well, it's nothing like that."

The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.

"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it."

You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move.

You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want… I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin.

"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point."

"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip.

"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left."

Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains.

The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously.

"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous."

"You like her?"

"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat."

"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere."

"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week and…"

"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff.

"Right," he says.

You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile.

"Do you like to read?" you ask.

Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies."

"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear."

He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you."

You shift from one foot to the other — because oh my god there's a boy in my room — before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?"

"Uh…"

"I've got pink lemonade."

"Oh, then definitely."

You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers.

Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin.

"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table.

"I'm good, thanks," he says.

"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest."

"You're a Tempest girl?"

"Everybody plays Tempest," you say.

Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest."

"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."

His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly.

"How did you know that?" he asks finally.

"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd."

"I could be."

"But you're not."

You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat.

"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed.

"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon.

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you."

He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile.

"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.

You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?"

"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.

"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.

"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?"

"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke."

"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him.

"What do you want?" Steve asks him.

"Why do you assume I want something?"

"Don’t be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky."

"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring.

"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask.

Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily.

"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.

Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners."

"Can I please have a ride-"

"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry."

Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?"

"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way."

"Uh-huh," Dustin says.

The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands.

"I'm sorry about him."

"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do?

"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade."

"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door.

Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off.

The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.

When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth.

"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door.

You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed.

You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces.

You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?"

Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively.

"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently.

You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips – you're a mess.

"Skating? I don't have one."

"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades."

You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?"

"Now!" he says.

"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin.

Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait."

You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?"

"Totally," Steve says.

You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.

You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand.

Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustin’s redheaded friend.

You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best.

“It’s obviously Dancing in the Dark. I don’t really know why we’re still talking about this,” Robin says from the passenger seat.

“You’re just saying that because it’s his most popular,” the girl next to you says.

“Things are popular for a reason.” Robin shrugs.

“Yeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, it’s his best.”

Max scrunches up her entire face. “Better than I’m on Fire?”

There’s a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks.

“Nobodies talking about Born in the USA,” Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.

“Shut up, Steve,” Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when you’ve seen him coming in and out of Dustin’s. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit.

“Disrespectful,” Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About Springsteen."

You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. “I like Born in the USA,” you say nonchalantly.

“That’s two points,” Steve says triumphantly.

The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here.

Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you.

Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. “What’s in the Walkman?” you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck.

“Wild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.” It sounds like a question.

You’ve struck gold immediately. “I love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?”

Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. “I mean, only what they’ve played on the radio.”

“Her album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. It’s amazing.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap.

“For sure. You’ve heard Shiny Toys?” Max nods. “It’s all as good as that one. Seriously.”

“Awesome,” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich.

You realise you might’ve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steve’s ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly.

“My mom loves Joni Mitchell,” Robin says.

“Robin," Steve chides lightly.

“What?”

You and Steve share a look that’s so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least that’s how you feel.

Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. “Are you ready?” he asks her.

She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without.

“Why would you say Max listens to mom music?” Steve asks incredulously once they’re out of hearing distance.

Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“There were so many other things you could’ve said, Robs.” He sounds less mad and more pitying.

"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!"

"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly.

You know the best course of action here and you take it – in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice.

"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.

You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.

Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you."

"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.

You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids.

You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"

"Steve is."

"I didn't bring-"

"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."

Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes.

Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails.

"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him.

"I'm not good."

"You're doing great!"

He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him.

"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock.

You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye.

You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering.

"I'm sorry!" you say.

"Don’t be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. I’m glad you didn’t wipe out."

"Thanks to you."

You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart.

"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you."

Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot.

"I think I might need to sit down."

"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching – you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective.

You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot.

"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens.

"She's okay," Steve says. “Too hot. Budge up."

Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it.

"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.

"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends.

"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side.

"They should lock you up."

You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him.

"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out.

Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner."

"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies.

"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking.

He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close.

"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that."

Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?"

"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight.

She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red.

Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it.

He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player.

Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman.

The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over.

He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air.

Have you seen her?

So fine and pretty.

He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you.

"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight.

"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through.

You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!"

And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground.

He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him.

He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea – letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude."

Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty.

You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath.

"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."

He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy."

You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.

"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word."

His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word."

The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.

He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

"You’re a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.

"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in.

"Sick. Apparently."

"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?"

"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday."

You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?"

"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September."

"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense."

"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list."

"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche."

You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!"

"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?"

His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me."

"Of course they did. Why didn't you?"

You glare at him. "I was busy!"

"For the month it was in theatres?"

"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!"

"Like what?"

"Like school!"

"Everybody has school."

"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."

"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies.

You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"

He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality.

Yes, it's love in the third degree.

You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.

"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?"

He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.

"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly.

He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus.

Dance the night away.

"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling.

"You're enough for the two of us."

You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?"

"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work."

"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?"

"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks.

You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."

"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer.

"You'll burn your retinas."

"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?"

You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller.

"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours.

You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?"

Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO".

"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?"

"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one."

"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly.

"Shut up, Steve."

"You know… I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in."

The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve."

"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual.

Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect.

You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge.

He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel.

"Y/N. Hey," he says.

Still nothing.

He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping.

"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.

You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.

"Hello."

"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.

"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked."

"You're not naked," he says.

"I'm naked. Stop looking at me."

Steve turns away obligingly.

"Stop laughing at me, Harrington."

"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.

"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep."

Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car."

"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."

You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs.

"You're messing with me," he says.

"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you."

"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?"

You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty."

"So are you."

"You know what I mean, Steve. She's… small."

"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you."

"You're sure?" you ask quietly.

Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure."

The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy.

"Steve?" you ask.

"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers.

"Woah, thank you!"

"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month."

You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?"

"Nope."

You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion.

"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits."

You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it."

Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing."

"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie."

"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away.

"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything."

"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it."

You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke."

"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested.

You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is.

Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything.

You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place.

That's a dedicated employee right there.

You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch.

"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful.

"Steve," you say softly.

"What?"

"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me."

He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over.

"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?"

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature.

"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down."

Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.

Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back."

"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you.

"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?"

"It's on."

Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"Are you sure?"

His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face.

You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout.

"You can tell me."

The way he says it – well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue.

"Maybe not so much. It's… it's hot. You know? And…"

"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek.

You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

"No?"

"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs."

You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then."

"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common."

"You see me."

"When I'm annoying you at work."

"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday."

"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator.

"I can't stop watching the door."

You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache.

"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, but…"

You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently.

You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door.

"Dustin," you both say.

"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says.

You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door.

"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?"

"She's got heat stroke."

"I don't!" you call hoarsely.

"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?"

"She has heat stroke."

You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things.

"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again.

The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion.

"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket."

You laugh again, twice as loud.

"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head.

"What don't you understand about heat stroke?

"Potential heat stroke," you interject.

"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude."

"You should take her to the hospital."

You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?"

Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype."

"For what?"

"Top secret."

You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs.

Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat."

Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!"

"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa.

"I'm not dying, Steve."

Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense.

"Are you good?" he asks.

"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead."

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you.

"Don't die of heat stroke."

He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"What about The Breakfast Club?"

He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!"

You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away.

"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew.

Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.

"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says.

Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows.

"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.

"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night."

Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?"

"Well…" Dustin says. "I didn't ask."

Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half.

Better safe than sorry.

"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge.

Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans.

"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.

His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly.

"No!"

"You're her boyfriend, right?"

"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly."

Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows.

"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles.

Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend."

Four sets of eyebrows raise.

"I am! I'm romantic."

"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says.

Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look.

"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?"

"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly.

"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.

"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her."

"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says.

Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?"

"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me."

He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?"

They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in.

"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails.

"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess.

Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me?

You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath.

It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression.

It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever?

What if I feel this lonely forever?

You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands.

Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve?

If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.

You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit.

"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance.

"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.

The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go.

"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?"

"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!"

You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony.

"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me."

You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay."

He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path.

He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?"

A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates.

"Okay," you say weakly.

He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk.

The smell is beautiful. A floral wave.

The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas.

"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears."

"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble.

"Half the store. The other half's on standby."

"Standby?"

"I worried you might not have the space."

"I won't."

Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping.

"Why did you do this?"

"You…" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-"

"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion."

"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just… sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal."

You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious.

He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So."

"So you got me a florists?"

"Half."

You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it.

"They're for me?" you whisper.

"For you. All of them."

You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity.

"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone.

He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that."

You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly."

"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first."

You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose.

"Do you like them?"

The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder.

"I didn't know which one was your favourite."

All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet.

You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger.

"Thank you, Steve."

"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse."

"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.

"Shit," he mutters.

You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face.

"You're okay, baby," he says.

You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down.

The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.

Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.

"I know what'll cheer you up," he says.

You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out.

Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar.

"Oh my god."

"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.

"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand.

You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.

"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree."

He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing.

"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance.

"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!"

It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo.

Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop.

He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly.

"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask.

"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song."

"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album."

"You said however long I wanted!"

"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess.

"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush.

When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency.

"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully.

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels.

You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this – like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands �� you can't feel anything but happy.

"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek.

"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh.

"Good thing," you agree.

He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again.

You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing."

"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.

"You did."

"Sorry, I-"

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again.

"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness.

"Yeah?"

"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?"

"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.

You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond.

"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap.

"In a sec, just… let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek.

You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.

"You're beautiful," he says.

It’s funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thanks for reading!

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things

13K notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Note

I've never asked anyone in my entire tumblr presence, I'm excited you'll be the first, even if it doesn't get done 🙏☆♡🥬

Anyways, I feel like there is a very sad amount of Soap content on here so like..idk maybe pining Soap fluff??

He's totally the type of guy to follow someone around like a lovesick puppy and everyone notices except the person of interest LOL

Congrats on the milestone btw!! You deserve it 😼😼

—Oblivious Pining

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Johnny hangs off you like a silent beast. Not that you would notice, of course.] ❞

Everyone had seen it, and at this point, it had just become painful. The soft, gentle eyes—the instantaneous smile whenever your unit showed up, your form not for a second missed to those cobalt blues. The deepening color of his cheeks was another tell, along with how he would clear his throat whenever your eye caught his, quickly looking away as if a teenager sneaking glances at his crush.

Which was what precisely was happening, actually—minus the teenager part.

But the worst of it was that you had absolutely no clue.

Perhaps it was because you’d grown so used to his teasing attitude, or even his touches or his open expressions, but you, truly, hadn’t the faintest clue that those actions were Johnny’s way of saying he was interested in you. You went about your joint missions together, touching shoulders and smiling widely, and everyone was about ready to go right back to war just so the two of you could stop it with the puppy eyes already.

“I’m losing my mind,” Gaz utters, blinking in rapid succession at the two forms as they walk side by side across the tarmac. “I am absolutely losing my damn mind.” The exasperation can be taken and scooped with a spoon. The Sergeant gestures with his hand. “Are they bloody blind? Both of them?”

“Seems like it,” the Captain grunts, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as Soap’s hand comes up and ruffles your hair, you swat him away and playfully punch his shoulder. The Scot fake balks back in imaginary pain.

Price rubs a hand over his beard with a sigh as Ghost blankly stares from behind them, leaning back against the base’s walls. The Lieutenant breathes out, “Fuckin’ hell. Gonna be dead ‘fore these bastards figure it out.”

Your unit was sharing most of the same looks, rolling their eyes and placing bets once more on whether one of you would make a move. Across the way your face is comfortably heated, heart hammering and yearning for something more. Johnny thinks the same as he chuckles, one hand going to itch at the side of his head.

“Well, it was more than good to see you again, Dearie.” He says, and you huff a laugh. “There’s nothing better than watchin’ you work, eh?”

It’s a tease laced with truth, and you shift your feet, trying to hide the sudden flip of your intestines.

“Quit it, MacTavish,” your smile is infectious, and you send a glance at the setting sun before your smirk gradually grows. “In my opinion, you all hot and sweaty beats that out of the park.”

“Oh, aye,” the Scot cockily tilts his head, raising a brow as his stubble moves back. “Know it does.”

You chuff, head looking away in childish glee. “You’re impossible.”

“Ah,” he licks his lips, leaning back on his heels. “Don’t worry now, Little Lady, I’m all yours to figure out—I promise.” The flirting was a constant from both parties, and neither of you tired of it.

A small silence grew, and over the course of the last month or so, the pauses had become more and more frequent when the want to speak prevailed, but no one knew what exactly to say. You both blink at one another, noticing that you’ve both been staring heavily.

Johnny’s throat clears, and he licks his lips before quickly looking away; you awkwardly chuckle and decide that his vest is the most interesting thing in the world.

Both small teams want to bash their heads into a wall.

“I’ll be seeing you?” Johnny sighs softly, speaking as his accent grows deeper with thought. He wanted to scold himself for his cowardness but had no idea that you were doing the same.

“Of course,” you nod firmly. “I’m not as big of a fool to ignore my favorite Demolitions Expert.”

“You’re makin’ go all shy now, ya little beast,” Johnny levels, his cheeks gaining a reddish hue.

You spare a laugh, and that silence once more returns. He wants to tell you, but he’s not sure how, and that itself makes his body tense with indecision—tell you the truth, or live with his own hesitation on your answer. Spare the man, he was too blind to see how much you already adored him.

Blinking away, you clench your jaw and hold out your hand. “Until next time, Sergeant.”

Johnny smiles lightly, eyes going soft. There were so many things he’d accomplished in his life by running head-long into them; by barging down doors and thinking of an exit while his foot was already halfway outside. But this…this he didn’t mind taking his time with.

You were worth every second.

Johnny gently grasps your hand, squeezing it as he hums, lips twitching. The teams would have to wait in their annoyance for another day.

“Until next time, Dearie. Don’t be a stranger.”

1K notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

just-too-fat

Was wäre wenn...?

black--blizzard