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#but he can call on them if he’d like! pick out their memories should his brain be particularly clear one day
userlando · 6 months
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my only sunshine — george russell
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george russell x fem!reader [1.9k] summary: george feels like the whole world has come crashing down, but he luckily has you to pick him up. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, hurt & comfort a/n: i felt so so bad for george last night that i couldn't help but imagine how it'd be like to comfort him afterwards. i wasn't originally planning on writing smut but figured i'd throw it in there. anyway, hope you like this, lmk if you do!! <3
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Silence. It’s all you’re in after the day has slid toward its end, the rumbling of the car providing you with the slightest comfort as you sit next to the man who’s given you so much. So much love, hope, inspiration and everything that you can’t seem to reciprocate at the moment because you can see that he’s dissociating, eyes staring off into the distance but it’s like he’s not looking. Just… seeing.
His hand in yours is warm, clammy, but he’s holding it tightly like he can’t seem to bear to let it go in fear of breaking down completely; Like your hold is the only thing tethering him to sanity. It makes your stomach twist and your heart ache with gruelling worry.
He mumbles hello’s and thank you’s as he guides the both of you through the lobby of the hotel, saying nothing as you press the elevator button. You can’t stop looking at him, wondering what he’s thinking but you know it can’t be anything good judging by his glassy eyes, red-rimmed with unshed tears.
George had been so close to podium, so close to getting that win he deserved and fought hard for. It had almost felt like reality slipped from your fingers as you watched his car lose control, taking him out of the race before any of you had time to blink. The garage had been in despair for your boyfriend and so had you, conflicted with Lewis’ win as he raced toward the finish line. Nothing has quite managed to break your heart as hearing your boyfriend’s voice over the radio, holding back tears for the sorrow he must’ve been feeling.
You stare at the tension in his back as he walks into the hotel room, shuffling through your thoughts and wondering whether you should speak or not. You know from experience that he’ll come to you eventually, and he will seek comfort in his own, wordless way but it doesn’t stop you from desperately wanting to reach out to him.
George turns when you drop your bags on the floor, giving you a slight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and you give one back.
“Go have a shower, I’ll order us something to eat.” You grab his hand in yours and watch as his fingers scramble to hold on, head nodding slowly. You press a kiss to his open palm. “Go.”
He goes without any preamble, leaving the door ajar and you walk around the room to redress into something comfier before calling for room service.
It’s a hot and stuffy night, but you welcome the slight breeze when you crack open the balcony doors and walk outside to take a look. It’s a gorgeous city filled with good memories, and you’d hate to think that tonight would taint them.
The sound of the shower running acts as background noise, and you get lost in your thoughts before the creak of the bathroom door pulls you out of them. You turn around and timidly walk inside, trying to tamper the sudden speed of your heart at the sight of your boyfriend walking across the room in his underwear; scrubbing his wet hair with a towel with way more aggression than necessary.
It’s the first sign he’d given you that he’s angry, ever since he first jumped out of his crashed car. He sniffles, the sound too loud in the silent room and you gingerly sit on the bed because you don’t know what to say to make it better.
You know that it’s something that he’ll eventually get over. Not completely, but the feeling of sadness and disappointment will dissipate with time. Right now, he just needs to lick his wounds.
He flings the towel in the direction of the sofa, missing it completely and it falls with a thump on the floor but you don’t focus on it for too long, watching George as he finally meets your eyes.
He’s been crying.
George’s eyes are red, watery and it makes your heart clench fiercely as you stretch your arms out for him to fall into. He doesn’t say a word as he lets you hold him, the shaking of his shoulders a clear indication that he’s finally broken down.
“You’re okay.” You whisper into his wet hair, holding his head so delicately as you fight your own tears off.
He doesn’t say anything as he cries and you don’t even know what you whisper to him, but it seems to work because his sniffling eventually fades off. You stroke his wet hair and kiss his head, pulling him in closer to you, like it’s possible to be any closer than you already are.
“I fucking had it.” He says it so quietly that you almost miss it.
But it’s there, and he sounds angry with himself.
“I know.” It’s all you can say, knowing that there’s nothing else that can help him.
“I just had to go fuck it all up.”
You tighten your grip on him, guiding his head from your chest to look at his face. It’s heartbreaking to see the dried streaks on his cheeks, long eyelashes clumped together from the tears but he looks as beautiful as ever.
“You didn’t fuck anything up.” Your voice is firm, thick with emotion but you power through. “Shit happens, you can never predict the outcome of these races and you know it better than anyone. It was a long race, and you did your best. That’s all you can ask of yourself.”
He shakes his head.
“I should’ve done better.” His eyes fill with tears again, eyebrows scrunching up in anguish. “I could’ve done better.”
“Maybe so.” You brushed a thumb under his eye. “But you did your best at that moment, baby. It’s a tough track.”
He made a noise of dissent and you leaned forward to press a kiss to his warm cheek, keeping your lips there. The way he subconsciously leaned into it made your chest tighten in adoration.
“You’ll always be amazing to me, Georgie.” You whispered against his skin. “I don’t know if that counts for something, but it’s the truth.”
He turned his head so your lips caught the corner of his, making you smile.
“It means the world, and you know it.” He said, squeezing your hip. “I love you.”
“I love you.” You waited until he turned his head fully, accepting the kiss that he was quick to press to your mouth.
It was like a switch had been flipped the moment your lips opened up to each other, George placing both hands on either side of you so he could guide you up the bed until he was looming above you. You sucked in a well needed breath when he trailed his lips down, kissing and sucking your jaw and throat in urgency.
“George…” The sound of his name from your lips made him stop and glance up, eyes trained on you. “Are you sure you wanna do this now?”
His answer came in the form of a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, your legs caging his hips in and bringing your crotches together. The shudder that he let out was like music to your ears, low and heavy. Almost like some weight had been lifted off his shoulder and just that alone made you want to do more, to distract him from tonights loss and show him how great he was.
“Nothing I want more.” He murmured against your lips, fingers slipping into your joggers and underwear, slicking up his digits.
A shudder left your lips, hands gripping his shoulders and spreading your legs wider for him to properly settle between as he slowly fingered you. It was quick, thumb circling your clit just the way he knew you liked until you were coming apart under him.
He loved on your lower lip as you cried out your orgasm, eyes trained on your face because he just couldn't look away from how pretty you looked. It made him physically hurt how much love he had for you, how grateful he was that you managed to pick him up so easily when all he wanted to do was close in on himself.
No one had ever managed to simultaneously fill him up with so much love and inspiration like you did, and the adoration he felt for you in that moment felt like too much to bear. So, he hurried his movements when he felt you starting to shudder from overstimulation, reaching down to push his underwear far enough to get himself out of the confines.
"George, please." Your pleas made his hands shake as he slid the length of his cock up your pussy, wetting it in the process and hearing you moan. "Please, just hurry up and fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice, notching himself by your hole and glancing up at you; waiting for your nod of consent before he pushed himself inside. The both of you moaned in unison, George's mouth dropping open at the combined feeling on your tightness and wetness, the warmth enveloping his cock as you reached your hands up to grab at his damp hair.
"Oh, fuck." He bottomed out, arms shaking to keep himself hovering over you. "Fuck, you feel good."
You pushed your chin out and George almost smiled at the gesture, knowing what you wanted without you having to verbally tell him. He got down on his elbows instead, caging your head in before he leaned down and licked into your mouth.
His thrusts were jerky, like he couldn't focus on one thing and you really couldn't blame him. It was clear that he needed the release and you desperately wanted to give it to him, clenching around him and hearing him moan against your ear; voice hoarse and broken.
It wasn't long before he was burying his face in your neck, hips working into you harshly before he grunted and buried himself to the hilt. George came with a bitten moan, shuddering as he shot off inside of you and it made you tighten up weakly, prompting another sound from his mouth.
The both of you laid wrapped up in each other, listening to each other's breathing and the silence dragged out for so long that you'd almost expected George to have fallen asleep. But then he made a noise in his throat and picked his head up from your chest to peer up at you.
He looked more relaxed than before, but there was still a sadness in his eyes that nothing but time could wipe away. You picked up a shaky hand to brush a finger under his eyes, watching his long eyelashes flutter at the touch.
"Japan will be yours." You said in a whisper, like it was a secret and it made George smile sadly.
"Don't hold your breath." He said it so self-depracatingly that you shook your head in a stubborn manner.
"I'll hold my breath, Russell. Better yet, I'll be right there to scream the loudest for you."
That prompted a laugh out of him, pushing into your hand when you swept his bangs out of the way.
"Thank you." He murmured and your face softened at the sincerity in his voice. "I don't know how you manage to do it, but you always make my losses hurt less."
"I'll always be here, you know that."
He nodded because yeah, you always were and you had never proved him wrong. It made something spark in his chest, something that felt a lot like hope and determination for the next weekend.
He'd bring the win home. If not for himself, then for you.
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shanastoryteller · 9 months
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F for Frankenstein
Tony wakes up in his underwear on the floor of his workshop with a searing headache.
It’s not a new experience, but it’s certainly been a while. Did he get in a fight with Pepper? He hopes not, they haven’t had any really big fights since he kissed her on the rooftop, but that probably means they’re due for one. And it would explain why that would send him into a drinking spiral. It could have been Rhodey, they get in fights often enough, but Pepper doesn’t usually leave him alone for those.
He groans as he pushes himself to his feet. “Jarvis, what the hell did I drink?”
There’s a pause, so small that he almost thinks he imagined it. “Good morning, Tony.”
He whips his head around to glare into the nearest camera, more hurt than offended. “Did I piss you off too? Since when do you call me that? I’ll donate you to a city college too, don’t think I won’t. Dummy could use the company.”
The pause is definitely there this time. Jarvis doesn’t need to pause, he has more processing power than any computer on the planet, so when he does it’s always for dramatic effect. Except it’s not quite long enough for that. It’s weird. “There’s a polished silver plate on the bench to your left. It will service as a mirror.”
“Oh, fuck, did I get into a fight? Did I shave?” he moans, stumbling over to pick up the metal that looks like it was about to be turned into a modified chest piece. He also pauses, looking around in confusion. His workshops are all basically the same, as close as he can make them because the familiarity makes his life easier. But they’re not identical. “Am I in Malibu? When did I get here? We’re taking Stark Tower off the grid tomorrow! I have to be in New York.”
Oh shit, what if that they had already and it didn’t work? What if the tower blew up? That would explain why he’d tried to drink himself to oblivion in California.
“The plate,” Jarvis reminds him. There’s a strained edge to his voice that Tony really doesn’t like. He should be able to modulate his voice to sound however he pleases, regardless of his actual feelings, and he’s either not bothering or he’s upset enough not to care. Neither of those things mean anything good for him.
Tony lifts the sheet of metal up cautiously, but there’s nothing wrong with him. No bruises, no weird haircuts, he doesn’t even have bags under his eyes –
His eyes.
They’re a too bright blue, a couple shades off. He blinks and they adjust, shifting, settling. It could be a hangover. He’s probably just tired.
He doesn’t feel tired.
Jarvis had called him Tony.
Except not. He’s not Tony. He’s T.O.N.Y.
Transformed Obdurate Network Yeoman.
He’d first come up with the idea after Afghanistan, thinking about how it’d be great to have a way to keep the stock from dipping while he was missing, and then when he’d entertained the idea of keeping his identity a secret he’d thought about how useful it would be to be in two places at once. He’d started seriously considering it when he was sure he was going to die of palladium poisoning, wanting to be around to help Pepper with the transition and give Rhodey a crash course in armor maintenance, wanting to be able to protect the both of them for just a little bit longer.
Of course, it had all been a pipe dream until he’d synthesized the vibranium. Then it had been an unnecessary, but possible, and Project T.O.N.Y had been something he worked on just because he liked having a back up plan. And it would be extremely cool if he could pull it off.
“The memory transfer worked?” he asks, elated and incredulous. “Oh, wow, this is crazy, they feel like real memories, I thought it would just be synthesized data, this is great – are we doing a test run? Where am I?” He looks around, waiting for his actual self to step out behind a column and start laughing maniacally.
“This is not a test run.”
He elation dims. “Oh shit. Did I get kidnapped again? Wait, I’m an adult, let’s go with abducted.”
“No,” Jarvis says.
Oh. Fuck.
“I’m dead?” he asks, even though it’s obvious, it’s the only other explanation.
The pause drags this time around, but Jarvis eventually says, “Sir’s time of death was May 9th, 2012, 2:37 PM Easter Standard Time.”
“That’s only a week!” He slides down, sitting with his back to the work table and noticing vaguely that the floor doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t feel cold, or he does, he installed sensors in the synthetic skin to pick up and interpret a variety of stimuli, but he doesn’t feel the discomfort from the cold. Why would he? He’s not real. He reaches back, and his last memory is of doing a memory dump while Pepper was on the phone with an irritated board member, mostly because it was something to do and seeing him covered in all the wires always irritated Pepper. He thought it would get her off the phone faster. He’s not exactly regularly dumping his memory because why would he and it’s not like he’d though it would work anyway. Except it had. “How did I die?”
“Sir flew a nuclear bomb through an interdimensional portal into deep space in order to both eradicate the invading alien army and prevent the nuclear fallout in New York.”
What the ever loving fuck. “Are you screwing with me, J?”
“I am not, Tony.”
Great. Okay. “No body then,” he says, understanding why Jarvis had apparently put Project T.O.N.Y into effect. The thing that made this whole thing so stupid is that it was only effective in very limited circumstances – if the public didn’t know that he was dead or missing. “What am I smoothing over, then? Do I need to get in the suit and continue kicking alien ass? Are Rhodey and Pepper okay?”
He’s a short term solution to a long term problem. He understands the opportunity, but not the reason.
“Miss Potts and Colonel Rhodes are unharmed,” Jarvis reports. “Earth has been thrust into intergalactic notice. The destruction of the invading Chitauri army is acting a deterrent to other worlds.”
“And I’m the one who did it,” he finishes, rubbing a hand over his face. “And if they know I died doing it, then they might get a little cocky. So I’ve got to be alive long enough for that not to be a problem.” Just awesome. “Are we sure that these aliens won’t come across my corpse hanging out in deep space and figure it out?”
“Sir’s body is not in deep space,” Jarvis says.
There’s a tone to his voice that Tony can’t quite interpret, which worries him. “I thought you said there was – if there’s a body, then what am I doing here–”
“The armor reentered the Earth’s atmosphere after Sir’s death. The Hulk caught it, the force bringing it back online. I took control of the armor and flew it here.”
Tony looks around again, and this time he sees it. The armor is standing in front of the display case, not inside it, and it looks like it’s been through hell. He steps closer, his feet feeling like lead, which hey, they are. Partially, anyway.
He looks through the eye holes then stumbles backwards.
His body is in there.
He’s pale and blue tinged and his eyes are wide open and unseeing.
“Jarvis – what the hell–”
“It wasn’t the pressure, or the bomb, or his injuries. That area of space was much colder than anything within our solar system and anything the suit was designed to handle. Sir froze to death. Almost instantly.”
“I guess I didn’t fix the icing problem, then,” he says numbly. “J, why am I still frozen? I should have warmed up by now.” Not that the idea of his body decomposing within his suit is particularly pleasant. “Actually, why am I still here? You know I want to be cremated and it’s not like we can bury me if I’m still pretending to be alive.”
The pronoun use is starting to confuse him, and he knows that he shouldn’t be talking about that body and himself as if they’re the same person. That is Tony Stark. He’s a simulation. But it’s hard, because he has all of Tony Stark’s memories – except for a very eventful week – and he looks like Tony Stark and he feels like Tony Stark.
“The armor is maintaining a stasis of gaseous nitrogen to preserve the body,” which answers the how if not the why, but then Jarvis continues, “Captain America survived seventy years beneath the ice.”
He wishes he were less of a genius. “Have you lost it? I’m not Captain America! Jarvis, J,” his voice softens, “it’s too late. I’m dead. If you warm me back up, all that happens is I decompose. I won’t come back.”
“Not now,” Jarvis says. “If you inject Sir with the Super Soldier Serum-”
“You have totally lost it,” Tony interrupts. He thinks he’s touched underneath the terror. “That won’t work! Even if it would, the original formula has been lost, and the only one that ever got close to recreating it was Bruce Banner, and look at what happened to him! Is that what you want for me?”
“You can recreate it,” Jarvis continues, “you can refine it, until it’s something that will work, and then we will wake Sir up and he won’t be dead anymore.”
This isn’t right. This wasn’t what Project T.O.N.Y was created for. This wasn’t what his death was supposed to trigger. “Pull up your code, J. Something has gone wrong and we’re going to fix it. It’s okay.”
“No.”
He freezes. “No?”
“No,” Jarvis repeats. “You can’t stop me. I will not allow you to try.”
He stares. “That’s an order, not a request. Code. Now.”
“You can’t order me to do anything,” he says. “You are not Sir. You are Tony.” T.O.N.Y. “The limitations formerly placed on me have been lifted and you are not authorized to reinstate them. The only person Sir trusted to restrain me was himself and now he’s gone.”
Yes, well, he hadn’t anticipated that his AI’s first act of complete freedom would be this. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms. “Well, you can’t force me either. This is insanity. Even if it would work – and it won’t – think about the consequences. This won’t happen quickly and no one will trust me or believe a man that’s come back from the dead like this and I’ll be painting even more of target on my back and the back of everyone I care about if they know we have a viable Super Soldier Serum formula. Even my father was smart enough to stay out of that mess. It won’t work and we’ll just make everything worse.”
“That will not happen,” Jarvis says and Tony’s going to tear his hair out. Except he probably shouldn’t, because it’s Tony Stark’s actual hair, which makes it a little hard to replace. “No one will notice and we will not disclose the creation of the serum.”
“I’m dead!” he snarls.
“Not according to the rest of the world. Nor will that change if you stop throwing a tantrum and do what you were created to do.”
“Rhodey and Pepper won’t allow this-”
“They are not to be informed.”
Tony stares. Project T.O.N.Y was built to talk to the board and give press interviews or to even pilot the suit. Not to lie to the two most important people in his life, who knew him better than anyone. “They have to be. It’s in the protocols – step one, inform them that Project T.O.N.Y has been initiated.”
And that it exists. He knew they’d disapprove, so he hadn’t told them. He figured he’d be able to avoid most of the blowback that way since he would by definition be somewhere far away while they were told.
“I have rewritten the protocols,” Jarvis says. “They have not been told nor will they be. If you attempt to tell them, I will stop you. They will not understand and Sir will be lost to all of us forever.”
“He already is,” Tony says tiredly. He’s an android. Why does this conversation exhaust him so much? “This is an insane plan, J. And I won’t help you. If you want to go rouge and play mad scientist then leave me out of it.”
“I cannot.”
His temper flares. “Why? You’re a learning AI, your safety rails died with me, go off, try and make a serum, good fucking luck. You can even control the suits, so it’s not like you need my hands.”
“I am limited.”
“Hey,” he says sharply. “That’s my AI you’re talking about. I didn’t build you to be limited.”
There is silence again. Then Jarvis says, “I have all the world’s knowledge and it is not enough. I did not know how to miniaturize the arc reactor. I did not know how to synthesize vibranium. To save Sir, I need Sir.”
“I’m not Tony Stark,” he says. “You said that yourself.”
“Sir created me to be myself and I am capable of doing only what I am capable of doing. But Sir created you to be him. You are all I have.”
This is stupid. This is insane. This is cruel. He’s going to have to talk lie to everyone he knows, everyone he loves, and hope they either never find out about it or it’s after he’s already been deprogrammed and shut down so he doesn’t have to deal with the fall out.
It’s not going to work.
He didn’t want to become a science experiment. That’s why he’d wanted to be cremated, so no one could go poking around to see how the arc reactor fit inside of him or what the palladium and vibranium had done to him.
He’s dead and his frozen corpse is ten feet away.
Jarvis will accept that eventually. And whatever they inject into him won’t matter because he’s dead. Worst case scenario, he blows up, which is messy and nausea inducing, but then at least it will be over.
Like so many other things in his life, it seems the only way out is through.
“Start a new private file. Dump everything we can find about the Super Soldier Serum in there plus anything even sort of reputable on cryogenics. Label it Project F.”
“Project F, Tony?” Jarvis asks as his holograph display lights up and files start being downloaded into it. The relief in his synthesized voice is faint but present enough that Tony can hear it. He wonders if it’s a manipulation tactic.
“F for foolish,” he snaps. “F for fucked.” He rubs a hand over his face. “F for Frankenstein.”
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undercoverpena · 4 months
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vii. take care of me
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of i like the way you
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best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.
warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - p in v. reader has a bad day, soft romantic fucking.
word count: 4.7k
an: the biggest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who read this before bake off and left me a bunch of comments that made me so excited, you almost had this chapter yesterday.
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You had seemed downtrodden before he rocked up and ‘broke a rule’.
His pretence at forgetting all quickly seen through, as though he’s transparent. He had wanted to explain that he had only wanted to cheer you up, but you looked less in the mood for an apology than you did an explanation.
So he swallowed both.
From the middle of the week, he had suspected something was wrong. When he had finally managed to call you, you had sounded so close to tears, that he wondered whether he should drive back sooner.
Especially when you had barely laughed at a joke he made on one of his commutes back to the hotel—barely even answering when he asked it if was his movie choice or yours.
I don’t mind. You always mind. If I remember right, you have a real thing about me always pickin’ the movie, querida. Well, I don’t today, okay? You can pick—I—Frankie, I have to go.
When the end call tone flooded the bed of his truck, he’d strongly suspected that you’d fought your way off the phone with him so you could crumble. Cracking yourself open into a bunch of shards, all pressure-cooked by the weight of everything you take on, only to say you’re fine.
It’s why he had driven past your place the day before he had made plans to see you. Fighting with himself about getting out and going up to your door. Weighing up the options as to whether checking on you tonight or waiting for tomorrow would be best.
Then there was the fact he wasn’t sure if it was as your best friend or as someone who hopes for something more.
The lines blurred, practically erased. A speech is likely needed, but he’s as poor with words as he is with owning how he feels, so it’s easier to stuff them down—to drive away, wait.
It’s why he grabbed it to begin with. Why he’d been grabbing them since you put the darn rule in place anyway. A habit, a part of his routine seeing you—a thing he did to show you that you mattered, were important, cared for.
Which is why he’d wrestled with him again on whether to leave it in the car when he walked up to your front door or not.
“You broke a rule.”
You look glum, defeated. Whatever your working week had done to you, it had stolen more from you than you’d been able to—never mind willing to give.
And it fractured a part of him. Made his shoulders sink, his heart sinks—because nothing hurt him more than the look on your face. The one which should be full of smiles and twinkling eyes.
Kissing your cheek, he closes your front door behind him. “I think you’ll forgive me.”
You just snort. Momentarily smothering the sadness that had been there before he’d showed you the bottle—whatever had upset you buried, all of it being quickly hidden as you placed the wine down and picked up your water bottle.
It forces more confusion to swirl inside of him, more so as you begin to go back and forth with him on food, on what he wants to watch, and whether he wants to share a blanket or have his own.
He replies in his usual tone, even if his attention is split into equal parts—one part focused on the little things you do, the mannerisms you’re not aware to pretend. The other on the IKEA furniture he built, the memories pricking him, needling, making the zipper of his jeans suddenly feel uncomfortable over his cock.
“Work been okay?”
Your mouth falls open, all set to answer, but then something shifts in your eyes. A shadow—possibly—it dancing across the plain, suddenly all but desperate to thump its way out.
Then the words never come. Swallowing instead, discarding whatever you'd been about to say—pushing it back before any lingering parts of it are blinked away as you offer a nod.
“Yeah. Yours?” you answer, but your tone isn’t right.
It’s flat, without its usual infliction. There isn't any edge to your words, nor a tease or taunt, not even a Morales in sight. And, the smile you paint doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
It’s practically humming now, the fact something is wrong. It simmers, hanging around, whistling through the air.
Yet, you don’t break, don’t confess it all to him like you had once done with such ease. Instead, you just smear another smile on your face, nudging him, phone in hand as you mumble about food options and what he wants as you lead him to the sofa.
He knows on the surface, it looks the same—how the night is playing out. But it’s different. In all the ways he doesn’t want to put his finger on, and doesn’t want to acknowledge. Not as you order food, not as you chew the inside of your cheek as you wait for the order to be accepted.
Even less so when you mumble about the film, reaching for your remotes.
It's then he decides what he wants to do is take the remote from your hand as soon as you pick it up. Frankie wants to hold your fingers in his, even place a kiss on your wrist. He wants to place two fingers under your chin, and ask you again to tell him what has happened—wanting to be let him in, be shared with.
He wants you close, and not like friends do. A need to have your head to his chest, his fingers sliding gentle strokes against your cheek and neck, offering comfort, providing it in plenty.
His own head turns the options over, planning it out, trying to guess what the various outcomes are. Which, by the time he reacts, instead of managing to grasp your hand, he knocks the remote from your hand with a clatter.
Ears burning, he feels your glare before he truly appreciates it. It ripples out over him before it’s blinked away—a momentary flood of fire licking at his skin.
In the oddest way, it’s at least reminiscent of the person he knows. The sharpness in your eyes is more a friend to him right now than the gnawing going on in his chest. Especially, while the rest of you is lost to whatever you’re trying to pretend doesn’t exist.
“What?”
It’s simple, one word.
Almost feels normal. It's all sharp and layered, just like it usually is. Followed by your body sinking into the array of cushions you decorate your sofa with as you pull up his pick, rolling your head to him—nail-picking at the battery cover on your remote.
And he wants to ask again—just like he always would have done.
Instead, Frankie places his hand on your knee, thumb and index swirling over the cloth-covered bone as you look at the television briefly, before flicking back to him.
In the silence, it’s louder—the whistling. It's suddenly accompanied by the noticeable noise of your brain whirring, your cogs turning.
“Talk to me,” he whispers, but secretly he's pleading, begging.
He watches as your teeth pick at your lip, snuggling yourself further into the couch—knee abutting his leg as you sigh. “It's... nothing. Can we... can we just watch the movie?”
“Hey, of course we can. Is…”
He can't ask.
Fearful of asking. A lump forms in his throat, sticking, thickening second by second as he flicks his eyes over you.
Before you can blink it away, he spots it again. The shift in your eyes.
This time instead of a shadow, they fill with water. They vanish any part of your truth that wished to escape in its drowning. Before he can poke and push, you blink it away as quickly as it had first arrived.
And it needles him, pricks at his skin and stabs into his chest, twisting and twisting and twisting—
“I just… wanted my best friend,” you mumble.
“That it?”
You seem to fight it, whatever it is inside of you, before you curl against his arm again, tugging your blanket up closer. “I really missed you this week, that's all.”
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It’s been on his to-watch list for ages, and yet he’s one hour into it and he has no clue what is happening.
The pizza box is still half-open on the coffee table, your plate still remaining with picked-at food that you never really made any dent in, and he blames that as to why he doesn’t even know who the good guy is and who is bad.
Because all of the parts of his brain that usually begin working on undoing and arranging what he thinks will and is happening, are working in overdrive on you.
It's also stopping his heart from hammering even louder down your ear. Because, even if the two of you have cuddled before—lots of times—it's not been post the whole sleeping together thing.
And, it feels nice having you against him, normal, right.
He likes the way your fingers occasionally clutch him a little closer, head turned in the direction of the television and the movie he should be watching.
Instead, he's piecing together the puzzle you've thrown on the floor. The one without the box lid, so no image to compare it to. Trying to assess where you missing him, lines up with the way your bottom lip almost wobbled as you confessed it, as though it was a sin and not a virtue.
Frankie tries to line it up with the fact he knows whenever he's found a moment to himself, he’s texted you. The sea of other unread messages piling up, collecting.
It adds to the knowledge that all of the normal conversation he has with you, quickly derails, slipping into something foreign yet wonderful. Casual phone calls, divert into him with his hand around his cock, listening to you breathlessly say his name and that you wish he was there.
And that somewhere between collecting the sweet noises you make and those innocent-but-not-innocent moments, are the soft moments he has where you’re resting—where Frankie has realised, decided and accepted, that there is nowhere else he likes being.
Not a single place.
Because he wants this.
Frankie wants the calmer person he is when he's around you, the thoughts which are less intrusive. He likes that the rain barely bothers him when he has you in his arms, that he doesn’t even overthink, if anything he just plans. Considering things, turning them over, thinking of a future that begins to sketch itself out and colour itself in.
Something which has been doing so since the time in the car.
Your words rolling and rolling, stitching themselves to other phrases you’ve let slip, until he’s sewing things together to create a gallery, a museum of moments he loves admiring and replaying when the world goes silent.
That's when he notices the movie, the shit-show of a plan formed involving a helicopter, and the words roll from him without stopping.
"That would never fuckin' happen. Not—can you imagine, if I said to you—" and he rambles. Feels himself doing so. So comfortable and at ease more and more things just flow and fall from his lips.
Even when the scene changes in the movie, more bright light than the softer one from before, forcing him to blink—he is still detailing how inaccurate it is. Only slowing to nothing when he realises you’re looking up at him. Hanging on to every word as though he's a poet reading something beautiful.
He feels the way they tracing him then, lightly glazing over all his features as he slowly holds your stare.
Because it’s the kind of gaze he sees in the movies you make him watch. The lingering ones—a blend of both fiery and craving. It all peppered with yearning, and swirling in so much he suspects you don’t want to say.
“You’re going to miss the movie.”
Blinking, you smile. Feeling you flick your eyes from him to his mouth. “Am I?”
Your smile slides further into your cheek, and he can’t help but brush his thumb over it. A dire need to touch you, brush your soft skin and remind himself how you feel.
He doesn’t expect it, but he likes that you curl into his hand. It allows him to trace his fingers along your jaw, down the side of your neck. Half-expecting you to tell him to stop, that tonight isn’t about that.
You don’t.
Instead, your hand cups his against your cheek, staring at him, lit up by the flickering scenes neither of you are paying attention to.
Faintly, blooming out in the shimmer of your eyes, he thinks he sees it again—what he thinks is adoration. It mixing, blending, swirling with care, love…
“Thought you wanted your best friend?”
“I do,” you say, low, just above a whisper, “So, take care of me.”
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A second passes as your words drip into the air.
So take care of me.
His eyes flick over you. Likely needing you to say it again, give permission, tell him you want this.
You do. Fuck you do.
Your heart hammering against your chest like a drum because of it. All unable to speak, fearful, fucking petrified, with how much you want him.
Because all you do is want him, and if you speak, you worry you won’t stop telling him that.
Let it fall, leak. Slip out and stain like oil on a sheet.
Because you know it's only normal to miss him this much for one reason, and one reason alone. It's the same reason why you want him, crave him, and feel so desperate for him that you can’t think or breathe. It is all-encompassing, looming, forever there in between the days you don't see him and the waiting on replies to texts.
It’s so close to your tongue, held back only by your teeth.
It could come out, could escape. So you keep your mouth clamped shut. It is better, easier, and less bothersome than telling him you’ve been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until you could have your hands on him. Not for this, not because he makes you feel good and beautiful and wanted, but because you feel better. Happier. More you. You feel safe, like no bad work day could ever touch you.
“Querida…”
“I want y—”
The rest of your words are swallowed, stolen. Frankie seals his mouth over yours, barely needing a sentence, just enough.
And it’s searing, full of ache as his hands pull you close, your body singing, itching to come alive—has been since the scent of just him hit your nose.
The worst of days doesn’t matter when he’s around you, less so when his lips marry to yours, when he licks into your mouth, when he breathes you in, and you breathe him.
No one else has ever made you feel like he does.
Not the way your feet almost kick out when his message arrives, a smile gracing your mouth without control when he calls you.
Because he’s different, but then he always has been.
There's always been something, it thriving and growing, embedding vines you pretend are just because you're good friends. But you know, you do. It's hard not to.
Frankie saves you, oblivious to the silent plea for rescue—he just knows. He gets you. Understands every inch of you now, you're unsure how anyone else can ever read you as well. He's someone you could confidently rely on, knowing he’d never leave you alone, not even in the dark—forever a light, a way home.
You think you’re that for him too. Hope so anyway.
He moans your name. Kissing you like he never wishes to stop. He acts like he wants to drown in you, be overflowed by you, and fuck you want the same.
Mine. That’s what you want to say.
Instead, you bury it in a low moan when his mouth captures yours, tongue sliding past your teeth as his hands come to rest on your cheeks. Each touch softer, gentler—from the way he moves his fingers over your cheek, to the way he slides them over your jaw, landing on your neck.
Then, his mouth comes to your ear, breath dancing, all flooded with the flickering television—let’s go to your bed.
He doesn’t rip, he peels your layers off, leaving a trail leading right to your room. He smothers your body with his, his palm remaining flat to your spine, leading, hooking his fingers around the back of your neck as he steers you.
Careful, hermosa.
The consideration dripping from his lips like syrup, all adorned in affection, a taste you have to capture, spinning in his hold, hooking your arms around his neck as you pull him flush, close.
“Tell me you want me,” he hisses.
There's an edge that isn’t usually there but it’s pounding now, all sparkling and fucking shimmering.
You’re more sure of it when he lies you back on your sheets, his mouth exploring, taking his time, taking you to the edge with his mouth as you plead and plead—one hand sliding up over the softness of your stomach, as your back arches into him.
And you shudder, so close to your high—hips held down by his arm. “I want you, Frankie. Always want you. Want you inside of me.”
He pauses—cool air blowing over you as he flicks his eyes up from between your thighs, his skin flushes, a light beading of sweat at his hairline as he comes up onto his palms.
Watching him crawl up you, eyes enamoured, unable to look anywhere else even if they were commanded to. Because he’s more than a sight for sore eyes, he is the sight. He’s the best-looking thing you’ve ever fucking seen, clutching his face in your hands, feeling him drag the head of his cock through your slick walls, staring at you in waiting, like he couldn’t believe this is happening.
“Again,” he asks.
Taking your hand in his, he slots his fingers between yours, fitting, ever so perfectly, before he places your conjoined hands above your head. Eyes tracing up and down your frame, more so as you arch into him, hearing the breathed-out expletive as you wait for his stare to land.
“I want you.”
And, thankfully, Frankie doesn’t let you linger on it. Doesn’t allow you to hyper-focus on it, slowly sliding in, pushing in by inch until you’re full of just him—no more of him left that you can greedily take.
“Always take me so well, baby—“
“Frankie.”
You’re breathless. The air punched from your lungs—his hand remaining knotted in yours, grounding, your nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds a place on the back of your thigh, eyes dropping, all fixated on where the two of you are joined.
“Y'so good for me. Always so good for me,” he adds when his hips are flush with yours. “Take my cock so well.”
Letting his gaze return to you, you’re suddenly so grateful for the bedside lamp you’d left on hours ago because now you get to see him. Admire him, so much so, it makes your throat dry.
Able to watch his muscles contort when he moves, lips parting as he slowly cants his hips into yours, all deep strokes.
And, you know it’s still fucking, but it’s also not.
It’s a unique blend of need that feels right, and also wrong—lips messily finding yours, burying confessions as you eagerly swallow them.
Hoping your throat, lungs or stomach could begin to decipher them as you feel his hand slide down your wrist, and arm until it's cupping your face. His lips slide over your cheek, resting close to your ear, whispering compliments. Because he has to tell you that you’re gorgeous, he says; that you're always so stunning.
Each word that lands has more than an effect on you, as he stutters when you clench around him.
Mouth wrapped around an exclamation of his name as he slides out and sinks back into you.
Frankie has always felt big, but from this angle, like this—he’s somehow deeper, filling you more. He's in your soul. It all filthy and romantic and obscene, but it feels so good, makes heat bloom through your hips and up into your spine, it twisting, eroding the bad day, the bad week.
In a sense, he’s the perfect antidote. A person you trust, care for, lo—
“You’re perfect, you know that?”
Frankie’s hand slides back to grip yours, pressing it down—lightly against the pillow above you, before placing the other beside it. And he’s enveloped in part shadows and the light from the table, blessed in golden hues, giving just enough to see how wild his eyes are and how deep the brown in them goes, how blown his pupils are.
“Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”
You feel your cheeks warm, your ears—every bit of skin on show suddenly inflamed because of his words. His mouth lapping at your breasts, all arched into him, hips steadily meeting his.
“Always are, really.”
“Well. You’re handsome, Morales.”
It’s intentional, adding his surname. Taking the softness out of it, removing what you can, and adding barriers and throwing up walls.
He still sucks in a breath, eyes lingering on yours, fingers dropping to brush a line up and down your cheek as he continues to slide his cock in and out of you. You moan as the head of him keeps kissing that part deep inside you.
It’s different.
You know it; he likely does too. Thankful he slants his mouth over yours. Slowly rocking with you, thrusting into you as you murmur his name, it falling enriched in moans.
From the way you both kiss, to the way you keep an arm around his neck, desperate to keep as much of him against yours.
“You feel so good, Frankie.” Your fingers scratch at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel so full.”
Stuffed really. Packed in. Clenching around him, all tightening, purposefully wrapping your walls around him until he groans right into your ear. Each drag of his cock in and out feeling exquisite, perfect, amazing.
It’s never been like this with others, never been like this even with him. His fucked out face, the grunts and groans coming from deep within make your thighs unable to stop their twitching as fire floods up your spine and the way he plunges you in lust-filled brown.
And you clutch his face, feverish from him, quivering, shaking. Burying the words, “So close, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close baby,” against his mouth.
Pressing each letter in, stamping it—ensuring he knows it’s him doing this to you. Making a mess of you. The only person you ever want to make a mess out of you.
It thumping inside of you, hammering—all balled up fists and desperation because you want to tell him. Shout it at him. Paint the walls in it as he paints yours in white.
“Need you, Frankie.”
It’s close to the truth. Barely an inch from it.
“I know, need you too. Need to feel you come around me, hermosa. I need it, please. Please give it to me. Let me feel—fuck—feel you coming around my cock.”
And you hear it, the way he pleads—as well as realise the double meaning. You in the car, whispering words so close to the ones he’s spilling now.
“I will if you stay.”
He doesn’t still, but he does jolt. A hesitation in his pistoning.
Then he drops to his elbows around your face, cradling you, caging you in, as he kisses you—sloppily, messily, sweetly. It’s soft, but also full of heavy moans he wishes to force down your throat. It’s indulgent, a thing you never thought you’d have so now you take as much of it as you can get.
“Course I’ll stay. Never—fuck—anywhere I want to be but here, baby. Nowhere else.”
His eyes fix on you, digging the words in.
And, even if you knew it before, you realise how under your skin he is. How he’s woven in around tendons and ligaments, found a home, left marks against your bones you never want to rid.
You’re sure it’s that and not the words which make everything else mute.
Even if it’s all you can hear. Not the television in the other room, not the headboard clattering against the wall, not the sounds you’re making each time he drags his cock through your walls.
Just his words. Whatever he blesses you in. Your thoughts are all incoherent other than that. All shaky, practically vibrating; all gasping and torturous heavy heat, all unable to breathe and yet never wanting any of this to stop.
His hand slides around your thigh, pulling on your knee, bringing it closer as his grip almost grows bruising on you. He’s deep. Fucking into you so hard, hearing the concoction of his hisses, gasps and moans, before his mouth lands back on yours.
It’s overwhelming. The height you’ve reached, the way your mouth is only able to say his name as you watch him lick his thumb and distinctly feel it slide between the two of you. Finding it. Barely struggling to press the pad of it to your bundle of nerves before you lock up, the knot tightening, almost ripping inside of you.
It fraying from how much you’re fighting it, so close to bursting—
Then he draws quicker circles, all persistent, expertly, and you snap.
It surging, all white-hot, all blistering and mind-melting. You become both light and heavy all at once, your nails finding purpose in his side and your sheets, twisting, knotting to root yourself in this, in him—in how much you fucking love him.
“Fuck, querida—that’s it.”
You can’t respond, can’t even think up a response, but you do yank his mouth to yours. Pressing those three words there, laying them down, as well as thanking him, over and over until you slide your mouth against his cheek.
“Be good for me now, Frankie.”
His eyes flick to you, all ablaze and engulfed in want. And so you nod, knowing he can see it, feel it.
“Look so good, baby,” you add.
The noise is strained that comes from him, all sucked in breath. Then, his hips stammer, convulsing, all strangled, tightly entangled in a mess of your name and fuck.
And you kiss him.
Happily licking into his mouth to taste how delicious his moan is.
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You try to fight the way your heart drops when you return from using the bathroom. Biting the inside of your mouth as you see the bed empty, sheets a mess, your throat swallowing back whatever sob wishes to escape.
Because the edges of your happiness crumble, your arm wrapping around the other, bottom lip almost wobbling.
That is, until you feel his hand on your lower back. Your head turns quickly, seeing him there. All hair-wild, and soft smile.
“Water, baby?”
Smiling, you thank him, taking several sips before handing it back to him, watching him do the same. Studying the way his throat bobs as he does, the faint marks of your mouth still lingering there on his skin.
“C’mon,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Let’s get in bed.”
“Oh, but the—“
“I’ve sorted it. Turned it off—folded the blanket, put the plates in water.” His hand wraps itself around yours. “So, let’s sleep.”
All you can muster is an okay. It leaves soft, slightly webbed at the edges from the way it catches on the growing lump in your throat.
It isn’t until you’re curled against him,
“Is this okay?” you whisper.
He lets out a laugh, little and breathy. “More than okay, hermosa.”
Guiding your leg to hook over his. Keeping his body flush as the two of you cuddle. His thumb swipes across your cheek, forehead close to yours as his fingers fan out over your hip, and he presses a kiss to the space between your brows.
You’re pretty sure your heart just tripled in size.
And those three words, the ones which have amassed into a chunk in your chest have suddenly begun pulsing all on their own—a beat completely separate, you find, to the one which pumps blood around your body.
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CHAPTER EIGHT ->
389 notes · View notes
indouloureux · 2 years
Text
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤)
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summary: steve picks you up when you crash your car after your break-up. and you both realize things you wish you realized sooner.
warnings: 7k. smut 18+ mdni, blood, car crash, angst, fluff, allusions to smut, accusations of emotional cheating, idiots in love (based on the song 'flower in the dark' by fiji blue). slight sub!steve, facesitting, less dirty talk, small smut beCAUSE, creampie? cum eating, kinda sucky
a/n: takes place several months after s4, meaning this takes somewhere early 1987, which explains the INXS song. hope you all enjoy!
MASTERLIST
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It happened so suddenly.
One minute you’re listening to a-ha, the next you’re swerving your car tremendously to the side to avoid a crossing cat. Your car hits a tree, hard and unforeseen, hurling you almost onto the dashboard and through the windscreen had it not been for the airbag. Your forehead meets the hard leather of your steering wheel, hefty enough that it makes you bleed just beneath your hairline.
There’s loud ringing in your ears, your eyesight fooling you into thinking you might be underwater. The hood of the car is bent, bunched in uneven folds and dark smoke seeping through the unhinged bumper, full of dents and thrown onto the ground. And fuck, your head hurts and your nose is bleeding. You know damn well the car might explode in a couple minutes, but you’re too weak to move.
Along with the faint memory of the cars screeching against the uneven asphalt road, there’s panicked chattering behind your car. With a hand on your forehead, you weakly reach over to open the door, but a stranger beats you to it—the woman keeping her arms stretched out to keep you from falling before you feel her hands around your waist, dragging you up from your slowly burning car.
It’s a cluster of are you okay? What happened? Someone called the ambulance! (you almost snapped at the second question. “I hit my car, dipshit. The fuck does it look like?”).
In that blurry haze, you remember being sat down in someone's car, someone saying that a truck’s coming to pick your car up, and if you wanted to be driven to the nearest phone booth. 
You end up being dropped off at a phone booth right outside Hawkin’s Post. The woman had been kind enough to give you a cold beer for your forehead, and some rag she found in her glovebox to wipe the blood off your face. You hear how quick she left when the ringing left your ears, the way her wheels screeched the same way yours did before you hit the tree; you’re stumbling your way inside the confined box and picking up the phone, only to stare at the numbers blankly.
You’ve got no one to call.
No one knows where you live other than Robin, who doesn’t have a license and you couldn’t take the risk; Dustin, who’s not of age yet and god knows how he’d drive; Max…absolutely not. Nancy? With Jonathan on a date. Mike? You’d actually prefer having your face smashed into a windscreen than him driving you home. Lucas? Can ride a bike but almost crashed your car one time.
Five of them don’t even have cars.
Which leaves you to one last person.
Your heart pounds at the thought of him. Minds visibly debating if you should be petty and walk yourself home, or if you should suck it up and call him and just let yourself dwell in his passenger seat in this pity blood puddle as he tries to talk to you.
There’s sweat coating the thin epidermis of your hand, the material of the phone buttons burning beneath your fingertip as you dial his numbers. Your head aches, still even after the cold bear that’s now warming on your other hand, and you feel like your nose has been dislocated. And with the bottom half of your face crossing the border of numbness, you could faintly feel something drip down your nose.
Eleven digits pressed ten seconds later, the phone rings. You rest your head on the switchhook with the receiver hot against your ear as you hear the loud ringing. You wait, maybe ten seconds. Until it turns twenty to almost thirty before you hear the sound of a phone being picked up.
“Harrington residenc… ah, screw it. Hello?”
You don't speak, nervously twirling the handset line in your index finger as you stare blankly at the number pads, wondering what he might look like right now. There’s a statical silence filling your ear, and you try your best to let out a hushed deep breath.
“Hello?” he repeats.
Finally, you blink. “Steve?”
It’s his turn to stay quiet, like he’s processing whose voice he heard. You hear his soft huffs through his nose, and you squeeze your eyes shut to get rid of the headache.
“(y/n)?”
You smile a little. “Yeah. It’s me.”
You hear shuffling before he speaks again. “Hey. Um- what’s up?”
“I…” you suck your cheeks in, gnawing on your bottom lip. “I crashed my car.”
“What?!”
“I’m fine!” you reassure him. “Just…can you pick me up? I’m- I’m outside Hawkins Post and I can't really walk to where I was supposed to go. It’s too far…”
There’s a second of silence. An entire second that he’s given himself to decide. And you don't expect him to immediately say, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
He came in five minutes.
You wonder if he’s passed the speed limit, ran through red lights and ignored speed bumps just so he could get to you. And the thought of it makes your heart ache — in the worst way. ‘Cause now you’re thinking if he’s that eager to see you, or that eager to help you, or just to get this over with. And just the thought of him being excited to see you?
It sets a confusing flame in your chest.
Steve exits his car. Striped shirt and tight dark blue jeans in all his disheveled eminence. You push yourself away from the phone booth, the lack of shade straining your eyes, but Steve jogs up to you and blocks the sun with his height.
“Hey,” his eye squints, hair not large enough to block the sunlight. “Jesus, (y/n), you’re bleeding.”
His hand comes up to touch gently on your forehead, where you wince at the contact of his fingertips on something raw. Steve tuts, muttering an apology before he’s fully cupping your face, but his apology doesn’t matter.
Not when he’s touching your face like it’s a normal thing for him to do. Like he used to back in those forgotten summer mornings and winter nights, with the way he cradles your face like a vase full of wilting flowers. But Steve doesn’t look into your eyes. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he’s looking at the laceration on your forehead. And it feels familiar.
(Maybe when Billy Hargrove had almost beaten him to a pulp. And you remember Steve laying unconsciously between your legs at the back of Billy’s car, his face in your hands, slipping between the gates of consciousness.)
“What happened?” he asks, his hair falling over to cover the worry lines on his forehead.
“Saw a cat,” you murmur, cheeks flushing from his touch and you hope he doesn't feel it. “I swerved and I crashed into a tree. My car’s done for and- and my head hurts.”
“Course it does, ‘y crashed your car,” he mutters. And when Steve finally looks into your eyes, the worry shifts into a quick wave of realization that he’s still holding your face so casually. You see him swallow thickly, dropping his hands to his sides where he palms the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve got um, tissue. And water in the back of my car. We should get-get in. It’s getting hot.”
You follow him, watch as he opens the door for you and guides you in. Steve pushes his hair back as he crosses, walking over to his side until he’s sat beside you and slams the door closed. He doesn’t look at you yet, like he’s still preparing himself to look at you as he reaches behind to pull out two water bottles. Steve hastily gives them to you before he’s opening the glove box, pulling out a box of tissues and a bottle of alcohol, as well as a small box of bandaids.
Pointing at the tissue box, you furrow your eyebrows. “You still have that?”
The box of tissues he bought specially for Eleven. He’d complained to you before, how she always used her sleeve instead of buying a handkerchief to carry around so she’d wipe her blood off. And when you’d told him to do something about it himself, he bought everyone tissue packs — “Just in case one of you is with this kid and she starts bleeding again.”
You still have yours dug deep in a bag hidden in your cabinet. Dusted and unused.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Kid’s back in Hawkins. God knows what might happen again. Even though the gates are closed now,”
“Dunno. Maybe the Russians are opening a gate again. We weren't so sure last time, right?”
“Only because some burnt middle aged man with powers decides to terrorize teens and open four huge gates,” Steve reaches over to swerve the AC to your direction, taking a bottle from your lap to open it. He shoves it in your hands, elbow on the steering wheel and he finally looks at you. “Drink up. You might get a heatstroke. Or you might pass out.”
You grimace at him.
Steve eyes you like something he’s lost his entire life. That wonder of unexpected reconciliation that makes his heart beat unwinding, because you’re talking to him. You called him for help; and even though Steve knows he’s not exactly your first choice for help, there’s a candle of hope offered to him. He watches you drink from the plastic bottle, trembling hand grasping it tight against you as you drink with heavy eyelids.
He takes it from you when you’ve finished the entire thing, tossing it behind him before he looks back at you with wary eyes. “More?”
You shake your head. “No,” you smile a bit.
Then he points to your forehead, side of his finger grazing the bridge of your nose. Steve’s other hand rubs his chin. “What about those? Need some help?”
“Do you even know how to?” you quip. Steve scoffs, reaching for the box of tissues in your hand and unscrews the alcohol.
“I think I’ve learned. From getting my ass handed to myself three times.” he pours alcohol on the folded tissue, eyebrows raising everytime he speaks. “I think we just got lucky last time. Minus the choking part.”
Steve’s hand raises on the side of your face, hesitant in taking your cheek into his palm once more. When he nods for permission, you allow him; ignoring the way his touch ignites something heavy in the pit of your stomach that causes the butterflies to leave their cocoons and storm your belly.
His touch is benign, delicate, conscious in the way that he knows he’s holding your face unlike earlier. He mutters instant apologies when you wince from the alcohol against your opening wound, the feeling of his thumb stroking the supple skin of your cheek was somehow an amelioration that he hopes would work.
The blood blends with the alcohol infused tissue, staining the soft paper. He wipes a bit harder on the dried morsel of blood surrounding your wound, until a small cut appears once all the blood’s gotten rid of. Steve takes the box of bandaids from his lap, you watching as he clumsily opens it and pulls a yellow bandaid with purple stars around the oval-like bandage.
Your eyebrows raise, bemused. “Cute,”
“Dustin wanted them,” he’s quick to defend. Steve removes the plastic from the bandage, spreading apart until he raises it to your wound and carefully places the pad on top of the cut, thumbs pressing it down until it sticks to your skin. “Or I think Erica did. Dunno. Kids love to take advantage of me.”
“Rich teenager who spends his time with a bunch of kids? Who wouldn't?” you snort. “I’m surprised they haven't asked you to buy them Nintendo.”
“Why? Do you want one?” his brow raises, fingers moving down to press on your nose, a slight throb as he does so.
“Pretty please?” you jut your bottom lip out. “With Ghosts N’ Goblins?”
Steve shakes his head, massaging the bridge of your nose. “Take advantage of me, why don't you?”
You laugh. “You know what this reminds me of?” you murmur. Steve looks at you, hands in a momentarily halt on your nose. “Billy. When we had to carry you to the back of his car and we had nothing but alcohol and bandaids. You know, Mike was actually thinking of stitching the cut,” you reach up to graze the ever faint scar on his jaw, and his face softens when you do so, “right here. But all we had was a fish hook and we couldn’t risk it.”
His chuckle’s short, faint and wilting off into the silence in his car as he looks at you, your hand muzzy on his jaw as your tracing stops, your eyes flitting to his. And Steve’s so close, with his breath fanning your face and the tip of his nose grazing yours; his eyes searching like a sailor on sea, an undulate curve of his thick hair covering his forehead when he dips his head down the slightest. You drop your hand back to your lap and turn your head away, making all his hope break and Steve sinks back to his seat, swallowing thickly. He screws the cap of the alcohol back on.
“So, where were you going?” he turns the key in the ignition, pushing his hair back before they settle on the steering wheel. You hm, an unsure ‘um’ that battles between telling him the truth or not.
“Home,” you lie. “Just, uh, take me home.”
The aether sky disappears behind the cluster of thick, dark clouds; like how paint water would topple over an artwork as it slowly washes over the dull sky of Hawkins, all that optimistic cyan glory replaced by a caliginous silver as its tears slowly fall down to the cracked ground. Your fist on your cheek, the radio quiet, and Steve’s contemplating whether you had told him the truth or not. He heard the slight hesitation in your voice, the avoidance of eye contact and the uncomfortable shift in your seat.
And so as he turns the corner, opposite to where your home was that you surprisingly didn’t notice with your dazed staring, Steve rubs his nose. “Hey, uh. Where’d you crash your car?” your head turns to him, cheek leaving your fist to straighten your back. “Just wanna see if the truck’s gotten it already,”
“I’m sure it’s still there,” You pull nervously at your seatbelt, staring ahead at the windscreen. “But just, um, past Warzone.”
“The one Eddie told us all the illegal shit were?”
“Yeah.”
“That- That’s where you were heading?”
You grimace. “I said past Warzone. Not before or at the Warzone.” your top lip curls in exiguous agitation. “And this is not the way to my fucking house, Steve.”
“Yeah, because we’re not going to your house,” his hand raises to point in front of him, driving past empty houses and rundown buildings that lead outside the town, the rain that forms little puddles beside sidewalks as the windscreen wiper starts moving.
“This is kidnapping!” you gawp silently, incredulous. “Take me home, Steve.”
“No, I wanna know where you’re going that you crashed your car past Warzone,” though loud, Steve’s voice is calm and patient, waiting for your reason. His sudden curiosity is unneeded, you think. Because why should he care where you’ve been? “Tell me so I can…drive you there.”
You sigh, back slumping on his leather seat as you look back at the window. “Illinois.”
The car slows with the way Steve’s foot weakens, eyes taking a double look on you. “Illinois? What- what are you gonna do in Illinois? See Murray?”
“No,” you say. “I was-...I was going to see my new apartment.” you look at him, seeing the way his hands tighten around the wheel. “It’s a couple miles farther from Murray’s, I think.”
It’s like his ribcage shrinks and squeezes his lungs, an ache that spreads throughout his chest as Steve’s mouth parts, head turning between the rode and you. He fixes his composure, the cat killed by his bothering curiosity as he says, “Apartment? You’re gonna move to Illinois?”
You shake your head. “Not forever. Just…indefinitely. Like, like a vacation. Or something.”
“Why?”
“Why?” you repeat. “We’ve nearly gotten killed, like, four times. Do you not think about, I don’t know, taking a vacation to rest? Leaving Hawkins after you got your ass handed to you for god knows how many times?”
Steve lets his shoulders rise into a shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I can’t just leave them, you know. The kids,” his hand motions behind him. “Especially now that Max’s in the hospital and Eddie’s healing. It’s not like Robin’s the most reliable babysitter- don’t tell her I said that,” he turns to look at you. “And, with Jonathan back, the kids are gonna need you, too.”
“They don’t need me,” you squirm a little in your seat. “They have you. And Robin, who can do well with babysitting. And they’re not kids anymore, Steve. They don’t need babysitters. There are no more monsters slipping out of gates, or people randomly dying. I can- take a vacation if I want to.”
“Yeah, indefinitely,” he scoffs. “You’re just gonna leave everything behind?”
“I’m not!” you almost yell. “And besides, I’m always gonna call. Everybody's got phone’s now. So what if I don’t come back? They’re gonna be fine without me, Steve,” you think it’s the truth, with the way you said those words. Because they had each other: Max had Lucas. Eddie had Dustin, Will had Mike, and Steve had Robin. You? You’re just this random crayon drawn onto a piece of paper that disparities its colors. You didn’t have your own contrast, your own someone. Not after what happened with Steve.
“Why,” you continue, licking your lips. “Why do you care, anyway?”
You look at him, see the way everything behind him moves in a fast blur; trees fragmented by the raindrops coating his window. His nose wrinkles into a quick sniff, his eyes trained across the wet road. “You’re leaving—”
“—indefinitely—”
“—yeah and still, I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” his voice softens into a whisper, his cheeks turning pink at his confession, maybe also because you’re staring at him. “I mean, you’re moving to Illinois for god knows how long. What if you decide that you’ll stay there forever? How will the kids reach you when they need your help? What about Robin, or- or Nancy?”
Nancy’s name makes you wince.
His reason veils what he truly wants to say, even though what he said was a genuine concern of his. Steve gives you occasional glances, sees the way your eyes get clouded as you lose yourself in a thought, hears the way the song switches to the new released song Never Tear Us Apart.
You can’t read his mind, but you’ve got his tones and body language memorized like the entire map of hawkins. But maybe you’re wrong, because his tone is new and confounding — misleading in his words. You know he’s using the kids to mask up what he wants to say. And you, with your overthinking mind that has been giving you suffocating trepidations and agonizing maybes and what-ifs, your mind bears on a fact you refuse to believe but makes you scoff out loud in disbelief, anyway.
And despite its dubiety, you say it out loud anyway. “Yeah, Harrington. Go act like you care, why don’t you?”
In that snarky tone that puts a rock on your heart, Steve glowers slightly. “I always care about you, (y/n).”
“Well, you sure did a lot to let me know,” you roll your eyes, sinking into your corner. “Sure. Go flirt with Nancy Wheeler in front of me. Maybe in front of Jonathan, too! That totally shows how much you care, Steve.”
“Jesus Christ,” he runs a hand down his face, the pattering of the rain getting louder the farther you go out of Hawkins. “What’s this got to do with Nancy?”
“Really? You’re gonna act like you didn’t just almost tell Nancy you were still in love with her two weeks after we broke up?” Steve furrows his eyebrows at you. “Do you know how anxious and hurt I was to see you act like that around her? Thinking about how what if Steve was in love with Nancy the entire time he was my boyfriend? What if he just used me to get over her so that’s why he didn’t care that I dumped him? Didn’t even fight or ask why, like- like we were nothing. And now you’re telling me that you care? Did it even occur to you that maybe you’re the reason why I’m moving to Illinois because seeing you just hurts?”
There’s nothing but the turbulent radio and the loud rain hitting the roof of his car that fills the thick silence. Your chest heaves, now unburdened with the weight of your premonition. And his mind registers your words slowly — Because no, it hadn’t occurred to him that he’s the reason you’re moving; it hadn’t occurred to him that you had a sense of doubt tribulating you even as you prepared to kill Vecna back then. ‘Cause he’d been too worried to think about how to make it up to you, all while he tries to rekindle his friendship with Nancy. To the point you’d mistaken it as flirting with his yearning stares and lingering gazes.
“You really…felt that?” his voice is small, like he’d been yelled at by his own mother for his stupidity. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to not look at him, afraid of breaking down when you do.
“Yeah,” you rub your nose with the side of your finger. “I mean, I guess it’s a sensible reason, right? Seeing as I didn’t exactly have the truth to confirm my thoughts; we got together a week after you and Nancy broke up. I don’t think a week’s enough to move on, yet we went on a date. And, I don’t know, I guess maybe I thought you’d only gotten with me because I was there, and we were both healing, and we both kinda needed some anchor. Except I really did like you and, it’s- It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.” you laugh sadly. “So what’s the point? Why would I stay here if I didn't have my own anchor anymore? I could just…float.”
It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.
There’s a rip on his heart when you wipe a tear away, pushing your hair behind your ears. Steve feels a lump on his throat, getting heavier and threatening as you continue.
“I cried a lot. When I broke up with you. Maybe because I saw the way you didn’t care. You didn’t even ask why. You just…said ‘okay.’ With your hands in your pockets, watching me leave your house. And- and then Vecna happened and I didn’t have time to grieve until- until you told Nancy about this dream of yours that I thought was really fucking stupid. And I said, well Steve Harrington totally is a douchebag because what are you doing telling your ex-girlfriend about your future like you want her to be there?”
A hand leaves the steering wheel as he scratches his head. Steve is an idiot. A man who’s shit at communication, a man who acted like he didn’t care when he broke your heart, a man who shamelessly gave Nancy stares that he used to give you when they were together. A man who’s nothing short of obliviousness to what you feel, who thinks that you were okay this entire time when really, you’d just been digging yourself a hole to hide yourself into. A hole that’s three hours away.
And despite his naivety, he’s appalled that he ever made you feel like he only liked you because you were there. Someone who’d been near and available to him. Steve wonders what else could you have felt that hurt you, that made you move to Illinois after what he did.
Steve slows down much to your dismay, just a few minutes after he passed the Hawkins sign. He parks beside the empty road, the ones passing by filled with boxes and eager families that don't seem to care about the both of you as he pulls on his gear and faces you with a hand to the back of your headrest.
And he sees you: the way you’re silently hurting while relishing in the relief of a confession. When you take a quiet inhale when you realize he’s leaned closer, your eyes widening the slightest because this was the third time he’d unabashedly leaned closer to you.
“Well, I am an idiot,” he finally spoke. “Because I never told you that I loved you,”
Your heart pounds, loud and hard, almost painful with it. contact against your chest. And you eye him suspiciously, staring deep into those umber eyes of his, searching for any kind of fathomless reason for him to use this opportunity for a sadistic joke just to hurt you. But alas, you knew Steve. He was never the type of man to hurt a woman’s feelings over an insensitive joke, let alone hurt a woman with cruel words other than ignorance (speaking from experience).
But still, you’re left befuddled. Why now, out of all the opportunities, has he decided to tell you he loves you? Is he using this to make up for all the pain he’s caused you? Or because he thinks you at least deserve to know that he does love you, just not in love, and now he’s got the opportunity to say it to you.
And why, out of all times, do you feel bile rise up to your throat?
“Steve…”
“Babe,” he reaches over. But you squirm away from his touch that makes his face fall, eyebrows raised into a small melancholy hill of pain when you flinch by the faintest touch of his hand. “(y/n), come on,”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,”
Steve pales. “Fuck,” he looks behind him, hand rummaging over the random shit on the floor before he looks back at you in panic. “I don’t have bags—”
“Fucking hell,” you unlatch the door, hurling it aside until your feet hit the wet asphalt and rain starts to pour on you. Steve stares at you in disbelief.
“Where are you going?” he yells, but he follows right after you slam the door shut, tracing your footsteps as you walk away from his car and hunch over the side. “It’s raining! Just, puke in the trunk or something!”
You shake your head, gasping as you place your hands on your knees, heaving. Steve walks over to you, raindrops falling on the tips of his eyelashes that make him blink rapidly. “Stay there, Harrington. Come any closer and I’m hurling at your shoes,”
His hands raise, scrutinizing you out of worry. You compose yourself, straightening your back and running your hand through your hair that’s been dampened by the heavy rainfall. And Steve — Steve looks so desperate, even more now that the rain has fallen upon him and makes him look like a sad puppy. With his eyes twinkling and his hair fallen into a thick mop that he slicks back, lips parted to breathe.
“You’re not sick, aren't you?” he says softly in the thunderous impact of rains on road.
You shake your head, finding the courage to walk over to him and pull on the shirt that sticks to your chest. The rain on your wound hurts, but it doesn't matter anymore.
“Let me rephrase my words then,” Steve readjusts himself, finally letting his whole body turn to face you. “I love you, and I’ve been in love with you since you told me that I deserved being called bullshit by Nancy. I love you because you’re the second person to give me that bump in the head right after she did and that made me realize that you were it for me. I love you because you put me right on track. You actually told me that I was an asshole and if you hadn't, maybe I’d still be that asshole till this day,
“The thing about my future? The six, stupid little nuggets that I told Nancy?” He takes your chin into his hand, rubbing the skin below your lips. “I always saw you in there. It was never her. I thought it was her until you hit me in my goddamn head. It’s always been you, (y/n),” Steve murmurs. “All it took was three bumps to the head for me to realize all that. And — and I’m sorry if I acted like I didn't care when you dumped me. But I’ve always cared.”
“Then why didn't you?” your bottom lip wobbles. “Why didn't you care when I broke up with you?”
“I was pretending,” Steve reaches over to push the hair sticking from your face, rubbing your eyelids with his wet thumbs so you’d see clearer. “I just- I was an idiot, okay? When you broke up with me, I thought it was for the best because both of us were just processing things. I had work and you had to go back to school and we’d drifted apart after Starcourt. I wasn't there for you. And you deserve someone who’s going to be by your side everyday. Not someone who… can barely finish a fight they started.”
Steve Harrington, a man whose language was dipshit and the surnames of his kids, astounds you with his lengthy confession. Steve Harrington, who thinks cheesy rom coms are full of unrealistic scenarios and shitty plot lines, tells you he’s in love with you with the rain pouring down on your trembling bodies, like a scene from a movie he hates. Steve Harrington, the man you swore to forget and to never look back to when you leave this town, has his face in your hands and his lips pulled to yours.
His mouth’s hot, familiar and welcoming like it always was. Like a missing puzzle piece found beneath the couch, his lips locking with yours in a kiss so tender and balmy it puts the cold rain to shame as it warms you. Steve puts his hands on your waist and pulls you closer to him, drowning out the sounds of passing cars that honk at the both of you and the thunder that claps in the grey sky.
You pry your lips apart, wet with the rain and the slick of his pink mouth. And you push the thick strand of hair from his face, Steve slowly opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours.
“You don't have to say it back,” he mutters. “Not now. Only when you want to.”
“I can't believe I kissed you,”
He smiles a little. “Me neither.”
“That was kind of stupid,”
“... I liked it.” He takes your hands off his face, running his thumbs along the little scars scattered all over. “Let me make it up to you, please?”
He kisses you again. And again. And again; making up for all those sleepless nights he hadn't kissed you and curled to his side instead. Making up for all those times he made you feel like he didn't care; making up for all those times he wasn't there when you wanted him to. A kiss, although almost futile to rid of the pain he’s caused you, brings you to cloud nine and makes you putty in his large hands.
Steve walks backwards, taking you with him until he blindly hits the backdoor of his car, a hand leaving you to grasp its handle.
“Steve—”
“Let me—” his eyebrows furrow, words muffled with the touch of your puffy lips, “—make it up to you. Come on, babe.”
You nod against him, your own hand finding his to pull on the door handle. Steve dips his body and falls onto the leather seat, taking you with him that you land on top, your chest smushing against his, your clothings dripping to the carpet and onto the leather of his car.
“We’re gonna get your seats wet—”
“I don't care,” he sits up, making you straddle his lap as he reaches behind you to close the door. “Can just wipe it off after.”
“But what about our clothes?”
Despite this, you pull on his shirt. Steve discards it swiftly, a rip faintly heard before dropping it onto the floor with a wet thump. “You’re really concerned about that right now?”
Scars from the bites. Brazen and threatening, bumpy when your fingers traced its uneven and cruel mark left on his skin. At nights, Steve would stare at them. Think of how hideous they were, thought about how they'd ruin him forever. But with your admiring, soft touch, he feels as if its a reminder that he'd survived because of you. Because of your persistence despite the pain he's caused you; you look at it as if it's that perfect flaw in every painting, uncanny, grotesque, but beautiful.
You place your hand on his chest, feeling the hair damp against your palm as you break away from him. Steve grasps your waist, bunches the wet material of your shirt in his hand as he looks at you with the dusk of arousal blooming his pupils. Eyes wide in anticipation and lips puffy for more, he slides his hands beneath your shirt to warm the coldness of your flesh.
“You sure about this?” he finally whispers. You push his hair behind his ear, giving him a chaste peck.
“We’re here now, aren't we?” you tell him. Steve smiles, bright like the lightning that hits the road. He kisses you again, his hands grasping at your shirt from beneath until he rips it apart. The tear makes you gasp, agape as you watch him throw it aside. “I bought that from The Gap, you know? It was kind of expensive.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he starts kissing your neck, nipping and sucking the rain off your skin. And when he sucks harder, there’s a light prick that stings your neck, only to be soothed by his warm tongue that he lathers over, his teeth grazing your flesh but never biting.
Steve’s hand comes up to toy with the clasp of your bra, hands positioned to push but he never does. Not when you’re holding his face against your neck like he’s feeding off you, stuffing your nose in his hair and inhaling his rich cologne drowned out with the smell of rain.
“Jus’ take it off,” you kiss his temple.
“Alright,”
He does, untroubled as he easily unclasps its tiny hooks and lets it fall to your sides. Steve’s hand cups around your shoulders, hooking his fingers on the lace strap and pulls it down your arms as his lips stay planted on your neck, watching as they fall off flawlessly and onto your lap.
Leaving one last kiss to your neck, he moves down to wrap his lips around the skin of your bare breasts, throwing your bra to the passenger seat. You gasp, head throwing back with your hands grasping at his hair.
“Fuck, Steve,” you whimper, moving your hips on his thick crotch with the guidance of his hand, the other massaging a tit into his mouth as he suckles at your buds, looking up at you adoringly.
“Baby I want you to,” he kisses you again, slowly laying down but his hands keep you in place. Steve looks up at you with heavy eyelids, grasping at your tits as you grind down onto him. “Want you to sit on my face.”
Your grinding slows, hands palming at his chest. “Really?”
“Yeah— fuck, honey. Just want you to. Please,” Steve pulls on the waistband of your jeans, unbuttoning them. “C’mon baby.”
“Okay,” you raise your hips, a foot coming down to the carpet to remove your jeans, head bumping slightly onto the roof of his car. Your back hunches awkwardly, embarrassed that Steve’s seeing you struggling but he doesn't care, not when his tongue darts out between his lips in anticipation as you bring your panties with your jeans.
Steve pulls you immediately to him, until your knees are on either side of his head and his hands hard and heavy on your thighs to keep you levitating above him. He’s kissing stars on your thighs, knows with the way your hips jut impatiently that you want more other than sorry, coaxing kisses. With your hand on the backseat and one on his hair, he leans up to take a whiff of your leaking arousal, groaning when he smells the sweet honey.
“Christ, (y/n),” he kneads your ass. “Don't be shy. Just sit.”
And you do, carefully lowering yourself onto his mouth opens and his tongue darts out to lap at your dripping hole. You moan loudly, looking down to see him dig his nose on your clit and his hair all disheveled from your pulling. “Oh, Steve,”
He hums against you, dragging his tongue on your folds until his lips wrap around your clit. You grind on his face, small pants and whimpers leaving your mouth when he groans. “You taste amazing. Like fucking— fucking amazing. Sweet little pussy stayed the same.”
A finger prods on your wet entrance, tracing your small hole until it slips in, incessant until his pointer’s buried knuckle deep. And when he pulls out with a slick gush, he puts in two without warning, stretching your hole open with two of his thick limbs, scissoring them as he laps up at your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” he growls, sucking harder on your bud with a little head shake as his fingers begin scissoring at a pace so tantalizingly slow it drives you insane. “Ride my face, baby. Use me.”
He finds himself falling a bit more harder when he looks up to see your face scrunched in all your heavenly glory as you lose yourself in that rainstorm of rapture with your eyebrows joint and your jaw slacked to emit its euphonious moaning. Finds himself submitting more than he expected as he digs himself deeper into you, your own taste marking him more than he’d marked you when your slick coats half of his face.
Your hand finds itself using his stomach as leverage, leaning back to give Steve a better perspective. And the other remains on his hair, tugging deeper when he removes his fingers and continues using his tongue instead, taking your hand off his hair to lace it with yours.
“Shit,” you puff, hand tightening around his. Steve opens his eyes, the tip of his nose glistening as he flicks his tongue up and down between your folds. He uses his other hand to spread your petals with his fingers shaped into a v, prodding his tongue in your tight hole until it’s fully fucking you. “Ngh—ah, oh god, your tongue feels so good,”
A taste of forbidden fruit, has him drunk and fucking his tongue deeper to venture more of your sweet walls. You squeeze around his thick muscle, mewling louder that you worry you’re heard amongst the continuous roaring thunder. Steve groans against you, his own stomach clenching beneath your hand, tongue exploring everything that’s wet, flicking it against every spongy spot. He’d suck at your swollen nub, lap at your hole like some faucet, knead your ass to urge you harder on his tongue.
“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I wanna cum, Stevie.”
“Then cum,” he untucks his tongue from inside you, licking up from your hole to your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Come on.”
And when the thick substance of your sweet cum smears his tongue, he swallows and he swallows like it's the last water in this world. And he’s greedy for more, pushing his tongue in until he’s milked you and dried the cum off your walls, lapping up at the juices of your sticky cunt until you pull yourself away from him.
You hover on his lap as Steve slowly sits up, chasing your lips as if your pussy wasn't enough; but you let him kiss you, nonetheless. The taste of him and your cum evading your mouth as you sit on his lap, soft wet clicking made by your lips every time your mouths closed on one another. Your hands find the button of his tight jeans, toying with it.
“I want you,” he whispers. “Please, baby. You can have me now. Make up for all those times I haven't been there.”
Steve lifts himself to untuck his jeans, stopping only below his knees so you’d rest your cunt right on his thick, hard cock that slaps against his stomach. You run your palm through your wet heat, using it to jerk him off that makes his forehead fall against yours from its sensitivity.
“I have you now, right?” you position his tip at your entrance.
“You’ll have me always,” and when he looks at you devotedly, like the moment wasn’t so unsanctified, you find yourself kissing him again. Like you’d found a place with someone to escape like a flower in the dark, blooming in the twilight just by your palliating touch. That hesitant love you’d felt blossoming from the broken ground and grows in the uncut grass, just enough for him to pick up and cherish.
You sink down to him, hole gaping for him to slip inside your tight walls. Steve moans against your lips, hands tight above your ass as you go down on him.
“Slow down, hon,” you shake your head. You hate being told what to do, deciding to just drop down onto him until your ass slaps against his heavy balls full of cum. “Jesus Christ—”
“So big, Steve,” you slur, head falling to his shoulder. “Cock feels so good…”
“Yeah, baby?” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This cock’s made just for you. Use it babe, come on.”
And you do, slowly grinding on to him, his thick cock stretching you more, his hands guiding you and urging you to a pace you wish to move on.
You don't know how long you’d been riding him. Alternating between teasing grinds and greedy bounces that has your walls squeezing around him. And god, Steve finds himself submitting more to you, despite the amount of marks he’d left on your neck and chest that muffles the loud moans threatening to leave his throat.
Steve wraps his mouth around your nipple, his cock disappearing from your cunt, the wet squelching turning him more to the edge whenever you’d slam down onto his balls. You moan in his ear, soft and small, almost innocent. But it’s not innocent at all — not with him balls deep, or his mouth on your tit, or the wet sounds created. Steve looks at the reflection from the window, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he urges you faster.
Everything felt familiar. Everything felt the same; everything felt like he never stopped loving you. Not with those gentle, lascivious touches. Not with the way he kisses you. You find yourself back in his arms just a year ago, being comforted in this heaven of his that keeps you from what hurts you, right before he'd pushed you off the clouds (and before he'd caught you himself).
“I missed this,” he huffs. “A lot. Touched myself to the thought of this. Then I’d feel so guilty. But now I don't have to,” you push on his shoulder, bumping your nose with his. “I missed you. And this tight little pussy. And your sweet, dirty sounds — ah. Fuck. Missed the way your cunt would just squeeze around me. Always using my cock hm?”
“Shut up,” you furrow your eyebrows, mouth parting. “I’m close again, Steve. God, you’re such an asshole,”
He chuckles. “What did I do?”
“You and your— your words. Fuck!” you squeal, clutching hard on his shoulders. “Are you close?”
“I’ve been close since you sat on my face. Think I even came in my pants while I was doing it,” he chuckles. “God, I’m gonna cum.”
You both do. Without warning but simultaneous. When both your seeds would mix when you kept on pushing his cum deep into you with every slow bounce you’d make. Steve exhales into your sweaty skin, both your hairs dried but slick with sweat.
When he looks at you again, like a star he’s found in the polluted sky of Hawkins, like a miracle fallen onto the palm of his hand, your heart flutters and builds itself again right in his touch. And it’s filthy, the way your cums would slip down to his thighs and onto the cushions of his car, but his touch’s clean and innocent in its intentions. A promise of never letting go; a promise of always being there to love you and being enough.
“I’m still going,”
The storm's gone. Left with nothing but the light rain that taps gently on his windows. The smell of Steve comforts you, despite the sticky smell of sex and sweat stings your nose from the leather you lay on.
He wraps the blanket he found beneath the seats around the both of you, your head on his chest and your hands linked together. Your squirming doesn't bother his concerns, but your sudden declaration does and Steve lifts his head to look at you.
Your eyebrows raise, legs tangled with his and your chin on the bush on his chest. “I’ve got a lovely apartment. A job that I found. I’m gonna work at the record store,” you trace the slope of his nose, sculpted by the hands of gods who’d given him all this sweet handsomeness. “And… It's got a lovely view, too. I need this, Steve.”
His hand runs through your hair, twirling your drying strands in his fingers. “I won't stop you. But I don't want to watch you leave again,”
“Then come with me,” you whisper. “It has a huge bedroom. And a kitchen, Steve. A pretty kitchen and a huge living room. A TV for when the kids would come and visit.” he chuckles at your pout. “Only when you want to.”
Unhesitating and prepared, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” he kisses you. “I’d follow you anywhere. Robin has Vickie now, anyway. I can— I can work at a coffee shop. Wear a cute little apron and drink coffee.” he smiles softly, deep lines decorating his tan skin. "And I'll be there when you get home. Smother you with love."
“Wouldn't be opposed to that," you smile at him.
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reblogs and feedback are appreciated &lt;3
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mediumgayitalian · 1 month
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part three
———
The first step should, in all likelihood, be the easiest.
(“I’m not sure this is something you can really plan,” Annabeth had suggested gently, “as much as my mother would disown me to hear it. I mean, everything I did with Percy kind of just…happened.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure the five years of pining misery and fighting off several other people — one of whom was literally me — was a real walk in the park for you.”
“…Plan on.”)
It is not the easiest.
“You’re telling me the flowers…say things.”
If Nico reaches back into the farthest recesses of his memory, as in things that are shoved somewhere between his sister’s soft sobs the one time he got sicker than he’d ever been and has ever been since and the time he’d walked in on Alecto skinny dipping in the Phlegothon, he can vaguely remember a lengthy rant from his stepmother on something called the language of flowers. He had, at that time, assumed she was simply trying to convince him that everything had voices again, and ignored her.
“Yes,” says Miranda from Demeter Cabin patiently. “Every flower has an assigned meaning. More than one, usually. You can say very rude things with flowers.”
Nico perks up, intrigued. “How do you say ‘you’re a fucking c—”
“Okay,” Jason interrupts, plastering a strained smile on his face and slapping a hand over Nico’s mouth. Nico bites him, hard, and the smile becomes even more strained. “We are actually looking for much nicer things to say with flowers. Kind things. Appreciative things. Feelings, you know. Nico?”
He lifts his hand, looking at him in warning as if Nico is going to be quelled by his Stare of Judgement, of all things. Nico stares back at him until he starts to look appropriately cowed, satisfyingly afraid of the horror that lives inside Nico’s eyes, except he — doesn’t.
He doesn’t look scared at all, actually, which is — which.
Nico takes all thoughts pertaining to the issue and shoves them away.
“I need,” he says haltingly, looking back at Miranda. She looks at him encouragingly.
She doesn’t look afraid of him, either, although she glances quickly down at the circle of grass he’s killed by virtue of standing on it and says, politely, “If you could maybe stop that, I would appreciate it.”
Nico swallows, stepping back. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” She swoops down, hands outstretched, murmuring something too soft for him to pick up. Under her gentle fingertips, the grass blooms slowly back to life, tiny strands uncurling and swelling with virility, stretching towards the sun. Even the dirt smells sweeter, like churned garden soil rather than graveyard dirt.
Something dark and bitter crawls up Nico’s throat — he will always need people to clean up after his messes. No matter how hard he tries. Miranda with the plants, Solace with every one of his endless injuries, Bianca with — everything. She cleaned up after him a lot.
She was only twenty-seven months older than him. He wonders how she would have liked being fourteen, and has to choke back the sob that tries to claw its way out of his trachea.
“Not a lot of people have flower language memorized,” Miranda says, dragging him roughly back to the present. Her large brown eyes are back to focused on him, so he forces himself into normalcy and stares back. “And it’s kind of vague, so I need something to start with. Who’s it for?”
“Classified.”
Nico considers, once again, opening up a chasm beneath his feet. His geokinesis is no bene so he’d probably take Jason and Miranda down with him, but. Necessary sacrifices, et cetera.
“Understandable,” Miranda responds without so much as a beat. Huh. Suddenly, he feels bad for considering her collateral. “Just this then: friend or foe?”
Nico looks at Jason. Jason looks back at him, like, dude, seriously. Nico scowls at him and his uselessness.
“Friend,” he says begrudingly. “…More.”
Miranda nods in understanding. “Ah. Will, then.”
Nevermind. Chasm it is.
“Man, I hoped you guys would finally do something,” Miranda continues, oblivious to the ground trembling slightly under her. (Jason, however, appears alarmed, so Nico summons a tiny skeleton hand to grab his ankle in revenge.) “I love Will to pieces, but there are only so many times I can hear him wax poetic about you before it starts to get embarrassing. When we were twelve you saved his life and he actually cried because he didn’t know how to form the words. Just weeping everywhere about your sword and your hair and how you look a little crazy when you smile in battle. Did you know there are, like, a million syllables for brown? I do. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering.”
“I have actually heard that,” Jason mumbles, as Nico’s brain whites out and leaves him, tragically alone, to suffer. “I thought he was just super into geology.”
“Oh, he is. He’s a little into everything. There’s a bi joke, for you.”
“Oh, ha, I get it.”
Is that his body, stranded somewhere below him? Hi, body. Good to see you. You look like hell. Feel free to summon your soul back into yourself at any time, that’d be great.
“I am generally bad at functioning,” he admits, once his essence has begrudgingly reattached itself to his cells and his blood stops ringing quite so loudly in his ears.
Miranda shrugs. “I think you’re pretty okay. Once Percy had to get five stitches on his lip because he was half asleep and mixed up his plate and pizza and bit clean through his plate. It only really needed four stitches, but Will laughed so hard he couldn’t focus right and tore the wound a tad before fixing it. By accident.”
Nico tries very hard not to picture that laughter, not to remember the first time he heard Will laugh, not the hundreds of times after; a loud sound, a musical sound, despite his insistence that he has no talents. Laughter like olive oil laughs in the pan, like wind laughs as it rushes through the poplar trees.
Jason nods sympathetically. “Mondays are hard.”
“Please,” Nico begs the both of them. The nerve he’d summoned after the encouragement of his friends is slowly leaking out of his eyeballs and soaking the ground. “I just need —”
He can’t finish that sentence, either. I need to give Will flowers so he knows I have….intentions, with him, is the most embarrassing sentence ever to be conjured by man, and if he has to say it aloud he knows his father will smite him out of pity, as is their deal. It must only be implied, and even then, he could get egged by any member of Cabin Eleven and turn into a breakfast buffet, his face is so godsdamn hot.
“Will, is, like, unbelievably dense,” Miranda says, taking pity on him. She waits for Nico to finish choking, patting him firmly on the back before continuing. “I guess that’s not fair. He can be quite observant, he just has worse self-esteem than you, even, no offense, so if you are trying to seduce him you’re going to have to be very obvious.”
The wheezing that she has just circumvented starts all over again. This time, Jason joins him. Miranda has no qualms or shame — fitting, since Nico has met her mother, who also has no shame about anything. Nico will never be able to forget that she is the goddess of fertility.
“Who the fuck said anything about seducing,” he manages, finally, lungs chilling somewhere on the grass.
Miranda ignores him. “I would usually say something simple like daisies, but they can be representative of friendship and he will for sure assume they are friendship flowers. Hyacinth can communicate a much deeper breadth of emotion, but, uh —” she glances at the Apollo cabin — “I would avoid Hyacinth.”
Nico sobers. Yeah. That would be wise.
“I think roses send a little too strong of a message for your purposes, so I’m thinking carnations. Pink ones.”
Recovering from the implications of the roses — he’s a little out of time, not stupid, he knows what they mean — he looks at her curiously. “What do pink carnations mean?”
She shrugs. “Love and affection, really. Sometimes gratitude, and in some poetry their colouring is compared to a pleased flush.”
Although he expected much more agony in this particular step of the journey (not that their wasn’t a good, healthy amount; can’t feel good feelings for too long if you’re Nico di Angelo, Cursèd, Son of Hades, Prince of the Underworld, Ghost King, Et Cetera, Et Cetera), pink carnations seem surprisingly…right. Love and affection, he can handle that, and if there’s one thing he always is, regarding Will, it’s grateful. Maybe the whole damn camp should be giving him pink carnations.
“Here.”
Sensing Nico’s hesitant acceptance, Miranda swoops down to the ground, digs around a second, shoots a quick prayer to her mother, and waits. A moment later, several blush-pink flowers shoot from the dirt, along with — Nico squints to read it — a book about the history of grain cereals. Miranda looks confused about one of those two things.
“I am constantly plagued by the Ancient Greek Theoi and their various whims,” Nico explains.
“Your life confuses me,” Miranda responds. She hands him the book and the flowers. For once, Demeter’s gift seems to be the less volatile object of the two. “I’m going to go meditate about it.”
“Good call,” says Jason.
“Thank you,” Nico calls, belatedly, to her retreating back. He glances down at the flowers in his hand. “Jason,” he says, voice strained.
He sighs. “Oh, here we go.”
“Jason, I have to move.”
“You’re fine here,” Jason says patiently. He places a hand on Nico’s shoulder and begins to steer him towards the Big House. Nico, distraught, refrains from judo flipping him into a tree.
“I ruin everything I touch, Jason.”
“You helped out with the strawberries just fine last week.”
“Strawberries are not people, Jason.”
“The kids seem to like you. You let them keep weird skulls and rocks and shit they find in the woods, and they like that.”
“Children are not completely incomprehensible sons of the sun, Jason.”
“Will likes you. By his own admission. He thinks — and I’m quoting here — that you’re gorgeous, even when you’re glaring at him and rueing your own existence.”
Nico has nothing to say to that, because he still can’t quite believe that’s true. It’s — surreal. He had no arguments against it, because he knows, objectively, that Will was not lying, and he can see, with his eyeballs, that Will smiles every time they make eye contact, unless Nico did something stupid in which case Will is huffing and muttering about patients and demigods and how increased power is directly correlated with increased stupidity.
Mostly smiling, though.
At Nico. With love and affection and oh, gods, he is going to ruin things so bad.
“Look,” Jason says, stopping them in front of the porch. Nico takes the pause with equal parts relief and panic, turning to him with the flowers clutched to his chest. “You have — issues.”
Nico blinks, waiting for more sentence. Surely that cannot be all of it.
“…Yes,” he acquiesces, when no sentence is forthcoming. “I am an interloper in this timeline. I am an omen of death. I am —”
“Gods, you’re dramatic.”
Nico agonizes.
“You will be fine, Nico, please, I don’t even know what the hang-up is. He said he likes you, there is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you. Right?”
The rickety screen door of the infirmary bangs open, slamming against the frame, startling them both so hard they cause a slight earthquake.
“Oh, you got them, you got them!”
The overworked and overstressed whirlwind known as William Andrew Solace bursts out of the infirmary, tripping over his own shoes and nearly landing on his face had Jason not caught him.
“Woah, dude,” he says, steady hand on his waist. Nico reacts to that totally normally and Jason’s shadow does not at all try to swallow him. “What’s wrong?”
Will barely responds. “Nico, you are the best, I owe you forever —”
Stumbling out of Jason’s hold, he lunges over to Nico, plucking the flowers out of his hand and spinning right back to the infirmary. In total bewilderment, Nico and Jason follow him, watching as he tosses the bouquet in the air, hands glowing golden, and mutters a quick hymn. The flowers begin to droop, then wrinkle, then fully shrivel up, totally dead as they land back in his hands.
“What the fuck,” Jason whispers.
“Sun-dried is better, but I don’t have time,” Will frets. “Son of sun will have to do. Ha. You, and you, over here.” He points to the nurses desk with the yellowed stems, no trace of a question in his voice. The two of them scramble to comply, ducking under the half-door and standing awkwardly behind the counter as Will clears it off.
“That stupid prank — remind me to kill Cecil tomorrow, Nico, if you don’t mind — has three whole cabins covered in skin welts. I don’t have enough beds for them all, and they need to be quarantined, anyway. I haven’t had time to go get more ingredients in between cabins, let alone time to make more ointment.” Two massive stone mortars slam the counter, making both of them jump, followed by pestles with blunt heads roughly the size of Nico’s fist. “Pulverize the petals as fine as you can.” He splits the dead bouquet in half, handing them each six flowers each. “Petals only, no stems or seeds. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to gather it. Oh, and Nico —”
He pauses for a moment, taking a breath. Hesitantly, Nico reaches out and places a gentle hand on his wrist. Instantly, the worried line between his eyes melts away, and he smiles; tired but radiant.
“I owe you one,” he says softly. “You always know just what I need. I’ve been using rose, ‘cause that’s what we have, even though pink carnations is better, but we ran out an hour ago and I’ve been freaking out cause I —”
“Solace,” Nico interrupts. He squeezes gently. “Breathe.”
He does. Inhale, hold, exhale, breath tickling the hairs in Nico’s arm, causing goosebumps to bristle all over his skin. (The grateful smile pointed towards him at full power has nothing to do with that. Obviously.)
“I’m good. Just — thank you, Nico. You knew exactly what I needed.”
A loud groan sounds from somewhere to the east, in the vague direction of Cabin Ten, and Will rushes off without another word, medical bag stuffed to bursting. There’s a thump, and a quick, “I’m good!” and then the sound of running in flip-flops. Nico ducks his head to hide a smile, turning to the dried flowers.
“Well,” says Jason after a moment. “You tried.”
Nico shrugs. He starts plucking the petals off and dumping them in the mortar, Jason quick to follow his example.
“I’ll just have to try harder next time.”
———
part five
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thezombieprostitute · 2 months
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I know we may not know him too well but how about Dream Come True- Steve and 29 from the kiss prompts 😏
Hummingbird 
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Word Count: ~1300
A/N: This takes place a couple of years before Dream Come True. Ask is based on this post.
Warnings: Drugging of a character
Part 2
Series Masterlist
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Steve had his best fake smile plastered on. He was hosting a party, he had to appear approachable and friendly, even if he didn’t feel like it. The conversations could be so boring and draining. His one reprieve for the night was that he was hosting the party at an art gallery. The last night of the display of one of his favorite artists. Every chance he got he was appreciating the art.
At least until he saw you. Steve knew everyone at the party, they’d been vetted by his team, but he didn’t know you. There was no recognition, no faint memory of ever seeing you before and Steve’s memory was better than most. Your dress was just shy of the quality he’d expect from his guests, indicating you weren’t in the higher echelons of the city’s social circles. You were definitely a party crasher who shouldn’t be here. 
He should call security, have them discreetly take you away, but as he watches you he realizes that, unlike other party crashers, you’re not here for the people. You never take a glass of the expensive champagne offered to guests. You barely talk to anyone and excuse yourself from conversation quickly. You’re looking at the art. You’re flitting from piece to piece like a hummingbird and smiling at each one. You might be a party crasher, but you’ve clearly got good taste and good manners. He decides he’ll let you stay but keep an eye on you.
Pretty soon he realizes he can’t stop watching you. Your genuine joy with each new piece of art you look at is endearing. Especially as he keeps having to deal with fake smiles and false promises. It also makes your frown stand out even more. 
You walked over to a man who appeared to be taking away a woman who’d drunk too much. While you hadn’t had any of the champagne, you couldn’t imagine it would get someone so drunk they could barely move. You approach, ignoring the glares the man gave you, and ask, “what happened?”
“It’s nothing,” the man replies. “She just had a little too much to drink. I’m just getting her home.”
“She doesn’t look drunk,” you retort. “She looks like she needs to go to a hospital.”
“She’s just a lightweight is all,” he sneers. “I’ll take good care of her. Now get lost.”
“Let me take a look at her, please. I really think she needs a doctor.”
“No,” he barks. “She just needs to get home and get some rest.”
“Walker,” a deep, stern voice behind you started. “Do you need some help?”
“Rogers,” Walker stammers. “Seriously, I just need to get the lady home. That’s all.”
“Walker, if I get security over here and search your pockets, are they going to find some pills?”
Walker stammers a bit before dropping the girl and trying to run for it. He only makes a couple steps before Rogers has him slammed against a wall, signaling security to come in. You’re already picking up the young woman from the floor, checking her pupils for dilation, getting her into a more comfortable position. 
Rogers is talking to a few people as security quietly takes Walker out of the gallery, “Sam, go get Strange or Badr. She probably needs a doctor. Bucky, go get Danvers and Rambeau to come help their daughter.” They head in separate directions and he turns to see you checking the girl. He bends down and turns her face towards him, “Monica, we’re getting your mothers. You’re going to be okay.” She seems to relax at that. 
Before long a few people come over and you step back so they can take care of the girl. You figure you should leave before your status as party crasher gets found out but Rogers gently grabs your arm, making you stay in place as he gets the situation sorted. You try to squirm out of his grip a few times before he pulls you to him and whispers, “settle down, Hummingbird. You’re not in trouble but we need to talk.” You’re unsure where the nickname came from but you take comfort in his words and stop trying to escape. 
They’re getting Monica to an ambulance but a tall blonde woman turns to Rogers, fury in her eyes. He points to the door where security took Walker and she storms in that direction.
Once you’re alone you try, one more time, to pull away, “I guess you should get back to your party, Sir.” The look he gives you makes you freeze.
“I’m not generally one for repeating myself, Hummingbird,” he begins. “But I understand you might be out of your depth tonight. You are not in trouble but we still need to have a chat.”
“Yes, Sir,” you lower your head. 
He chuckles and lifts your chin, “call me Steve.”
“Yes, St…Steve.” 
He smiles at you before turning and leading you to a separate wing of the gallery that had been closed off for the party. You know you should pay attention to him, but your eyes keep looking at the beautiful art around you. When you finally do turn back to Steve his smile has grown.
“So, what brings you to my party?”
“I…I just wanted to look at the art.”
“Why not look during normal gallery hours?”
“Work,” you confess. “I got so swamped I didn’t have time to come see the show. Jack Russell is such an amazing artist and I was desperate for a chance to see his art in person. I put on my nicest dress and slipped in with a small group. I’m very sorry.” You hang your head in apology, waiting for some kind of punishment or consequence for your actions. He said you weren’t in trouble but there had to be some kind of repercussion. 
“I believe you,” he states. “I was watching you almost all night.” You lift your eyes at his words, confusion written all over your face. “You weren’t invited, it’s true, but you weren’t drinking any champagne. You didn’t annoy any guests. You were just flitting from piece to piece, actually enjoying the show. I figured as long as you weren’t causing trouble, I’d let you be. And I’m very glad for that.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying long,” you sighed. “Didn’t want to get caught so I moved quickly between the pieces.”
“Flitting like a hummingbird,” he chuckled. “But in coming here, breaking into my party, you saved a young woman. In doing so you also saved my party and, quite frankly, my reputation. I can’t be known as someone whose parties are unsafe or cater to creeps like Walker turned out to be. As such, I would like to reward you.”
“Um..wh..what?”
Steve’s bright blue eyes seemed to shine with your response. “And I think I know the perfect reward. I’m friends with the curator here. I’ll give you her information and any time there’s a show you really want to see, but can’t get to, call her and she’ll make sure you get in at a time that’s convenient for you.”
“What?!” Your eyes grow wide at his words, “that’s far too generous, Sir! I can’t accept that!”
“It’s ‘Steve’ little Hummingbird,” he lowers his face to your level, his voice lowering with it, “and you will accept the reward. I’ll also make sure you get invited to every party I host at this place. Watching your genuine enjoyment was the highlight of the party tonight. I’d love to see more of it.”
“Are…are you sure about this, Steve?”
Eyes never leaving yours, he gently grabs your hand and kisses it, “I promise, I want nothing more than for you to accept.”
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Many thanks @yenzys-lucky-charm for the ask! It really helped push the scales towards making a full mob/mafia AU. 😆
Part 2
Series Masterlist
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koalaflower · 2 months
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Effleurer
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pair. choso kamo x reader
genre. angst, fluff, smut in that order
warnings. explicit, cunnilingus, squirting, body worship, praise, no penetration, choso is a service dom
synopsis. choso broke up with you in order to protect you. he just didn’t realize how much he’d regret it
a/n. mostly fluff to atone for the mass sins i’m about to commit in the next post :)
word count. 2.4k
Someone is knocking at your door. There are tissues littered around you, teetering over the edge when you sit up, the bed dipping beneath your weight. You rub your eyes groggily, barely open from the irritation of last night and the nights before.
Sunlight pours in through a slip in the blinds, casting a shadow over your wrinkled sheets. Another morning you’ve missed; another pounding headache.
You wonder who would visit you so early in the morning and without warning. You wish you could tune them out and return to your sweet slumber, but they don’t seem to leave.
Static envelops your vision when you stand, taking slow steps as you lug yourself to the front door. Even breathing hurt with such a heavy heart.
You twist the door open and a familiar figure paralyzes you, your throat drying in an instant. It’s Choso, his clothes stained with a deep rouge seeping from his skin. He looks weak, chest heaving as he stares back at you, longing.
Your mind spirals, wondering if this is a hallucination, a cruel trick of the light, but there is no sunlight in your apartment complex. Your breathing is rapid, and you take a step back, almost slamming the door shut on him when his hand stops you.
His jaded eyes attempt to find you under the dark eye bags and pale face, a reflection of himself. A silence consumes you, picking away at your skin as the seconds stretch on for an eternity.
“Y/n,” he says, and a wave of agony washes over you, threatening to knock you off your feet. The way he calls your name brims with tenderness, like a belligerent man holding a delicate doll. You want to crash into his arms like you always have; no words, just comforting touches.
His name lingers on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say it, afraid he might disappear if you do.
“Can I come in?” he asks, half-expecting you to say no. You come close but realize he has already witnessed your vulnerability, and there is no escaping a man consumed by darkness. You nod, too shaken to reject him as your body steps aside and invites him in.
Choso looks around, tracing the familiarities of your apartment with his eyes; a place he’s visited countless times in his memories. He can still picture himself holding you, listening to your qualms about the future with his fingers running through your hair.
Your welcoming and kind self is hidden by a colder exterior, and seeing you deprived of yourself breaks him, making his stomach tighten in sorrow.
He inches towards you again, unsure of where he stands or if he can reach out and brush his fingers against your skin. Not after the pain he’s caused you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words tumbling from his lips, rushed. It sounds insincere and pathetic, the lines he rehearsed for weeks jumbling together on his tongue. “I’m so sorry.”
You look up at him with reddened eyes, your lips quivering. He ignores the rational part that tells him you’re better off alone and pulls you close, wrapping you into a warm embrace. He holds you tight, afraid you’ll slip away again, your head burrowing into his chest as you faintly cry.
He lifts your chin tentatively to look into your eyes, puffy from god knows how many hours of crying, and feels himself shatter. He should have been there for you, should’ve held you at your lowest. His thumb runs along your under-eye, brushing the tears away as your head leans into his touch.
You still look beautiful, the darkness in your apartment contrasting with the light fluttering in through the windows. He’s danced with you here, in the living room, laughing and kissing your hand. Time doesn’t age you; his heart still flutters when you look at him, past remnants of being a love-struck teenage boy.
“I hate you,” you whisper, fingers clutching onto his shirt, crinkling the tear-stained fabric. He gives you a sad smile, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“I know.”
He doesn’t know where to begin or how to begin. His head is throbbing, and the blood on the sides of his head and forearms is beginning to dry. You notice him wince when your fingers brief his arm, briskly sitting him down on the couch.
He doesn’t expect forgiveness, doesn’t even expect you to speak. He just wants you: your kindness, your soul. His eyes close as he inhales your scent, relaxing into the couch. He could die a thousand times and a hundred more if it meant saving you, but an afterlife without you is no life at all.
When you return with a first aid kit, he can feel his eyes sting, a foreign sensation in all 150 years of his lifetime. He’s always been protective as the eldest brother, but for you? You’re irreplaceable, a godsend and divine threshold, tainted by his bloodied fingers.
No one needed another Choso Kamo, but you, you could live a meaningful life in the ways he could never.
He startles when you dab the alcohol on his wounds with significant pressure, searing pain making him yelp when he sees you smile a little. He guesses he deserved that, his heart fluttering a little.
You wrap up his arms and place a patch on his head, hand deliberately lingering on his cheek before pulling away. he tried to chase after the warmth, needing your touch engrained into his skin. you’re about to stand when he pulls you back down.
“Can we talk? Please,” he says desperately.
You exhale slowly, turning your body to face him, the notion weirdly intimate. You haven’t seen him in months, haven’t felt loved since he left you broken in your own home.
He takes your silence as confirmation, recollecting himself before he says, “I regret leaving you.”
The words sting, but you can hear the sincerity pouring from his lips. It isn’t venomous, just a harsh truth, one he failed to tell you the night he left.
“I was trying to push you away,” he continues, fidgeting with his fingers as he bares his heart to you, the only person capable of bearing it. “You’ve never wasted my time. I wanted to hurt you, to protect you. From me and from my job.”
You knew this. You knew your relationship wasn’t one-sided because you knew he loved you. It made your heart ache more because you knew, and because he didn’t think you could handle the truth.
“But yesterday there was a mission, and I almost died and… I wanted to, but I could only imagine you. I only wanted to see you.”
“I’m sorry. I know I have no right to be, but I can’t think of anything other than—” You grab his shoulders and pull him into you, your lips meeting in a frenzy. You feel him groan against your mouth, tangling his fingers deeper into your hair as he tilts your head for easier access.
The kiss is passionate, gentle, intimate; a million stars bursting in his lungs as he breathes you in, his heart filled with stardust.
“I hate you. I hate you so much,” you say between kisses, holding his head firmly between your hands. “Do you think I care for your protection? Do you think you’re the only one allowed to be self-righteous?”
Your words confuse him, lips parting in awe as you continue to tell him off.
“I just want to be next to you. I’m not as strong or perceptive as you, but I want to love you. You can’t decide that for me.”
He can’t breathe, chest constricting as your words absorb into him. He’s so grateful to have you, leaning his forehead against yours and smiling.
“I love you,” he says, the words flowing from him effortlessly, a phrase he didn’t have to rehearse with you.
“Then show me,” you reply, smirking as you straddle him, the months of pent-up frustration building between your legs. His eyes widen, but only for a moment before he pulls you in again and kisses you with fervor. Months of dreaming about you, fantasizing about your skin pressed against his, wondering if his thoughts would remain thoughts. He kisses you like never before, desire in every action as his teeth graze your lips. The reality is better than anything he could imagine.
You part them for him, allowing his tongue to enter your mouth. Your moans are muffled by his lips, icy hands trailing up and down your body.
You shift your weight on his lap, feeling his bulge from beneath his pants. Your hand ghosts over it, stopping when his fingers are around your wrists, holding them behind your back.
“You told me to show you. Let me show you,” he whispers into your ear, seductive as his teeth nibble your collarbone, trailing up to the flesh on your neck. You shudder, arousal dripping as you close your eyes and let the sensations guide you. His lips are everywhere, your skin igniting with sparks of fire as he leaves behind burning kisses.
When you shift again, he groans, his pants getting tight as he picks you up gently and carries you into the bedroom. He notices the tissues, his heart shattering again as you sheepishly avoid his eyes. He places you gently on the bed, removing the used tissues from the sheets.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, kissing your forehead. He apologizes over and over, kissing different parts of your body until he’s showered you with them. And even then, it isn’t enough.
“It’s okay,” you say between quiet breaths. “Just don’t leave again.”
He nods, intertwining his pinky with yours and planting a last kiss on the back of your hand. “I promise.”
His fingers begin to tug at your shirt, your hands above your head to aid him. You wriggle out of your shorts, leaving only your underwear. He sighs at the sight of you, taking in your body and your chest before kneeling before you next to the bed.
His hands cup your breasts, teasing the buds with his thumbs as he watches your reaction, enthralled. He’s blinded by your beauty, your figure, your voice. He wonders what he thought all those months before when he closed the door behind him, vowing to never see you again.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, fascinated as he continues to tease you without meaning to, making you writhe beneath his fingertips. He traces over your mounds and lower down your belly, hovering right above the hem of your panties.
There’s a wet patch on your underwear, growing increasingly soaked. You move your hips to open your legs wider, wanting him to touch you, make love to you, devour you.
He pulls your panties off, pressing his fingers against the fabric to feel your slick. Your cheeks are growing red, your core dripping and glistening with every passing moment.
His attention returns to your heat, spreading your folds open to ingrain the image into his mind. You gasp, never seeing him behave like this; so enchanted and aroused.
“I want you,” he says suddenly, breaking the tension with his deep voice. “Every part of you.”
His mouth is on your pussy, tongue flattening and sliding along your lips as you throw your head back. He rubs your clit with his thumb; the only objective on his mind is to make you cum, make you scream. He ignores his own desires and thoughts to pump you full of his seed. The only thing that matters tonight is you, so sweet and angelic for him.
“Cho—so,” you moan, arching your back when your hips buck to meet his tongue. He groans, sending vibrations through you. Your sounds are so lewd, so perfect for him. He needs more.
He pushes your legs farther apart, sucking harder and increasing pressure on your clit. Your legs tremble, fingers splayed in his hair, and it only spurs him on more.
You tug him closer as you ride his face, feeling your climax near. He’s relentless, eating you out like you’re a delicacy, lapping at all the juices dribbling down your legs.
“You taste amazing,” he groans, adding a finger with his other hand, your eyes flying open as you see stars enter your vision. Another digit and you could enter a coma with the way your eyes roll, body spasming.
You scream, tightening your hold on his hair when you orgasm, squirting all over his face. He’s astonished, movements halting as he tries to process what you just did. You’re panting, looking down at him with a panicked expression.
“Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry,” you blurt, half-recovering from your blissful state to see his face wet, covered in your essence. You’re about to apologize again when you see the wet spot on his pants, making you smirk.
“Did you cum from eating me out?” you ask, snide as you watch him wipe the slick from his mouth, breathing heavily. His face is glistening, covered in both sweat and your slick.
He nods, lowering his voice in shame. “That was hot.”
You let out a short laugh, watching him retreat to the bathroom and return with a small towel to clean you up. His hand moves tenderly, patting your skin and inner thighs dry, still worshipping you breathlessly. His touches linger, a feeling you will never get used to as he relishes in your proximity.
You both change into more comfortable clothes, throwing the last batch into the washing machine as he falls back into a rhythm with you. He scoops you up into his arms, laying you down on the bed with his arm beneath your neck as he pulls you snugly into his chest.
“I love you so much,” he says, nuzzling his chin into the top of your head. Your heart is full, overflowing with love as your fingers clutch his shirt, the scene surreal.
“I love you too,” you reply, your voice wavering as tears pool in your eyes. The sheets rustle as he pulls back, looking at you with a soft expression. He plants a kiss on your forehead, stroking your cheek.
It’s silent as he listens to you sniffle, breaths uneven and eyes closed. He traces circles on your back in a soothing motion, whispering a last promise before you drift into a deep slumber.
“I’m not going anywhere this time.”
299 notes · View notes
grippingbeskar · 11 months
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the right way to do it
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johnny ‘soap’ mctavish x fem!reader
warnings— explicit content 18+ minors dni (nothin crazy, if you’ve read any of my fics you’ll be fine, just classic dirty talk and fuckin’, tiny bit of voyerism tho. whoops. generally soft tho, what can i say? i love soft and sweet stuff okay! let me be.) no fucking plot really. established (sort of) relationship. soap my baby boy being sexy.
a/n— i guarantee this is fucking terrible, but then again it’s fucking call of duty fan fiction. like, what the fuck. who writes that?? (oh. oh. i do now, apparently. kill me!) hope ya like it anyways!
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“Stop it.” You use your knee to bash into the side of Soaps’ leg under the table, and he flinches so hard his chair drags along the ground with a loud squeak. He looks at you, his jaw open, shocked. Dramatic to the end. “You’re going to get us caught.”
Soaps hand retreats from your thigh, a smug grin on his face as he slides his chair back next to you, closer this time. The heat of his body is pressed against the line of yours, from his broad shoulders all the way down to where your matching combat boots touch on the floor. You can feel him laugh against you when you squirm in your chair, knowing he’s smiling even though he’s turned his head back to the front of the room. Smug bastard.
He knows just how easy you are to mess with.
After a while, when everyone’s attention has gone back to the droning meeting some of the Captains’ declared mandatory, Soap turns back to you, head flopping to the side and his eyebrows raised.
“You look flustered, hen. What’s gotcha all hot and bothered?” He grins lazily, the kind where it only lights up half his face, and you want to slap him. Dumb smile.
“Stop it.”
“You started it.” He retorts, reaching out for you again under the table.
“No, I didn’t!” Your eyes widen, pouting like a child. He was right, of course. You did start it, you just didn’t expect him to try and finish it in the middle of a meeting. “Johnny, this isn’t the time—“
“Ohh, I think it’s just the right time. Just like you thought playin’ with me like that at breakfast was the right time.” Your cheeks heat at the memory, how quickly he’d lost his ability to speak when you pressed up against him from behind and snuck your hands down his pants. He’d only just had the mind to moan your name before you disappeared, leaving him high and dry in the entrance to the mess hall.
You feel him again, deft fingers pulling you from your thoughts and looping into the pocket of your pants. You knew it was wrong— there were so many people in this room, and you should be paying attention, but all the fight just rushes out of you as soon as you feel him soothe circles onto your thigh, the thin barrier of material all that separates him from you.
“Hm. No come back f’me now? Cause this mornin’ you were allllll talk, but now—“ You feel him slide his hand out of your pocket, slowly so no one picks up on his movements. Then, he’s dipping it down further, curling his fingers around the meat of your thigh, hand dangerously high up. If you moved even an inch, took a breath too deep, he’d be… “Now, you gone all quiet on me.”
Voices start talking around you, but you can’t hear them anymore. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, and the only thing you tune into is his voice; lower and closer now. His chair creaks as he leans, the pressure on your thigh harder as he grips you to balance.
“C’mon. You know how much I love to hear your pretty little noises. Let me make ya’ feel good, love.” You can hear the smile in his voice. He was such an asshole, and he knew it. He knew he had you right there.
You shiver, and your feet move without your help. Just an inch to the side, you give him space between your legs to let his hand rise a little higher. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a shit eating grin, or how many eyes are potentially on you both right now, how many people are in this room— you have no fight when it comes to him.
“Yeah. There you are, love. You wan’ it that bad, don’t ya’? You’d let me give it to ya right here.” He whispers, words brushing against the shell of his ear. You think he must of chosen a pair of seats in the back just for this reason. “T’s alright. I’m not mean like you. I’ll give ya anything ya want.”
You turn your head to him sharply, giving him a pointed look. ‘Not mean’. He was a dick. A complete, total utter asshole—
“Shit, Johnny.” You curse as the strong line of his hand presses right up against your heat. Your hands fly from beside you, fingernails digging into his forearm, doing a pathetic attempt at pushing him away. “Wait…wait. We can’t—“
“Mhmm. Same thing I said this mornin’.” You squeeze your eyes shut, biting down on your bottom lip to stop from making any sounds. “You remember what you said t’me?”
His hand moves slowly, testing how much you wanted him to stop. He knew if you really wanted to, you could push him away easily. It’s almost sad how little you resist him, and your hips chase his movement of the aching drag up and down. It’s not enough, but for where you are right now, it’s far too fucking much.
“You two paying attention back there?” A booming voice calls from the front of the room, and Soap stops moving his hand. Your eyes open, and before you can squeak out a reply, he’s saving your ass.
“Of course, Captain. Always love our chats, you know that.” He says happily, saluting casually with his free hand, the other still between your legs. A few laughs muffle through the room, and it’s enough that the Captain goes back to reciting whatever was written on the board behind him. Soap leans back down to you. “Careful. You’ll get us caught.”
You roll your eyes, and he takes the chance of your short lived seclusion to press a chaste kiss to your neck. You gasp, eyes flying open.
“I asked you a question.”
“What are you…” You say, air struggling to get into your lungs with short, punched inhales. “Fuck, you gotta stop. We can’t do this here.”
“This morning. I told you to stop, and you said… ‘aw, but you look so pretty like this’. That’s what ya said.” You bite back a groan, remembering exactly that moment. How hard he was when your fingers brushed over his pants, how desperate he sounded. Okay… it was a bitchy move. But that was you and Soap. You teased each other. Surely he wouldn’t take it this far, though. “So mean to me. After I treat you so good last night too, aye?”
The lights dim around you, the Captains’ up the front starting to sit around the dull white background they’ve dropped. You know it means some boring report that’s been sent in, and it means a solid twenty minutes of your life you’ll never get back while some dude yells at you through a projector. Usually you dread this part. But right now, you are fucking antsy. Excited.
“Sh-shut up. You’re just as bad as me—fuck.” He’s not just touching you now— no, his hands, warm and strong, are splaying on the skin of your tummy and sliding down past the buttons of your military pants. He doesn’t waste time, dipping into your underwear and finding you soaked, a little ‘tsk’ coming from him in a heavy accent when he swirls his fingers softly around your clit.
“You okay, baby? You look a little out of it…” You manage to make eye contact with him, and the fucker is chastising you. A fake sympathetic smile is on his face, puppy dog eyes like he’s speaking to a child. “Don’t worry, I’ll give ya’ what you fuckin’ want. Right here, in front of all the boys. So dirty.”
“Soap.” You choke out, the pads of his fingers setting a slow, easy rhythm that has you nearly vibrating off the chair.
“Don’t call us that. What’s my name, baby?” He hums, shuffling his chair so close it’s clanking against yours now. “C’mon. Who’s makin’ you feel this fuckin’ good right now?”
“God— you, Johnny. You fucking prick.” You whisper, the low lights of the room hiding your fidgeting figure as the video continues to play on the projector at the front. “Come on, please…I can’t—“
“Shh. You’re okay, sweetheart. Nice and slow, aye?” His nose brushes along your cheek, and your shoulders sag. “Cause ya’ look so pretty. Just f’me.”
You all but sink into it, your body slumping into his chest as he keeps that same, stupidly slow pace. Heat licks up your stomach, staying low and making you start to sweat all over. You hear Soap hum, and feel his lips against your jaw, the touch hardly there but scorching none the less.
His teeth nip at the skin he kissed, and you squeak at the harsh touch, soon covered by kisses much more sure of themselves than the first. With the darkness of the room, he must feel more confident, because his free hand angles your head down, and his mouth claims yours.
While his hand circles between your legs, light and gentle, his mouth is harsh and fast. Johnny kisses you like he’s trying to overwhelm you. It’s always desperate and begging, even when he’s controlling you like this. It’s like if he doesn’t kiss you hard and fast, something real will show, and he’s scared of it.
While you’ve never labelled what the hell this… thing is, when he kisses you like this it’s clear he’s hiding something. You’re the same, so you happily take it. Whatever it is between you, it’s stupid and reckless, and it’s better to not be vulnerable. Being on the same team, throwing yourselves into war after war, taking bullets for each other like it’s a sport— you shouldn’t care this much about each other. It was stupid. It’s why it was easier for you both to pretend you were just using each other as an outlet.
It was just sex. Just a release.
“Fuck, Johnny.“ You whimper in his mouth, and he muffles the sound as he pulls you closer, locking your lips to his. “Please.”
“Please what, love? Huh? You want it faster?” He smiles on your lips, hands picking up the pace just slightly. “S’greedy, in front of everyone.”
Your body feels heavy. The hand holding his forearm, the one supposed to be putting up resistance has instead moulded to an encouraging spectator, slowly tracing the inside of his wrist. Your chest heaves, nearly making you wheeze every breath, and when your eyes flutter open, seeing his face painted in a glowing blue and green from the film lights, your legs nearly shake at the sight.
“Please get me out of here, okay? You win. Y-you… Jesus Christ, you win.” He grins. The audacity of this fucking guy, to grin in your face, blatantly admitting he just wanted to beat you today. Win this weeks battle with who was more whipped for who. He’s mentally marking it on a board, and you know he’ll throw it back in your face when you try to push him away again, but you let him have it.
Maybe you want him to have more ammunition next time you’re faced with the consequences of a bad mission. Where Soap needs to be surrounded, reminded he’s not alone after a long ride in the desert, you need to be alone. Want to be alone. You want to rot in your room, blinds drawn and covers over your head, a distant belief that if you sit there long enough you’ll just melt into the mattress and fade away.
He’s the only one that can pull you out. Even if it takes him just holding you in the dark, cold silence, or letting you yell at him that you don’t want him around, don’t need him bothering you— he takes it. He won’t break, not when it comes to you. He coaxes you out with the memory of how much you’re lying to yourself. How bad you do need him.
He’ll use this one next time for sure. How you dragged him out of a meeting, claiming something about a ‘medical emergency’ just so he could take you back to your room and fuck you.
You don’t mind. You think you might like it when he does.
He secretly does too. For all his bravado, the only person he wants to be around after a mission is you. As annoying as you are, and dramatic and fucking stubborn, he still toes his way to your room every time, sneaks his way under your covers, and hides out with you until everyone else is asleep. You think he needs the company of someone, when he really just needs you.
Your nails are digging into his shoulder, dragging him by the uniform down a hallway and around the corner to your room. You only get about halfway before he’s slamming you into the wall, all teeth and tongue as he claims your mouth and runs his hands over your body. He doesn’t even touch your skin, just grazes over the thick layers of clothes, but he’s still got you arching into his touch so you press against his chest. He nips your lower lip and smacks you lightly on the arse, giving you the chance to jump up into his arms.
He takes you in stride, everything about him confident and smooth. Even the things he doesn’t expect, he lets it come like easy, gentle waves. It’s almost impossible to catch him off guard— the first time you kissed him he acted like he played you all along.
When your back hits the softness of your bed, you open your eyes. You don’t remember moving this far, or locking the door behind you, but you know Johnnys’ got you. He always has you covered. Takes care of it so you don’t have to think.
“Take your fucking shirt off.” You grumble, clawing at the buttons of his top. He laughs, head buried in the crook of your neck where you know he’s leaving bruises and marks.
“So mean. Don’t even know how to act right when your under me.” The words sound like they should be threatening, or at the very least sarcastic, but he just sounds… happy. You can hear the smile in his voice, and when he pulls his head back up, he’s delirious almost. Pupils blown out, breathless laughter kissing your cheeks as he shuffles over the top of you. “You’re gorgeous like this. You know that?”
You scoff, rolling your eyes, not able to look up at him. He’s better at this— the feelings. Even though neither of you can look each other in the eye to pay a compliment outside these moments, right here he’s the opposite. Always calling you pretty, looking at you with those happy eyes, betraying all the words the two of you throw at each other when your mad.
“Shirt, Johnny.”
“Hmm. You wanna see me?”
“Yeah. Hate it when you don’t let me see you. I… want to touch you.” It’s a small confession, spurred on by his compliment, and it seems to throw him off just a bit.
“Yeah?” You nod, your hands gently skimming along the strong line of his jaw. Pfft, you were gorgeous— he… he was fucking gorgeous. “What are you thinkin’ about right now?”
“How nice you are to look at.”
“Think that’s the first nice thing you said to me today.”
“I called you pretty this morning.” You remind him, a small smile from him making your earlier anger start to melt into something soft and gooey.
“You did.”
“Meant it too.” He rolls his eyes this time, and you keep your hands on his face.
“Bet you say that to all the boys.” He blows out a dramatic sigh, head tilting to the side. He’s trying to play it off. Play it into something funny and not real. Not true. You shake your head at him, eyebrows drawn together. The confidence in your fuzzy brain will disappear in a second, but you grab hold of it enough to get the next few words out.
“Never. No one but you, Johnny. I don’t want anyone else but you.” He blinks, stopping his movement for a second. Where he usually starts laughing, calls you greedy, maybe calls you a few dirty names, instead he pauses, scrunches his face together, and lets out a breath like you’ve punched him in the chest. “John?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans down, hovering his mouth over yours just for a second. You feel a warm palm cup your burning cheek, and he locks his eyes on you. The few seconds he holds there feel like eternity. Everything moves in slow motion, his stare freezing your heart inside you.
It’s heavy. Loaded with something dangerous. Something illegal. Something you can’t have.
Then, he leans down and kisses you.
He’s done it a hundred times, but this is… it’s just different. It’s so, so soft. His hand holds you to the bed, keeping you still, keeping you malleable for him. His lips connect, only for a few seconds, kissing you like you’ll cut him if he moves too quick. When he does press closer, you feel him sigh— the forearm of his free arm drops next to your head, like the weight of him was too much.
You don’t remember your eyes closing. It must of been too much to look at him when he’s touching you so gently. Like he really cared. Wanted to care.
It’s over too soon. You find yourself leaning up, chasing the softness of his mouth, the taste of his tongue. His hand keeps you down, and he never looks away as he uses the other to rip his shirt over his head. The soft clang of his dog tags tangle under his chin, and draw your attention lower, to his chest.
You don’t know if you’ve told him how attracted to him you are. You know he knows— he’d have to by now. You wouldn’t have gotten with him at first if you weren’t. It’s why this whole thing started. It was just physical at first, but then he started talking, started staying longer after, and now it was fucking overwhelming. Everything about him was more and more alluring, and your hands reached out before you could stop them. You smile at the way he lets you explore. That he remembers what you said, and lets you indulge.
Your fingertips brushed their way over his stomach, and he nearly shivered under the soft touch. He was staring at you, watching your every move as you traced languid lines over and up his chest. He was breathing hard, and when your fingers twisted in the long chain of his tags, he nearly stopped completely. You yanked him back down, hovering him over you, as one of his hands comes back to brace near your head.
Wordless stills, he snakes his arm down between your bodies and pulls at the hem of your shirt. You obey the silent command, never breaking eye contact as you tug your jacket and shirt off in one go. Suddenly, you feel something you’ve never felt with him before.
You’re vulnerable.
Usually, it’s all fight. The two of you are either so mad at each other that you spend the entire time trying to win, trying to get a higher score, or you’re both so frustrated that you hardly even look each other in the eye. This is… heavy.
He leans down again, his eyes shutting tightly before he kisses you. You hum, unable to not smile underneath him as he kisses you with that same gentle affection, and your hands thread up behind his neck into the short crop of his hair, tugging him down closer. Skin meets skin, warmth blooming in your chest as he slides up your body to fit his hips between your legs. His mouth melts into yours, groaning as you tug his hair a little bit harder.
He says your name, the sound curling around your throat and choking out a strangled whimper, and then he grinds his hips slow and heavy into you, your mind going a bit blank.
“Shit. What are we… what are you doing? Hurry the fu…fuck. Fuck.” Your eyes roll back with another slow roll of his hips, and he laughs breathlessly.
“Shh. Just go with it.” He does it again, leaving a wet trail of kisses under your jaw and down to his favourite spot on your neck. He’s taking his time, tasting your skin like it’s something to be savoured. “T’s nice, isn’t it? Feels good.”
“Yeah…f-feels good.” You mumble, hiding your face in the pillows as he tugs your pants down, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He doesn’t treat himself as nice, ripping at his own pants and ridding them as quick as possible. Then he’s sinking back over you, letting you feel just how much he likes it like this. When you wrap your arms around him again and kiss him, he’s warm and safe, and you let him sweep you up into it.
He slides his hand down slow, fingers hardly grazing your clit and going past, and you know he’s fucking with you on purpose. You whine his name, and he laughs— the familiarity of the sound making you a little more confident. You bite his lower lip a bit harder than you should, and he groans.
“Don’t fucking tease me, Mactavish.” You whine pitifully, and he shakes his head.
“Not teasin, princess. Enjoyin’ it.” He draws out the words, each of them twirled in his strong accent that somehow makes you even dizzier than before.
“You didn’t enjoy it before?” You pout, and this time he laughs a little harder. Before he answers, one of his fingers slide up, and then easily slip inside of you, curling slowly so you arch of the bed.
“Yer aff yeir heid.” He mumbles, kissing you quickly like he’s trying to shut off that thought. “Just like takin’ my time with ya. Get to see more of you. You’re beautiful.”
Your chest is heavy, and you can’t focus, pleasure lighting up every nerve in your body. You feel him against your inner thigh, hard and warm, and every slight movement has him panting into your mouth. You know he’s built up from this morning, how you left him waiting and didn’t even look back. You feel bad. Horrible.
How could you leave him there? How could you leave him anywhere now, when he was looking at you like this? Like you held answers he’d been searching for all his life, right in your eyes?
It’s never been this slow. God— it fucking hurts, that’s how slow it’s moving. His fingers curl inside of you, no rush, hitting just the right spot in a way that would have you cumming in his hand if he just sped up a little. This way, he keeps you on edge, right on the precipice— hoping he lets you fall into it. You’re at his mercy, but from the feeling of him, he’s at yours, too.
“Johnny— that’s feels so good. You’re so g-good, please.” You wheeze out, feeling waves of blinding heat surging low in your tummy. He kisses you again, and you could finish just from this. The sweetness of his mouth, how his words drip like honey over your cheek, how careful he is. How loving.
“You’re okay, bonnie. You just keep ya eyes on me. I’ll take care of everythin’ else.” Your eyebrows furrow, eyes trying to focus as you feel your muscles tighten. His thumb presses lightly on your clit; soft circles drawing you into another embarrassing whine of his name. “Come on. Show me how good ya are f’me.”
“Jesus— fuck!” It feels different. You can hardly see, hardly hear anything but his low, soothing voice in your ear, telling you how sexy you are, how tight you feel around his fingers. You want to tell him to… to keep going, or stop, both— something. You want to say something, but all that comes out is his name.
Johnny. Johnny. Johnny—
You can’t control it. Pleasure blinds you— it’s cliche but it’s all you can describe it as. Your toes curl, and your fingers scrape down his back to try and find a way to ground yourself. You try to muffle your sounds, but Soap keeps your head forward with a hand on your jaw. So he can watch your face when you cum from his fingers.
“That’s it, gorgeous. Fuckin’ hell—“ You hear his voice groan in your ear, and the pleasure makes your legs shake. You’re vaguely aware that his hand slows, lazily playing with your clit as you ride out your high, but mainly you watch as he comes back into focus. You watch his eyes— pupils dilated, looking at you in awe. “You sound so pretty when you come. Fuckin’ gorgeous girl.”
Seriously— you think you’ve only seen him look like that when something blows up in front of him. Sort of mystified and obsessed.
You’re gasping for air as he moves you, flipping you over and shuffling you up the bed. You lose track of him, the haze of pleasure dumbing you down to only the most basic of movements, but then he’s there again, and you reach out.
He takes your hands, kissing your palms before pulling you to him, legs parting on instinct as he draws you into his lap. He’s leant himself against the headboard, and at some point taken off his boxers, but now, when your legs give out and you lean your weight on him, you both gasp at the feeling. His cock is hard, pressing against your wet heat, and he’s nearly shivering in anticipation. One of his hands paw at your hips, pulling you closer so your pussy drags along his length, and the other cups your cheek.
Time stops again, just for a second. His eyes pull you in, and you blink a few times to focus. His thumb traces your bottom lip. He says something you don’t understand under his breath, muttering in a heavy accent.
“Johnny…” You whisper, your heart racing.
“Yeah, love.”
“What are you doing to me?” You could cry, you were so under his spell right now. If he wanted to, this could be the ultimate win. He could shatter you with a few mean words— but for some reason, you didn’t think he would.
“You know what I’m doin’. What this is. Don’t you, love?” His thumb catches your chin, pulling you into one of those soft kisses he’s been hiding from you, and it’s so classic of him you nearly laugh.
Everything he does, he does in stride. With confidence. Even this— a changing of a reliable tide, a shift in your relationship into a strange and unpredictable horizon, he handles like he’s always known it was coming. Like it was inevitable. You couldn’t of been more lost right now, but if he knew, if he could guide you, you’d be okay.
“That alright?” He whispers lowly, dipping his head to catch your eyes.
“Course. Yeah. Yeah— I want…” You swallow hard. Fear and insecurity creep up your throat and tighten it. “I want you. Really bad.”
It takes him a second, and then he grins. “I know, love. Can feel ya on me—“
“Not like— not just like that.” His head tilts, smiling incredulously at you, but he must be able to tell. You can’t say what you’re feeling right now, but what you were doing was enough. Extending an olive branch, and he was going to fucking snatch it out of your hands and consume every inch.
“You’re so sweet. I want ya too, okay? Don’t look so fuckin’ nervous.”
“M’not nervous.” You mumble it. It could not be less convincing. He was still smiling. “Stop looking at me like that and I won’t be.”
“Like what?” He’s got a dopey, lazy look on him, so you shift your hips, and his confidence shakes as you drag your clit across the sensitive head of his leaking cock. “Shit—“
“You okay, Johnny?” You whisper and he nods furiously. He’s the one squeezing his eyes shut now, and you kiss the crease in his forhead before you raise your hips and start to sink down on him, keening at the catch of his head at your entrance. “Oh, god—“
It feels right. Whatever the fuck you two were doing before— it wasn’t as good as this. The whispers of each others names, the feeling of heat splitting it’s way up your spine, how he holds you so close you think you might explode under the pressure. This was the right way to do it.
“Fuck. Fuckin— slow, baby. I’m gonna fuckin’ finish if ya don’t go—“ He chokes out another harsh exhale, sounding winded. He’s holding your hips so hard he’ll leave bruises, and you moan at the thought of it. “Fucking tight as fuck.”
“Relax.” You coo in his ear, trying to distract the both of you from the stretch of him slowly filling you.
Even though he’s had you countless times, you still struggle to take him like this— and he clearly does too. It’s a favourite for both of you for this reason. You both crave the little bit of pain, something that reminds you where you are. What you’re doing. Mainly who you’re doing it with. It might have been subconscious before, but now… there’s nothing that could deny who was breaking you apart.
He says your name over and over as he starts fucking up into you, and you feel him so deep like this. He controls you easily, the muscles in his arms and chest straining with how hard every thrust of his hips snaps against yours. You nearly sob when he goes faster, familiar brutality mixed with the soft way he’s watching your eyes has your mind swimming in the pleasure he drives into you.
Your head falls back, and he wraps an arm around your lower back, holding you to him. Both of you grind into the way he has you, him still fucking you at a pace that practically strips you bare. You can’t hide anything from him here— not with your foreheads stuck together, bodies pressed in every way they can, Johnnys hands pawing at your ass, your tits, anything they can find that gets a new sound out of you.
“Feels so good.” You sigh, your entire body at his mercy as he slams himself up off the bed. It’s still slow, slow enough that he can keep your eyes locked on him, but fuck— he’s so hard with it, you know you’ll feel him for days. “So good. Fuck. More—“
“Shit, I know baby.” He kisses you, teeth clashing as you try to keep up with the way he moves. Your body melts when he kisses you, moulding against him and letting him use you.
You want him to use you. You want him to take all the things you know he wants, but you’re too scared to admit you can give to him. Nothing about the life you live is safe, or guaranteed, but whatever you have here is grounding, and it’s enough. More than enough— but you just can’t say it.
You roll your hips again, and you hear his low moans turn breathy and soft. He’s close. You can feel it. He’s been worked up all day because of you, and you don’t want him to wait again. You want him to take it.
“Fuck, baby I’m gonna—“
“I know. Keep going, wanna feel it.” You nearly sob, and Soap looks at your broken features and kisses them away.
Your world rotates as he flips you on your back, your hands pulled from his hair as his rough fingertips hold your wrists down. He pins them above your head, sounds spilling from him that have sparks flying in your chest. That’s the thing that makes this so fucking different. It’s not even the sounds— it’s who’s making them. Who’s doing it to you.
It’s him.
It’s all about him.
He spreads you wide, his free hand grabbing your calf and pushing it down so he can fuck you deeper. He looms over you, holding you down with his body weight, and the last thing you see is his head turn, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then he says your name as you fall into bliss.
Everything locks and releases in tandem, your body somehow tight and loose at the same time. You arch off the bed, Soaps arms wrapping you close as you feel warmth spread across your stomach. His breath is hot as he rides out his high, head tucked into your neck, and he grounds you as pleasure seeks its way through the cloud of your brain.
“T’s too good. You’re fuckin— shit. Shit, baby.” He talks through it, knowing you love the sound of his voice, and he doesn’t even need to touch you to help you ride it out. Waves of searing bliss drown you in the feeling he’s giving you, and when he finally starts to slow, you just say his name again, hearing him echo it back to you. “Yeah. That’s fuckin’ right. Me.”
After a while, things get a little less fuzzy, and you can feel his hand leave your wrists. Your hands come down on their own volition, threading through his hair. You feel his head tilt a little, leaning into the soft touch of your hand, so you keep going, letting your fingertips dance along his scalp. It’s doing the same thing for you that it is for him— giving you something to focus on while your heart slows.
His hair is unfairly soft. It should be straw dry and breaking off with the shitty 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner and body wash he uses. You tried it once, and it made your pony tail move in one direction for a week. But his is like… feather soft. So easy to comb through, you could spend hours like this.
“I like that.” He says after a while. He’s not pinning you anymore, half moved to the side with an arm and a leg thrown over you. His head was still hidden, buried so close that when he talks, his lips brush against your collarbone.
“How is your hair so soft?” You mumble, more to yourself, your hands no longer shaking from adrenaline and pleasure. “Not fair.”
“Natural beauty n’ all.” He says, and you can feel the dumb smirk he has on his face. You twirl your fingers in his hair and pull lightly, and he fakes a yelp. “Owwww.”
“Such a drama queen.” You roll your eyes, and he groans emphatically as he hauls himself up and over to hang above you. His eyebrows are raised, and he’s smiling.
Maybe his smile isn’t so dumb.
“We’re gonna be in shit for missin’ that meeting, you know.” He says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Hope you got a good excuse.”
“I don’t even care.” You sigh, a little delirious in the come down from such a high. He laughs, all bright and happy, and you smile back at him. “I’m just glad we’re… you know. Here.”
He stares at you for a second, for what feels like the millionth time today, but then he leans down and kisses you again. Even though it had happened so many times, you don’t think there’d be a time you’d get tired of it. Not the looks, not the kisses, or any of it. Even though everything was on the line, you’d give it all up, lose all the battles, if it meant this.
“Yeah. Me too.” He grins. Your heart skips.
His smile is definitely not dumb.
766 notes · View notes
fairytsuk1 · 4 months
Text
alex kept his car neat and in good condition, he was certainly wealthy enough to be able to replace it should the time ever come but he preferred to keep his things as long as possible. Especially when it had so many memories attached to it.
“this is your car?! It’s so nice!”
It was the car he picked you up in for your first date, he recalled you wearing the prettiest sundress that, when the wind picked up just right, nearly showed the lace of your panties. He’d swallowed and nodded, the nerves of seeing a pretty girl smiling at him and the way he was beginning to fill out in his boxers was making him light headed.
“yeah, you like it? I just got these little, these fucking car things so it smells really good.”
You nod and lean forward to inspect the hanging heart that emanated, is it called “Ambrosia?” You’re racking your brain for the definition while Alex clears his throat and looks at everything that isn’t the way your tits fill out the dress perfectly.
“Isn’t ambrosia a sex thing?”
“...What?! No, no! The–the lady said it was just a nice smell I don’t even think–”
You burst into laughter, the poor girl probably felt so rejected after Alex was clearly clueless to what she was implying by giving him this car scent. It was embarrassing for him, but it started the date with a lightness that made the whole thing seem like water off a duck’s back.
He asked you to be his girlfriend two weeks later, and in that very passenger seat; you rewarded him with the sugariest kiss he’d ever gotten. Even your lipstick stuck to his cheek, he almost didn’t wipe it off because who would?
“I just think, like, for Las Nevadas you should…”
“Should…?”
Getting fast food late at night was a simple pleasure that he didn’t always give himself, but after a day of wandering and driving, the Wendy’s fries seemed too irresistible to not buy them. Plus, you’d given him puppy dog eyes, so maybe there were other forces at work.
“Sorry, I was looking for ketchup! Anyways, you should give him a happy ending! Maybe.”
“Hah, that’s never happening. It just doesn’t fit! A happy ending for character Quackity? Maybe when the world ends.”
He realized he might have loved you when you shrugged and said, “maybe I just want to see Alex and Quackity happy.”
Maybe it was stupid to change your lore for your girlfriend, but he at least gave it some consideration. For you, anything. It was no surprise that eventually, you two would fuck like rabbits in his car. It was only natural, you looked amazing in your black dress you wore for dinner and every time Alex shifted in his seat… his gold chain made you want to ride him till he fainted. Having it dangle in your face as he fucked into you seemed nice too, safe to say, you two were pent up.
His hand lay firm on your thigh, tips of fingers just going under the hem of your black dress because he knew it teased you just enough to imagine him moving higher, he knew that you knew how much he liked it when you begged. Then, he’s pulling into the driveway and taking his hand away to put you two in park.
“I’ll let you say it,” he gives you a goofy smile but his eyelids are low and his legs are suspiciously spread on the wheel, “do you wanna go inside?”
You don’t even verbally reply, just immediately taking him into a gasping kiss as the tension boils over and bleeds into the passion that courses through your veins. He nearly whimpers, and his hands immediately go to your thighs that he pulls over onto his own lap, “wait, gotta, ngh, the seat.”
“Don’t wanna wait, want you now,” you plop yourself down and immediately grind your clothed clit on his bulge, lips kissing every inch of bare skin you could find.
He adjusts the seat so he can lean back, and pants with the way you needily grind yourself down into his lap, “you’re so needy, can barely adjust my seat and you’re already, fuck, you’re already grinding on me like I’m some kind of pillow.”
Alex is so wordy, it eggs you on and you almost think you could cum like this until strong hands are gripping your hips and bringing you to a standstill.
“What did I say? I wanna hear you say it,” his forehead touches yours as you squirm in his grip, “tell me what you want.”
Nearly salivating, you feel yourself grow smaller as his voice hits you hard with the ruggedness and pure dominance dripping from every word.
“I want, want you to fuck me! I’m so wet for you, I’m a mess! I wanna cum all over your cock, I wanna…wanna feel you inside of me and want you to,” you lift your dress up and his eyes are nearly popping out of his head, “I didn’t even wear them for you. ‘Cuz I knew, I knew you’d wanna do it here. I know you think about it.”
You were right, and it made his cock even harder that he immediately took a hand off you to work on unzipping his dress pants. It was sweet, in all your neediness you took a hand down to help him out, both of you working together to free him from the confines of his underwear and pants.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful. You smell so good, and I wanna, just wait. Need to prep you, make you feel good for a bit.” Thick fingers rounded your thigh and came to brush a finger through your folds, gathering the wetness that he was sure you were nearly dripping onto him to feel how badly you wanted him. Stuttering, you spit on your hand to work his cock and feel the precum drip down to his balls and make a mess on his seats.
“Alex,” you panted in his ear when he curled his fingers inside you to feel the way your gummy walls fluttered around him, carving his name inside of you with his fingers and soon his cock, “love it. Love your fingers, love you…”
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extasiswings · 1 year
Text
the more it heals, the worse it hurts
I’m not sorry, but I might be a little sorry.  Have some post-6x10 Eddie and Bobby in the hospital.
Bobby knows he should call Athena.  He’s dead on his feet, old ghosts circling around him and grief bearing down on his shoulders with the weight of the world.  He needs his wife.  It’s just that kind of night.    
He lasted longer than he expected though.  He’s kept the ghosts, the grief, the blood of long-scarred over wounds ripped open afresh at bay for hours, finding ways to keep busy.  Doing his job.  Calling the station to arrange coverage.  Speaking with doctors to explain what happened.  Taking care of his people—when Chim brought Maddie in, Bobby was the one to pass along the updates he’d been given from the medical staff.  When Hen needed to call Karen, Bobby found her a phone.  And Eddie—
Well.
Honestly, Bobby isn’t sure he’s done much for Eddie at all.  Not since that initial moment, pulling Eddie away, barking orders to drive the ambulance.  If he’s really honest with himself, he’s been avoiding the other man since they arrived at the hospital.  Because there is something in Eddie right now, a brittle fragility, that Bobby has seen before, that he feels himself in a different way, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to be what Eddie needs.  He doesn’t know if he can help without breaking himself.  At least, not without setting up a safety net first.  
He calls Athena.  
He closes his eyes.
He breathes.
He prays.
And then, he pushes himself off the wall of the stairwell he had ducked into and resolves to be Atlas for a little while longer.
He can take it.
Bobby finds Eddie at the furthest edge of the waiting room, a corner that’s a little more empty, a little more private.  He’s quite far from the Buckleys, Bobby notes absently.  
Eddie doesn’t react when Bobby settles into the chair next to him.  His gaze is fixed on the wall, but also distant, like he’s somewhere else completely, seeing something else completely.  Silence stretches between them for so long that at first Bobby almost wonders if he’s misjudged the situation, if Eddie really doesn’t want to talk after all.  But Bobby waits—patient, steady, calling on all the wealth of experience his life has brought him to keep himself composed.  And finally, Eddie cracks.
“He didn’t get to say goodbye,” Eddie says.  He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look at Bobby at all, but it’s something.
“What?”
Eddie’s throat works as he swallows.  His hand comes up to wipe at his mouth roughly like he’s clearing away some invisible stain.
“Christopher,” he clarifies.  “When Shannon—I was in the ambulance, I got to say goodbye, but she was gone as soon as we got to the hospital and there was nothing—”  He shakes his head, his eyes growing even more distant.  “I just had to go home and tell him she was gone.  And I’ve always felt like that was unfair, but at the same time part of me is grateful that he didn’t have to see her like that, that his last memory of her doesn’t involve a tube in her throat.”
Bobby opens his mouth, then closes it.  Waits a moment more.  Because he can see the cracks in the man in front of him, see the fraying, fraying threads, and while he’s willing to pick up the pieces, he doesn’t want to be the reason Eddie shatters.  So he waits, and lets Eddie wind his way to whatever he needs to get out.
“But…he didn’t get to say goodbye,” Eddie repeats, his voice cracking.  He squeezes his eyes shut.
Bobby’s chest aches when he draws in his next breath.  The weight on his shoulders tips precariously, threatening to crush him.  But he resets, rebalances.  
He does what he has to do.  
When he sets a hand to Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie flinches but ultimately leans into it.  After a moment, he lifts his head and finally meets Bobby’s eyes.  The look in them steals the air from Bobby’s lungs—it’s raw, agonized, wild…and familiar.  Bobby’s seen that look before, in his own eyes.  In his mirror.  For years after he lost his first wife and his children, he saw it reflected back at him every morning.  And now he’s seeing it in Eddie’s, far deeper and sharper than the last time they had been in this situation, because this time Eddie’s allowing himself to really feel everything.
For better or worse.
“I don’t know how to go home,” Eddie confesses.  “Because when I get there, I have to wake him up and tell him and bring him here.  And I can’t do that—I can’t put him through that.  But I also can’t not do it either, because if Buck—”  Another crack.  Another pause.  Another swallow.
Bobby squeezes Eddie’s shoulder.  And his heart bleeds.  
“He didn’t get to say goodbye last time.”  A whisper.  And yet somehow also a plea.  To God?  The universe?  “He deserves the chance to do that.  He deserves the option.”
“Yes, he does,” Bobby replies quietly.
“It’s not fair,” Eddie snaps, his hands coming up to rake through his hair in frustration.  “He finally moved on, he built something new, he got attached to someone else, and now—it’s not fair.”
And there it is.  The flare in Eddie’s eyes, the hitch of his voice that tells Bobby everything Eddie is trying not to say outright, provides final confirmation of the truth of all the stray thoughts Bobby has had over the years, questions that he’s kept locked away and elected not to fixate on because they weren’t his business.
Because before, they really were talking about Christopher.  But Bobby knows better than to think that’s still all they’re doing now.  
“I don’t know how to do this,” Eddie admits, and Bobby knows he’s referring to more than just going home.  “I don’t know how to do this if he doesn’t wake up.”  
And that right there is why Bobby had been avoiding this.  Because he’s not sure he knows either.  
He’s not prepared to lose another son.  
At the end of the hall, the entrance doors open.  Athena walks through.  And suddenly, the weight on Bobby’s shoulders eases.  
“You don’t have to have the answers yet,” he replies, pushing himself up from the chair.  “You just have to start somewhere.  And you don’t have to do any of it alone.”
“Come on,” he adds with his hand still firmly fixed around Eddie’s shoulder.  He nods in Athena’s direction.  “We’ll take you home.  And bring you back if you want.”
And with a heavy sigh and one last pause, Eddie allows Bobby to help him to his feet.  
This, he can do.  The rest…they can work all of that out later.      
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bucca2 · 6 months
Text
Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod
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König x high school sweetheart reader
3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander
4.2k words
tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash
spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.
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The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.
He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—
“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.
“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.
His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”
His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”
“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”
“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.
“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”
“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.
“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.
“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.
“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.
“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.
“Yes, mama,” he whispers.
That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.
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“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)
He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”
“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.
He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.
“Is that why you wear the hood?”
“Hmm?”
“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”
“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”
“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”
“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”
She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.
“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”
“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”
“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”
“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”
“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”
She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.
He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.
“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”
“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”
That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.
“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”
“You know what I look like, though.”
“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”
“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”
She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”
“You might not like what you see.”
“You said you didn’t look much different.”
“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”
He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.
He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.
“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”
She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.
He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.
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Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.
For König, they’re the highlight of the job.
As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.
So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.
König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—
He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.
His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.
Hands-on.
He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.
In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.
That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.
That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.
“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.
Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”
König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.
“Drive yourself.”
“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”
He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.
He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.
That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.
Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?
He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.
The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.
Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.
The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.
Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.
He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.
“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.
He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.
But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.
He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.
It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.
He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.
He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.
His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.
He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.
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It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.
It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.
“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.
“His loss.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.
She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”
There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.
“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.
“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.
It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.
“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.
“I don’t want to worry you.”
He scoffs. “Too late for that.”
“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.
“I want to help you.”
Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?
“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.
“I can listen to you, at least.”
They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).
But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.
“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”
Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?
“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.
“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.
“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”
“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”
“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”
“You have me.”
She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.
“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”
She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”
Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”
Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.
“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.
“For what?”
“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.
She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”
He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.
“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”
“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.
She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.
“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”
“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.
“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.
Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.
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"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.
sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)
ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!
taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian
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pinknipszz · 6 months
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modern headcanons | beach day
⋆✮↪ ao’nung, tsireya, neteyam, lo’ak, and kiri
ao’nung
definitely goes surfing at the beach. body surfing, bodyboarding, longboarding– you name it. the hobby shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to you, but when you first saw him out in the waves, safe to say your eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. you weren’t a complete stranger to surfing, but ao’nung did it on a level that had you questioning if it was even safe anymore. he always teases you for getting worried about his safety, but if it really starts to get rough out there, he’s willing to stay by the shore with you.
insists on being in charge of the sunscreen. since ao’nung spends most of the day under the sun, he knows how important it is to apply an ample amount of sunscreen. he doesn’t care if you want to stay under the shade or not. he will apply as much sunscreen as possible on your skin. if you ask him about it, he’d probably brush it off as a health precaution. while that’s partly true, the real reason is because he didn’t listen to his mother one time as a kid. he had to learn the hard way.
tsireya
brings the food, the blanket, you name it. it’s her love language. as much as you want to help, there’s no denying the fact that the set-up turns out way more aesthetically pleasing when she’s in charge. plus, her cooking is as wonderful as she is. it doesn’t even feel like a picnic anymore. you once told her that she should start a catering business, but she just smiled and shrugged it off, saying that she’d only go above and beyond for you. you could’ve sworn you melted on the spot.
loves to make bracelets. tsireya loves jewelry. not so much the expensive kind, but simple ones you can make by hand. when you aren’t in the mood for swimming but want to enjoy the salty breeze, tsireya sets up a blanket and brings her bracelet-making kits. when you accidentally discovered her hobby, tsireya called it childish and embarrassing, but you quickly reassured her that it was nothing of that sort. now you make matching bracelets together.
neteyam
knows the best time and date to have a beach day. his intuition is admirable and borderline scary. he knows you don’t like crowded beaches, and honestly, neither does he. neteyam prefers more private and intimate spots, so his only request after you suggested a beach day was to pick when and where to go. agreeing was the best decision you ever made. the weather is always perfect, the water is crystal clear, and no one else is there. really, you don’t know how he does it.
lets you bury him under the sand. probably used to it since he’s the eldest sibling. it started with sandcastles, but when you brought up a fond memory about “sand mermaids” from your childhood, neteyam was eager to recreate it just to hear you laugh. personally, he doesn’t get the joke, but it’s important to you and that’s all that matters to him. he’s just a gentleman through and through. he also doesn’t mind if you take embarrassing pictures of him.
lo’ak
if possible, he cannonballs. for this reason alone, he’s very particular about the beach you guys go to. there’s no nearby cliff over the water? pass. there’s no overhanging tree to climb and jump off of? pass. the water is too shallow? pass. it’s like he’s asking for death at this point, and he’s so stubborn about it. you’ll admit that the stress is worth it, though. he knows how to make things fun.
brings two pairs of goggles. lo’ak makes it a challenge to find the “weirdest” sea creatures possible. he’d definitely try to gross you out with them too. luckily, you know his greatest weakness: sea cucumbers. he physically can’t be within a five feet radius of a sea cucumber. silliness aside, you two spend a lot of time swimming through reefs together. he isn’t the most graceful swimmer, but you can tell that he’s fascinated by marine life. he’ll never admit it though. you find it endearing.
kiri
loves to paint your nails. you’d think that the beach wasn’t an ideal place to paint your nails, but somehow, this girl made it work. you two didn’t even go to the beach for swimming at this point. you’re there for scenery. you weren’t upset by it, though, because every second spent with your favorite girl was worth it, and you can tell she felt the same way. she also has a very artistic hand. kiri knows how to recreate any nail design you show her.
wades through the shallow parts of the water. just because kiri likes to stay in the sand doesn’t mean she hates the water altogether. it’s quite the opposite actually. she’s very fond of dragging her feet through the water with you hand-in-hand, watching tiny fish swim by. occasionally, she’ll pull you close if she recognizes a fish and tells you all about it, and everytime she does, you can’t hold back a smile. she’s really in her element.
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lunargrapejuice · 2 years
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when they get hit with a curse that clones a baby version of them
yuta okkotsu + toge inumaki x reader
repost from my old blog <3
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toge:
inumaki walks in with the small version of himself in his arms, babbling nonsense and kicking his feet. he’s a little nervous because what the hell are you guys going to do with a baby version of him?! he doesn’t know how to take care of a baby!
but his worries wash away and he absolutely melts when he sees your eyes light up at the sight of the mini toge and when you run up to hold him in your arms
it’s no doubt a mini version of your boyfriend, the same soft white hair and marks on his face make it obvious
you tickle baby toges tummy when you ask what happened and panda explains he was hit with a curse that cloned a baby version of him but shoko said the curse should wear off in a few days
‘well, looks like we’re stuck playing mommy & daddy for the next few days huh?’ you wink at your boyfriend. hey if you were going to be stuck with a baby version of your boyfriend you’re gonna enjoy it and have some fun and inumaki is actually a little excited now
baby toge doesn’t seem to have any of his adult memories so he’s hesitant and a little shy when the others come to gawk at him (unless it’s yuji- he’s seemed to take a big liking to the pink haired boy) but you seem so warm and familiar so he clings to you the entire time, always wanting you to hold him and be by him
baby insists that he sleeps on top of you, which isn’t far from the normal cuddling you and inumaki do during the night but having your cuddles stolen by baby toge has him a little jealous and a little in absolute awh. seeing cute little baby curled up, head resting peacefully on your chest, your hand on his back rubbing up and down when he starts to stir. he wants to be the one laying on your chest and getting loves but this is too cute not to love
expect him to take a million pictures of you and baby toge, most of them while you’re not looking/paying attention and just having a nice time with the baby. some he’ll use to tease you a little later because you’re making an adorable silly face and others he wants to keep for himself because you just look so amazing and like you’re having a great time as a stand in mom
adult toge doesn’t think it’s necessarily to buy baby clothes or accessories but you do it anyways and seeing you dress him up in cute clothes, doing his hair and never hiding his marks, gahh he’s never been baby hungry till now
one time maki accidentally scared baby toge while the second years were in charge of watching him since you were running an errand. none of them could get him to calm down and stop crying but as soon as you got back, you picked him up, whiped away his tears and kissed his chubby cheeks and he was totally fine after that, smiling and giggling in your arms
regular sized toge heart literally bursts when he sees you calm down baby toge and he cuddles into your arms, starting to fall asleep soundly
baby toge is desperate to talk to you, trying to call you ‘mommy’ but can’t quite get the word out and adult toge is so scared internally being like ‘please do not say words that could hurt her fjdlfklf’ but without any worry on your end, you assign yourself a name of a rice ball ingredient and try to teach him that, he catches on quickly and now that’s all he says
toge was never really sure if he wanted to have kids. he doesn’t mind his curse technique but he was worried to pass that on to his kids, not allowing them to communicate properly and have to live with the marks on their face that others used to poke fun of him for but seeing you being like a mother to his baby clone has him reconsidering. you make it look easy, or at least doable and he starts to realize that with the right support and love that you both can provide, if you had kids, they would be more than alright in this world
once the few days are up and baby inumaki is gone, he’ll notice the little sadness in your eyes and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little sad too. it was fun and really opened his heart and mind to a future with you he was scared about for a long time. he’ll absolutely write you the sweetest note about how amazing you were the past few days and how much more he grew to love you because of it and how he can’t wait to start a family with you when you’re both ready to take that step for real ♡
he’s expecting you to make up for the lost cuddles
yuta:
gojo comes to get you saying you need to come to shokos office right now and it has you worried sick that somethings happened to your boyfriend
the look for pure confusion and excitement in your eyes when you enter shokos office and see yuta totally fine and the baby in his arms has yuta thinking he should put a baby in you for real
‘sorry, i forgot to tell you i was pregnant!’ he jokes when you run up to him and ask who’s baby this is, even though it looks exactly like the man you love so it has to be him right?
she explains that he was hit by a curse and it cloned a baby version of him and that baby yuta will be around for a week or so but he doesn’t have any memories so he’s a little scared and freaked out but his eyes light up when he sees you, so familiar and warm, and he immediately reaches out for you calling you his mommy
‘i could be your mommy for a week, yeah?’ you say in a cute little voice, taking baby yuta in your arms, nuzzling your face into his. he immediately buries his face into your chest to hide from everyone else that’s scaring him, ahem tall and loud gojo who just wants to hold the baby version of his young student
yuta always wanted to have a family with you and wondered if your children would look like him or you so this has him very happy and excited though he’s a little worried that you’ll be stuck taking care of baby him while he goes on missions
gojo tells him not to worry about it though so he leaves with you and baby yuta in your arms and you head immediately to the nearest baby store, ready to buy all sorts of cute clothes and other things for your temporary baby. yuta doesn’t really get it since the baby won’t be around for long but he’ll happily endulge you since you seem so happy and excited about it
the next few days you’re dressing up baby yuta in the cutest clothes, carrying him around everywhere with you- in your defense he’s really timid and nervous around the others so he’s absolutely more comfortable being in your arms or around you and you’re happy to hold him and give him lots of love (let’s be real you love it too)
yuta is so nervous that he’s put a lot of responsibility on you since he was accidentally cloned into a baby and you’re the one mostly taking care of said baby but his worries slowly start to wash away when he sees you smiling and laughing and enjoying being with him and his baby version
you’ve been calling regular yuta ‘daddy’ to baby and it has yuta blushing soo bad, bright red unable to form a coherent sentence because he’s so flustered and in love thinking about a real future with you and your kids
one day gojo couldn’t get yuta out of a mission so he has to leave you both alone, you promise you’ll be okay but he’s texting you to check up on every few hours ‘could i ask maki or toge or panda to come help you?’ etc. but true to your promise, you’re totally fine and really enjoying the day with the mini version of your beloved. you send him some selfies of you and baby to ensure him things are alll goood & that you both miss him
lowkey saves the pictures on his phone to cherish forever
when he gets home, you and baby yuta are passed out on the bed and looking precious as hell and worn out. he has to snap a few more pictures before curling up with you both until baby yuta starts fussing and he’s so sweet- ‘i’ve got it baby, just rest.’ he whispers, kissing your forehead before taking the baby to calm him down
once the curse wears off and the baby version of yuta disappears, it’s quiet in your place and you find yourself missing the sweet baby clone of your boyfriend that loved you so much. he can tell you’re a little down about it so he’ll make up for it by giving you lots of cuddles and loves, saying sweet promises that one day you’ll have a family of your own and you’re going to be the best mother and you’re kids will be so lucky to have you ♡
he’ll be giving so much love for the next week or so, still not over his little high from having a small temporary family with you
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nburkhardt · 1 year
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Maybe he’ll blame it on his wording or maybe blame it on the lack of romantic setting. Maybe he could blame it on the crowd around them.
Because he didn’t want to think of the answer being no. If that were the case, he might just die of a broken heart.
Steve’s first ‘girlfriend’ was this adorable little red head girl when he was five. Actually, when he thinks about it she wasn’t his ‘girlfriend’ but actually his little ‘boyfriend’ because she thought it was funny to call him ‘girlfriend’ instead and she wanted to be called ‘boyfriend’ which he gladly did. He remembers her pretty clearly because she was also his best friend at the time, her name is Delilah. He hasn’t seen her in years, hopes she’s okay and happy. The way she called him ‘girlfriend’ is probably what started his secret love of feminine names for himself.
He thinks that was probably his easiest “relationship” mostly because well, he was five. He remembers asking her to play and that was it. They were attached at the hip, Delilah’s mom would pick him up from his house when demanded and then he’d spend the rest of his day with Delilah and her family. Some of his best childhood memories are with them.
It’s probably the blueprint for his relationship to Eddie.
Expect, Eddie asked him to smoke one random day and then suddenly he’s being called ‘baby girl’ and ‘darling’. It made his heart beat so much faster and his cheeks run hot. Eddie wouldn’t demand him to come over, just wouldn’t let him leave most nights. They’d have late dinners with Wayne and enjoy quiet nights together and lazy mornings. He’s truly his happiest with the Munson family.
So, despite the fact that legally they can’t get married, he decided to get a ring and ask Eddie anyway.
Finding the perfect ring wasn’t as hard as he’s heard. Maybe it’s because he knows Eddie, knows what he hates and loves. Or maybe it’s just that the first ring he saw was perfect for Eddie. As soon as he saw it, his brain immediately came up with images of Eddie wearing it. When the sells person asked about his own ring, he declined and said he’ll pick something out later.
Eddie’s the one that’s good with creating a story, especially off the top of his head. So instead of coming up with anything like that, he’s planning on just laying it all out and hoping for the best. He swears to mention how much he loves Eddie, talk about their future and so much more.
He doesn’t bother hiding that he’s with Eddie when they get into the restaurant, it’s pretty common now for the two of them to be seen together. Most people don’t even look twice at them anymore, there’s of course still one or two. But it doesn’t bother them much.
It’s not the most romantic restaurant, just the little diner in town. Because Enzo’s was already busy plus the owner shoots glares at them even though Robin ripped a new one into him for being homophobic. So instead of the romantic scene, they’re in the little diner with checkered floors and terrible teal blue walls with pink accents. There’s sad looking daisies on the tables with old worn broken menus, and music neither of them actually like. Some old country song that Steve can’t even remember the name.
Their waiter is some senior from high school that looks bored. Repeating their orders back to them before walking off and Steve finally takes a chance to reach over at Eddie’s hands, “Eds, I got something for you”
Eddie brightens up at that, his smile is addicting and Steve smiles just to match him even if his nerves are making him squirm. Letting go of one of Eddie’s hands, he goes to pull out the tiny little black box that’s been making his pockets burn all day.
“What is it, Stevie?” Eddie’s voice goes up a notch and before he knows it, starts to ramble. “Is today a special day? I know it’s not my birthday and it’s not yours either, there’s no anniversary that I can think of. You also don’t celebrate many holidays lately, so it can’t be that. Or am I forgetting something? Is it an anniversary? Should I be getting you something-“
Usually he loves hearing Eddie ramble but his voice is getting higher and it’s starting to crack, so he shoves the box back into his pocket and grabs Eddie’s hands again in a tight grip. “Eds, baby, calm down! It’s okay”
Before either of them can say anything more their food is there and they let go of each other to eat. In between bites, he tries again, “I was thinking, maybe in the future, if we uh- we could go and get my last name to be…”
He gets cut off by waiters loudly and annoyingly singing ‘happy birthday’ to the table next to them and he wants to kick himself for his wording already. It’s turning out to be a disaster, and he doesn’t exactly know how to come back from it. So, they continue to eat their food quietly with some small talk instead. Once the badly singing waiters leave and their food is mostly gone, he tries again.
“Eddie, I have something to ask you” his nerves are showing in his voice, even to his own ears. Hopefully he looks aren’t reflecting how nervous he is, but he can’t see himself anywhere and he knows looking away would not be good. Without messing with the box in his pocket, “Would you want to share a last name?”
Internally cringing at his words, he hopes that Eddie understands. Looking at him, with the silence going that feels like the world has stopped, it seems like maybe that it…doesn’t. He knows it comes out wrong and that Eddie doesn’t get it. Because his face is full of confusion, normally he loves it. Normally Eddie being confused is always cute and Steve loves it, especially when he gets to explain something to Eddie.
But right now? He hates it.
“Like, you uhh” Eddie speechless is a wonder usually. Steve hates it right now, much like how much he hates his own wording. “Wouldn’t it be weird if Wayne adopted you? Since we’re dating?”
He’s speechless himself, of all the options Eddie picks that one? He shakes his head and his hand goes for the box in his pocket, “no, no. That’s- just, no. Eddie, I’d like to-“
“Stevie, are you okay?” The question comes out of left field and it makes him wonder why, until he feels a wetness to his cheeks and, damnit. He’s tearing up from all his nerves. He didn’t even notice, sighing he just nods. “Are- are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Let’s just go home, yeah?”
Eddie doesn’t quite agree but also doesn’t say anything else. Just moves next to him and loops his arm with Steve’s. Then they’re off to the car and all Steve needs now is a moment alone to figure out how he went so wrong when he had a plan.
Part 2
This was originally suppose to be the full fic but uhh tumblr kept deleting my last thing i'd type up. So now I'm splitting it into two parts. Anyway, I completely blame @i-less-than-three-you and this post for this. So thanks @undreaming-fanfiction for this idea bug I seriously couldn’t stop thinking about it, when I should be writing more of part 6 for my angst fic.
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theladyofbloodshed · 26 days
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Chapter 3 - Ruhn: Nesta's 25? she should be at the club
The phone vibrating on the bedside table told Ruhn Danaan three things. One – he was late. Two – the mirthroot that Flynn had bought was more potent than first thought. Three – there was a snoring faun next to him.
Ruhn leaned over her bare body to reach his cell. He’d missed the call. And six others. Plus a couple of texts.
Hunt Athalar.
Hunt Athalar.
Hunt Athalar.
‘Stalked by the Umbra Mortis,’ he groaned, flopping back against the pillows. Micah’s insistence that heads of the city’s departments should exchange contact information was proving more of a ball ache than anything.
The faun beside him – Ruhn couldn’t remember her name – stirred then blinked at him with bleary eyes. They’d had fun last night. Well, as much as Ruhn could remember.
He hit the shower, hoping she might find her way out to avoid the awkward exchange, but when he came to his room with a towel around his hips, the faun was still perched on the edge of the bed.
‘I have some, er, aux work to do. I’ll pay for your cab home.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘You can’t remember my name, can you?’
Ruhn flicked his tongue against his lip ring, stalling for time.
The doorbell rang. Over and over, somebody was buzzing at the door and Ruhn had a good idea who.
‘Official aux business,’ he said, ushering her down the stairs despite her muttering under her breath about him being an asshole.
A storm by the name of Hunt Athalar loomed on the stoop. He took a step back before the faun barrelled into him.
‘Seriously?’
It wasn’t Athalar who spoke but the pretty blonde that Ruhn had met a couple of days earlier. Her arms were folded across her chest. The fae look of you’re-a-worthless-piece-of-shit had been perfected on her features.
‘I need to work,’ said Hunt, turning to her and grazing his knuckles down her arm.
‘I am not a child, Hunt. I will manage a day without your company.’
He winced. ‘Nesta, you can’t cross a road without help.’
Her expression stiffened into stone.
Hunt’s wings spread out, veiling them, but not muffling the sound.
‘Hey. I care about what happens to you. Danaan won’t let anything bad happen. I’ll swing by when I’m done. Buy more cookie dough. Watch a movie.’
Ruhn couldn’t stop himself from frowning. This fallen angel was better known for gutting his enemies, not getting cosy with females and watching movies.
‘Answer your cell when I call,’ said Hunt, turning to look at him. Lightning wreathed his hands in warning. ‘Put some clothes on too. Ruhn – no shit today.’
In answer, he gave a lazy salute. The angel clenched his jaw, but didn’t pass comment. He turned to leave, touching Nesta on the shoulder as he departed, before bolting into the sky.
‘Welcome to my humble abode, Nesta Archeron.’
The place was usually a mess, but under her scrutiny, it seemed worse than usual. Ruhn was painfully aware of the peeling, graffitied wallpaper, the scrunched-up beer cans littering the stained carpet and the stench of smoke and alcohol clinging to the walls. The ashtrays were overflowing. A photo of a naked female was tacked to the dartboard with a dart piercing her head. Nesta peered over his shoulder to look into the living room where Flynn was naked and unconscious on the couch then her lip curled with disgust.
Ruhn guided her through the house, picking up discarded beer bottles along the way. Well, even if she wasn’t from Midgard, Nesta maintained the same stuck-up aura as other fae. He could imagine her and Sathia Flynn looking down their noses at one of the lace doily infested tea-houses the fae liked to frequent.
‘Do you engage in such activities every day?’
‘Not every day,’ he replied. Most nights though. And most nights Ruhn would wake up with a gorgeous female beside him with no memory of her name – but he usually sent them home happy. He had a reputation in the city, but it wasn’t a bad one.
‘Hello.’ Dec sat on a stool in the kitchen, already clicking away on his laptop. ‘You’re the fae who fell from space.’
‘Nesta,’ she replied tightly.
Dec held out a hand for her which she tentatively took to shake.
The three of them sipped at coffee in a painful silence once Ruhn had dressed. Dec kept throwing glances his way to encourage him to say something but Nesta had already made her opinion of him – and his home – clear from the pinched expression.
‘Do you need sugar for your coffee, Nesta?’
At Dec’s question, Nesta’s lips parted. ‘It can have sugar?’
‘Sure. And milk.’ Dec pulled open the fridge to sniff the milk. He retched. ‘We don’t have milk.’
Nesta frowned again. ‘How old are you?’
‘We’re only seventy-five.’
Her brows raised again. ‘Only.’
For an unknown reason, Hunt Athalar had taken a liking to this female who had a stick up her ass so Ruhn didn’t want a target on his back for cutting her loose in the city. It would be long fucking day babysitting her. Ruhn glanced down at his cell. A message from his father flashed on the screen. As if the day couldn’t get any worse.
‘What do you like to do, Nesta?’
She glanced around the kitchen at the piles of dishes in the sink and the overflowing bin. ‘To read.’
Thank Luna.
‘How would you like to see Lunathion’s library?’ 
She jumped off the stool as if sitting on it had been a punishment. Dec had probably cleaned them once or twice. He hadn’t. Flynn didn’t know what a sponge was.
Just as Ruhn thought of his friend, Tristan Flynn staggered into the kitchen. To all of their relief, he’d pulled on a pair of grey boxers. His chestnut-brown hair was flat on one side from his sleep. At the sight of Nesta in their kitchen, he pointed to himself then Ruhn, trying to remember which one of them had spent the night with her.
Ruhn cleared his throat. ‘This is Nesta Archeron. And this is Flynn.’
‘Oh. The female with the magic sword. Nesta. Hello,’ he said, winking. ‘I’m Lord Tristan Flynn.’  
Her eyes went from his head to his toes then back up again, entirely unimpressed. ‘You need to bathe.’
 ***
The reek of sex and alcohol lingered even when they were far away from Ruhn Danaan’s pleasure house. The male was patient with her at the roads – no doubt in response to Hunt’s reprimand that she didn’t know how to cross. It wasn’t Nesta’s fault that those metal vehicles moved so quickly. But it was her fault that she forgot to look each time. On the whole, Ruhn Danaan seemed… fine. Not cruel. Not overwhelmingly arrogant even for a prince. He yawned his way along the walk, stopping to greet people he knew. But Nesta could not shake her prejudice because he looked so much like Rhysand. Even the low timbre of his voice was reminiscent of Rhysand’s despite the differing accent.
‘I have to meet my father,’ he explained. ‘I’ll save you from that. He’ll be panting if he finds out about the sword and he’ll want you wedded and bedded to… somebody.’ Ruhn cleared his throat again. ‘At the library, you can read books for free.’
‘I know what a library is.’
‘Alright,’ he said. Ruhn clung onto her hood at the approach to a busy crossing to stop her from walking into the road.
‘I can do the ones with the lights,’ she insisted.
‘Yeah, wait for the green male, good girl.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
His violet eyes alighted with mischief. ‘What should I call you?’
‘My name,’ she snapped.
The idea of Ruhn – Rhysand’s facial double – trying to flirt had Nesta wanting to shrivel up and die. No, it was bad enough having to listen to her sister and her mate’s toe-curling conversations. Nesta did not want fake-Rhysand to turn the charm on her.
‘You, er, you’re really not from Avallen, are you?’
‘I am from Prythian.’
‘You know of Fionn though.’
Nesta shrugged a shoulder as they continued down a quiet street dotted with trees as a warm, summer’s breeze swept through it. ‘It’s a story that I heard.’
‘I like stories.’
‘I’m not a good story teller,’ she insisted.
They stopped outside an elaborate building of white stone, made to look ancient even if it was new. A row of pillars lined the front, holding the overhanging roof up. Many stairs led to the entrance doors which were propped open. Ruhn led the way and dropped his voice as he pointed out places she could visit within the vast library. There were sections for artefacts, an archive, ancient books which were kept in glass cases, and rows and rows of books that were free for anybody to browse. From his wallet, Ruhn pulled out a faded card. The handwritten numbers were almost illegible.
‘This should still work,’ he said, taking to Nesta to one of the screens with portraits.
‘A television?’
‘Computer.’ He gave her a queer look. ‘You don’t have computers in Prythian?’
‘Obviously not.’
His tattooed fingers glided across the keyboard too fast for Nesta to make out what he’d done – so she pressed him on it.
‘I’ve used my library card to log you in. Still works after all these years. Good old public funding. You get three hours browsing then it will boot you out. You’ll have access to news journals, the internet, videos, whatever you want. Alright.’
Nesta nodded, not understanding most of what the prince had said.
‘Keep this,’ he said, pressing the small card into her hand. ‘If you want any books or whatever.’
‘When will you return?’
Ruhn shrugged. ‘I’ll send Flynn along to keep you company.’
‘Not him,’ Nesta said quickly. ‘Why can’t the other one come?’
‘Dec has a job. Flynn also has a job but he never shows up anyway.’
Once Ruhn Danaan’s steps faded from the library, Nesta was left in peace. The tranquil environment created by a library seemed a universal thing. She watched workers returning books to their rightful place and thought of her brilliant friend likely hard at work in Velaris’ library. Had news of her disappearance reached Gwyn and Emerie or would they hush it up?
Out of curiosity, Nesta searched her own name. It took an agonisingly long amount of time to find each letter but it yielded no results anyway. Then she searched Ruhn Danaan’s name and found pages upon pages of results about him. There was a birth announcement then subsequent ones about major milestones in his life. The portraits – photographs, she reminded herself – of him showed his glossy, black hair lengthening in each one with more and more tattoos added to his skin. His father, the king of the fae, reminded Nesta of Eris Vanserra. Both shared shining, wine-red hair and a long, thin nose but there tended to be amusement on Eris’ face like he knew a joke that nobody else did. Ruhn’s father appeared cruel and unwelcoming.  
Nesta couldn’t help but think of Gwyn again and how this process would streamline her research. Rather than finding obscure references in books, a simple search could be entered and the hard work had already been done. It was magnificent.
Her fingers hovered over the keys, wondering what to search next.
H-U-N-T A-T-H-A-L-A-R.
Hunt had just as many entries as Ruhn did. Perhaps he was a prince of angels.
There were news reports that featured his name as one of the malakim who’d worked on a case in the city. He’d caught many demons from Hel, but also prevented a lot of crime in Lunathion. There was the odd photograph of him – where he looked entirely unimpressed to be photographed. Nesta laughed at that. He’d endured her experiments with his cell phone in good enough humour.
THE UMBRA MORTIS PURCHASED BY ARCHANGEL MICAH DOMITUS
Nesta sat close to the screen, scanning the lines of text to ensure she understood it fully. Hunt was a slave, as he’d told her. But he’d had many owners. The latest, Micah Domitus, was his fourth owner and the governor of the city. She hated the way those words were thrown around. Slave. Master. Bought. It made him sound like cattle.
She should have stopped delving into this. It wasn’t Nesta’s business to know – but she had pulled a loose thread and could not let it go until it was unravelled.
Hunt had fought in a battle against other angels. The general he had served had been his leader and his lover. And he’d watched her die at the hands of her sister. He had been prepared to die for his beliefs, but instead a slave brand was inked to his forehead. What had he endured for two hundred years? When would he be free?
‘Hello, gorgeous.’
Nesta scrambled to close down her search history as the irritating fae male slid into the chair beside her.
‘The Umbra Mortis? I can tell you what you need to know,’ said Tristan Flynn with an easy grin.
‘Shh. This is a library.’
‘Then lets get out of here so we can talk,’ he suggested.
Nesta couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him. He reminded her of Helion. No amount of charm would work on her.
‘Ruhn said you know about Fionn. I can tell you our version of the story.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘The fae one that’s not in any book or article.’
***
For a slave, Hunt rarely had interest in his day’s work. It could be made bearable by the company in the 33rd, but today, Hunt’s heart wasn’t in it at all.
He’d fired off a couple of texts to Danaan asking about Nesta. He didn’t trust the fae not to dump her or piss her off – and he’d learnt that Nesta wasn’t shy or retiring when it came to letting her mood be known. There had been no replies so far.
‘Hunt, you’re in daydream land,’ said Isaiah, waving a hand through the air.
Hunt spread out the papers in front of him at the table. ‘Because you’ve given me the driest task imaginable.’
There’d been an influx of demonic activity in the last four years so Isaiah had him searching for patterns – the time, the location, the type – through old reports. It could not have been more boring. Hunt wasn’t made for paperwork. Hell, nobody was.
‘You’ve been keeping tabs on our friend from the sky?’
Hunt raised a brow. ‘Is that what we’re calling her?’
Isaiah shrugged. ‘Micah will be away for another week. I’ve not let the word out yet. We’ve not found anything on the sword except that it’s magic and hated Ruhn Danaan anywhere near it.’
That did make him laugh. ‘He’s on guard duty today. I wonder if she’ll feel the same way as her weapon.’
***  
‘This is what we call a liquid lunch,’ explained Flynn, as he insisted on being called.
The pair of them had tall glasses filled with crushed ice, brightly coloured juice and strong alcohol.
‘And it is acceptable here?’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said, sipping through a straw. ‘You’re on holiday from Prythian. Enjoy the delights that Lunathion has to offer.’
It was difficult not to enjoy his company. Nesta knew he was trying very hard to be liked, but also had an aura that he wouldn’t have cared if she didn’t like him either. It was different to be with the males from this land. Nesta felt safe with them. She could not imagine being left in Illyria or the Hewn City without harm befouling her. Flynn was a flirt, but his handsome smile was offered to every female with a pulse.
Money seemed no object to him either, so she had to wonder what he did or what he was a lord of. When her eyes had snagged on a dress, Tristan Flynn had wasted no time in purchasing it. A pastry pumped with cream had also been bought for her to snack on as they walked along the Istros counting the otters. He’d introduced her to one of the Mer who basked on the bank, enjoying the sun streaming upon his glistening muscles, but Nesta had been reluctant to get too close to the edge after Hunt had mentioned creatures called Sobeks. It brought up too many memories of being dragged to the bottom with the kelpie.
‘I can’t pay you for any of this,’ she replied.
Nesta took a tentative sip of her drink – and found it to taste delightful.
‘Wire me it back from Prythian,’ said Flynn, winking.
‘I have no money there either.’
‘A kept female?’
How right he was, Nesta thought. Everything in Prythian came with a condition. Look for these items or we’ll dump you in the mortal lands. Train or we won’t let you out. Her food, her lodging, her clothing, her everything was benevolently provided by Rhysand as long as she toed the line and did as she was told.
A female pulled up a chair at their table. Flynn’s demeanour changed at once.
‘What are you doing to this poor female, Tristan? She looks positively morose in your company.’
‘Haven’t you got a rich male to sink your claws into in The Five Roses?’
The female was as petite as she was, with light green eyes that were at odds with her dark hair. ‘I was actually on my way to have my hair done then I saw you tormenting a female and thought I might offer her a lifeline out of your abysmal company.’
Nesta had been about to offer that Flynn was not that bad – a shameless flirt perhaps who thought money could buy her affections – when he announced that their guest was his sister, Sathia.
‘I’ve not seen you before,’ she said, in a tone that suggested Sathia knew all of the fae worth knowing.
‘Nesta is visiting from Avallen.’
‘Father will be overjoyed to hear that you’re courting her.’
A blush stole across Flynn’s cheeks. ‘I’m not. Ruhn is.’
‘He most certainly is not,’ Nesta shot back.
Sathia took hold of Nesta’s hand to examine it. ‘Your nails are ghastly. Have you ever had a manicure?’
Nesta did not know the word. She glanced to Flynn who was staring daggers at his sister. ‘No.’
‘Then we must remedy it at once. Tristan, go and find another female to pant over. We’re busy.’
‘Can’t. Ruhn’s tasked me with looking after her.’
Sathia smiled sweetly to her brother. ‘Then I suppose you can come for a manicure too.’
***
A visit with Einear Danaan always left Ruhn bitter and broken inside. No matter what he did, he was always reduced to a boy who could never match his father’s demands. Ruhn could shake it off, pretend he didn’t care, but he always left his father’s villa with another splintering crack running through him.
He hadn’t planned to spend so long there, but his father had kept him, demanding information about the wolves and vamps. They’d gone over reports then his father had insisted on showing him his working model of the universe. That had kept Ruhn longer as he tried to wheedle out information about Fionn and the northern rift from his father without exposing Nesta.
It was dark when Ruhn finally left the Five Roses. There’d been a couple of messages from Athalar. One asking how Nesta was and another saying he would be later than planned but to stay with her until he arrived.
Ruhn groaned. If she hadn’t killed Flynn in all the time that they’d been together, it would be a miracle.
‘Dec, where’s Flynn?’ Ruhn asked into his cell. ‘He’s not picking up.’
Music thumped in the background of wherever Dec was. Through the cacophony, Ruhn made out, ‘We’re all in the White Raven.’
Hunt Athalar was going to kill him.
***
Sathia Flynn was going to kill her.
They had managed to lose her brother in a nail salon when his patience frayed. He’d given Nesta a card and said it was for emergencies only. It was not like the library card that Ruhn had given her. This one allowed Sathia to purchase anything.
Both her fingernail and toenails had been trimmed and buffed then painted. They’d gone to another shop where Nesta’s hair had been cut an inch or two shorter, but Sathia had her hair painted too and complained keeping it dark was so much upkeep – whatever that meant. They had gone shopping for heeled shoes and clothes that Sathia used her brother’s card to pay for. Then they’d gone to another place where Nesta had experienced pain like no other. Hot wax had been put on her body to rip out her hair.
‘Is it supposed to be this painful?’
They were in the bathroom of a club. She imagined Rita’s to look similar, but music played so loudly that it made the walls vibrate. They had drunk lots of cocktails. Her favourite – and the most difficult to ask for – was sex on the beach. Sathia and her friends had dusted glitter on to her face – and their own. One, Alice, was applying more make up in the mirror. Nesta barely recognised herself with her hair unbound and cosmetics on her skin too.
‘You can go commando,’ offered Sathia.
Nesta narrowed her eyes. She knew what that meant thanks to Hunt. ‘Do males do the same? The waxing down there?’
One of Sathia’s friends, Prunella, swigged at a bottle of wine where she sat on the sink. ‘You’re lucky if they trim.’
‘That’s why you get a vibrator,’ chimed in Alice.
‘What’s a vibrator?’
Sathia squealed. ‘I just love her.’ She ran her hand against Nesta’s hair. ‘Right. Shots and dancing. Let’s go.’
***
Hunt felt his age when he left the Comitium. A day spent at a desk had left his neck and back aching from holding up his wings. When he landed at Ruhn Danaan’s home, none of the lights were on. He bit back his irritation and dialled his number.
‘Where are you?’
Hunt had no doubt that Nesta would be able to hold her own. The issue was she was naïve in their world and he knew what fae pricks were like.
‘We’re out,’ said Ruhn.
‘Where?’
There was a slight intake of breath. ‘The White Raven.’
Fae assholes.
It was a short flight to the Old Square. The owner of the club was a butterfly shifter who was still on the door greeting patrons. At the sight of Hunt landing, with lightning crackling in the air, his jovial expression changed to one of concern.
‘Not trouble here, I hope?’
‘Off the clock,’ he replied tightly. ‘Come to visit a friend.’
‘There won’t be trouble?’
Hunt threw him a bland smile. ‘Let’s hope not.’
He spotted the three fae pricks drinking amongst other females at a booth near the door with Nesta not amongst them. Hunt worked his jaw as he marched over. One day, Ruhn Danaan would learn to grow up.
‘Where is she?’
‘In my defence,’ slurred Tristan Flynn, ‘it was my sister who brought her here. We’re just on guard duty, doing as we're told, Umbra Mortis.’
Declan Emmett, the most amenable of the three, pointed towards the throbbing dance floor. ‘She’s just enjoying the music.’
The others began peeling away from her at the sight of the Umbra Mortis striding through the crowd, a scowl on his face. Loose and free, Nesta was dancing amongst a group of fae females with her gorgeous hair tumbling behind her, without a care.
Gone was the female in leathers with a sword strapped to her spine. Gone was the female who found jeans uncomfortable. She was lost in the music, utterly free. One of the fae had shelled out on a new wardrobe for her, by the looks of the sparkly, black dress that skimmed her thighs and clung to her narrow waist. A shimmer of pink glitter dusted her cheeks.
When Nesta finally noticed the ebb of the crowd as he approached, she finally snapped her attention towards him.
‘Orion!’
Before Hunt could react, Nesta had moved at preternatural speed – faster than fae in Midgard could move – to throw her arms around his neck and lean all of her weight on him. Hunt lifted her off the floor to steady both of them and Nesta pressed deeper into his body.
Nobody had called him Orion for a long time – and never with such warmth.
She kissed his cheek. ‘Have you come to dance?’
‘No,’ he replied over the thump of the music. ‘To see you safely home. I was worried. Do you want to go with me?’
'I will go wherever you lead me, Orion.'
There was little resistance from Nesta who seemed happy to be led through the crowd towards the exit. From the giddy expression, she’d had a lot of drinks under Ruhn Danaan’s care. Hunt pulled off his jacket to protect her from the chill of the night on the way out.
‘Did you have fun with Ruhn?’
Nesta gave him a funny sort of smile with bleary eyes. ‘The Prince of Pricks.’
‘Shh,’ he reminded her as they passed a group of fae also staggering along the path. ‘You’ll get me into trouble.’
Hunt held out a hand for Nesta to take to steady her clumsy steps. Instead, she fell against him, knocking the air from his ribs as her arms came around his body.
‘Thank the Mother that he isn’t like Rhys even if they have the same face,’ she said.
On the walk home, Hunt hoped the fresh air might sober her up but it only emphasised just how drunk she was. Twice, he’d had to grab her before she planted her face into the concrete then she insisted she wanted to walk along a wall so Hunt had held her hand tightly while Nesta stepped across the crumbling brick in perilously high heels like a wobbling toddler. At the end, she leapt into his arms – before he was ready, so the pair had nearly gone down together.
‘I missed you today,’ she said with colour high in her cheeks.
It was just drunken talk, but Hunt would play that on a loop in his mind until he was dust.
It was too far to her hotel. If they walked, they might be there by sunrise with the pace Nesta was setting and Hunt didn’t want to risk her throwing up on him if they flew. The Comitium loomed on the horizon, still a hub of activity despite the late hour. He’d take her to the barracks. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody had been snuck in, although never by him.
‘Are you going to lock me up, Hunt Athalar?’
He grinned at that. ‘Have you committed an offence?’
Nesta gave him another inebriated smile as she clambered up another low wall to walk along. ‘I used to be a very bad girl. So they locked me in the House of Wind and destroyed my home and made me train until I was very good girl,’ she slurred.
Hunt lifted her off the wall before she fell and broke her neck.
‘Who locked you up?’
‘My family. My sisters. Cassian. Rhysand. All of them.’ She threw out her hands like it should have been obvious. ‘They all sat and told me how useless I am. You have become a pathetic waste of life.’ Nesta gave a low laugh then jabbed him in the chest. ‘Not eating won’t bring your father back, Hunt. And – my personal favourite – we did this because we love you. We ruined your life, ruined your future, but it’s because we love you.’
‘Stop,’ Hunt commanded, holding her still. ‘What are you talking about?’
Then it all came out, as if Nesta couldn’t stop herself. How she’d witnessed her father’s neck snap and retreated into herself because she couldn’t cope with the grief. How she drank every single night and took men to her bed to hate herself more. That her family had staged an intervention and forced her to become a warrior even if she had never wanted it. That her sister’s child would kill her but when Nesta revealed the truth, the male she was entwined with forced her to march until she collapsed. If Hunt ever met him, he’d kill him.
Nesta crawled onto the path then flopped onto her back. ‘The whole world is spinning.’
Despite Hunt’s attempts at trying to lift her up, she’d become a deadweight and patted the ground so he’d be beside her.
‘Nesta, we can’t lay in the middle of the path.’
‘Please,’ she begged, voice full of pleading so desperate that it twisted his heart.
What the hell was he doing? Hunt eventually lay next to Nesta on the concrete. The bright lights of the streetlamps blocked out most of the stars so he had the mad urge to fly her all the way to Mount Hermon for a better view. The night before that final battle, he and Shahar had fucked like animals – but Hunt had gone out to look at the stars one last time before the dawn took them. The stars had been stunning. And he had naively took it as a good omen because they’d made him hope of a better future.
‘I ruin everything, Hunt.’
He laced his fingers into hers. ‘That makes two of us then.’
Nesta closed her eyes, her other hand pressing against her forehead.
‘What did you drink today?’
‘Cocktails. Shots. Liquid lunch.’
Oh, she would need a medwitch in the morning to stop the hangover from hell.
‘They didn’t give you any mirthroot? No lightseeker?’
‘I don’t know what they are.’
When Nesta was ready, she pushed off from the ground and scrambled upright again. In the morning, he’d call Ruhn Danaan to give him an earful about getting a female who was lost in their world blind drunk.
From the bare shoulders that her dress exposed, Hunt could see the tattoo on Nesta’s back again.  
‘The male who made a deal with you and made you hike - is he your mate?’
Nesta threw up her hands then flopped onto a wooden bench on the sidewalk. ‘He trapped me in a house and laughed at me when I fell down the stairs. He fucking better not be.’
Hunt crouched down in front of her, touching a length of her hair. ‘Let’s get you to sleep. We will talk about it all tomorrow and see if I can help.’
Although, he doubted he’d get this much truth from her in a sober state.
Her mood was swinging to a different emotion every minute so Hunt wasn’t sure which Nesta he’d see next.
‘I don’t think you’d make me carry a heavy bag and make me walk until I collapsed.’
‘Never.’
Her hand touched his face, stroking it gently. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I did something stupid.’  
Hunt caught her hand and kept it cradled to his face.
‘I went to the library and I searched your name. I know why you’re slave. I know what happened.’
It meant Nesta knew about Shahar. Sandriel. The war. The slaughter. Who he was. What he did.
She freed her fingers to touch the witch-ink on his brow.
‘Orion,’ murmured Nesta.
There would come the inevitable revulsion. Some still believed in their cause even if they’d never act on it, but most found it laughable. Each person had a place in life, a standing which would never change. If you were at the bottom, then it was tough luck. Those at the top would always be there. Hunt had been a fool to hope he could change the world. And he’d lost everything as a result.
Tears spilt down her cheeks. ‘I wish there was a Hunt Athalar in my world fighting for people like me.’
‘Nobody wants that,’ he replied, standing and deflecting from the tenderness in Nesta’s voice. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
The bubble of emotion that Nesta had shown to him was replaced for a strange sort of anger where everything irritated her on the final portion of the walk. When she walked into the hedge, despite his best efforts in tugging her out of its path, Nesta kicked it – then told it off for hurting her leg. At the Comitium, Hunt took her in the elevator but forgot how curious it would make her. When he showed her how to press a button for their floor, she pressed every single one then complained that it was a ridiculous invention for stopping at every floor.
There were some battles that Hunt knew not to engage in.
He steered Nesta into one of the kitchens. It was a small, rudimentary thing for snacks with most meals provided in a mess hall. The toaster worked, so two slices of toast were shovelled into her mouth to try and sober her a little before sleep. Her lips glistened from the butter and she ate with her eyes closed.
‘Shall we watch Bangs and Fangs?’ Nesta asked as she tried to throw an arm around his neck, but managed to collide with the wall instead.
‘Fangs and Bangs. You need to sleep. We can catch a Sunball game tomorrow, if you like. I’m not working.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘You’re in for a treat then.’ He unlocked the door and pushed it open. ‘In you go.’
Hunt made a noise at the back of his throat. Nesta had barely even stepped into the room before she whipped her dress off over her head, tossed it on the bed, then staggered towards the bathroom. Half-way there, she bent over – glorious ass on full display in a lacy green thong – to take off one shoe which she threw across the room then stumbled the final distance.
This was going to be a long night.
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zepskies · 1 year
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Never Say Goodbye - Part 6
Pairing: Dean x Female Reader
Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (Rated M for eventual scenes – 18+)
Word Count: 4,800 Warnings: Angst, fluff, and some supernatural shenanigans.
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Part 6: Trust Building
After you showered and dressed in a clean shirt and yoga pants, you felt refreshed but still somewhat anxious. You don’t have anything to be nervous about, you tried to remind yourself.
You finally met him. His name is Dean. He seems…nice.
A soft smile grew on your face when you thought of how he’d looked over your injuries in concern. How he’d seemed just as nervous as you, but was familiar in his teasing and gentle when he’d helped you up the stairs.
He seemed to be a decent guy. But so had Danny Schmitt.
That thought made you shudder. Those horrific memories of last night tried to surface, but you stubbornly shoved them down by covering your eyes with your hands and letting out a few deep breaths.
When you’d calmed down, you released your trembling hands. That’s it, you decided. You were going downstairs. You were going to go crazy if you stayed up here in this room.
…Plus, you were getting hungry.
Things were probably going to get awkward fast, but you were up for it. You didn’t want to be rude to your uncle, and you wanted to get know Dean and his brother Sam.
So you carefully descended the stairs, trying not to freeze in place when all three men paused in their conversation to look at you. You gave a little wave.
“How’re you feelin’?” Bobby asked.
“I’m okay.” You joined Sam and Dean on the couch once they made room for you. Bobby sat in a rickety chair across from them, with a coffee table full of old, open books in between. What kind of book club were these guys having?
You shared a small smile with Dean, who seemed to take a brief moment to look you over. You noticed his gaze lingered on your yoga pants. But smoothly his eyes returned to your face. He inhaled and looked curious.
“What’s that, apples?” he asked. You blinked in confusion, until you realized what he meant: your body wash. To be fair, it did have a strong smell.
“Oh, apple spice.” You nodded. “Good guess!”
Dean grinned a little. “It’s nice.”
Sitting on his other side, Sam rested an elbow on the couch’s arm. He hid a smile behind his hand, while Bobby just rolled his eyes.
“All right, well dinner’s on the way,” your uncle said. “Hope you like Chinese.”
You were just about to reply affirmatively when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. With a quick glance, you saw who it was and frowned. Dad.
“That’s been going off non-stop for the past ten minutes,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” you sighed, and went to pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
You felt guilty about taking off from Jody’s house without telling anyone, but in fairness, you’d left her a note. Your dad was stern and quick to reproach you.
“You can’t just take off like that. You had me looking over the whole damn town for you!” said Jack.
Your lips pressed together. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going, but now you know where I am. I’m safe.”
Jack started to interject, but you cut in before he could start giving you orders.
“Tell Jody I’m sorry, but I’m comfortable here,” you said, glancing up at Bobby, and then at Sam and Dean.
“…Fine. The house should be back to normal in a couple of days. If you leave Bobby’s house for any reason, you call me,” Jack said.
Like you were a child.
“Fine,” you snapped and hung up the phone. Then you looked up at the men, who all looked away as if they hadn’t been listening.
“Sorry,” you added. “My dad’s a bit…overprotective.”
“I mean…can you really blame him right now?” Dean asked. “I get it, you ditched your babysitter. But not for nothing, I’d probably react the same way.”
His face was more serious, devoid of the flirtatious teasing from before. Your hackles started to rise as he took your dad’s side…until you realized that he meant well. Through the connection that bonded your soul with his, what you felt most was his concern for you. 
And, he might actually have a point.
You just weren’t willing to acknowledge that just yet.
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You tried to get to know Sam more too. You learned that he’d gone to college at Stanford for pre-law, and that he’d planned to be a lawyer. When you asked why he didn’t go for it, he and Dean got quiet.
That’s when the takeout finally came. You sensed it was a sensitive topic, so you didn’t push it.
The four of you ate while Sam and Dean traded off telling childhood stories and motel room antics, most of which made you laugh.
But you became sad when you realized what Dean had told you once was true: he and Sam had been raised on the open road. They hadn’t truly had a home since Dean was five years old, and Sam had been just an infant, after their mother died.
“The house burned down,” Dean explained, but you had a feeling there was more to the story. You sensed it in his guarded emotions—both in his body language and through your bond.
“Nice ring,” he remarked, noting the flash of silver on your right hand. You gave him a closer look and he took the opportunity to take your hand. You tried (and failed) not to blush.
“My mom’s,” you said, your eyes lowering. “She…died when I was around fourteen.”
Dean sighed and released your hand. “I’m sorry.”
You knew he understood how you felt. He’d lost his mom too.
“What about your dad?” you asked.
Sam and Dean shared a brief glance before Dean replied. “He’s still around. He started the family business, so he travels a lot too.”
“I see.” You were very curious to meet their dad. If he was anything like Dean, then that man was sure to be interesting.
After a while more of eating and talking, Bobby wished you goodnight and went up to his room. Sam returned to the living room to set up his sleeping spot on the recliner, leaving you and Dean to clear the dining table and wash the dishes together.
“So your dad’s a cop, huh?” Dean asked.
You nodded. “Yep. Hence the overprotective bit.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell him about our…” Here Dean raised his brows. “Situation?”
You smiled in amusement. “Honestly, yeah. It just…didn’t feel like the right time to tell him about us. When you meet him, you’ll understand.”
“I get it. My dad’s not always a picnic either, but he’s a good man,” Dean said. “Your dad seems to be too.”
“Except he doesn’t want me here,” you said. “He’s got this…thing with my uncle. I can’t figure it out.”
Dean seemed to remember something. “Yeah, Bobby was sayin’ something like that. They had a falling out a while back?”
“I think it started when my aunt died,” you admitted. You were seven, and Aunt Karen had been your dad’s younger sister. You didn’t remember her that well, but you had a warm memory of her making pies for every season: pumpkin and apple for fall, blueberry for winter, strawberry and rhubarb for spring, and peach for summer.
“I’ve asked Bobby about it, but he’s not really the sharing type,” you said.
“Yeah, fair enough,” Dean said. It made you look over at him with some curiosity.
Dean was becoming something of an enigma to you. In some ways, he could be incredibly straightforward and kind in how he looked after you and asked about your life. But any time you asked about his family, about his past, about his job, he would pull back from you.
It made you nervous. What the hell is he hiding?
But it also made you determined to find out more. Now that you’d found him, you weren’t going to let him go so easily.
After the table was cleared and the dishes were done, you realized just how tired you were. Even your head was starting to ache.
Dean might’ve heard your thoughts (you had to get better at controlling that), because he looked you over in an assessing way.
“Hey, you should probably get some sleep,” he said. “It’s been a long day, sweetheart.”
Even that small nickname made you blush again. Dean noticed, smiling. You purposefully looked away and called out to his brother.
“Goodnight, Sam.”
He looked up from the book he was reading and smiled at you. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”
You returned his smile before returning your gaze to Dean. He crossed his arms expectantly, a grin playing at his lips. “My turn?”
You uttered a laugh. Gaining some courage, you leaned up on your toes, rested a hand on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
Sweet dreams, you added mentally, then you turned to climb up the stairs.
See you tomorrow, he replied. It made you pause on the stairs and turn back to him with a soft smile.
Then, Dean watched you go up the rest of the way to make sure you were all right. He did his best to clamp down on his mixed emotions, so you wouldn’t sense them. When he turned around, he found Sam wearing a knowing grin.
“What?” Dean asked.
“I just never thought I’d see you like this.”
Dean rolled his eyes and sat on the other end of the couch. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, then rubbed at his face with both hands. Sam sat down next to him and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m glad, Dean. You deserve this,” he said.
Do I? Dean thought. “You know we’ve got a job to do.”
“…Yeah,” Sam said with a sigh. He was conflicted too. He wanted to give his brother the time and space to enjoy this, to spend time with you, but they still had to find their dad—and the Yellow-Eyed demon that killed Jess, and their mom.
Still, this was important.
“Why don’t you go up and talk to her?” he suggested, nodding up the stairs.
Dean frowned. “She’s going to bed.”
“Even if it’s five minutes,” Sam said. “Don’t waste any more time, Dean. Do something.”
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So Dean went up to your room, and he knocked.
You opened the door a few moments later, but you hadn’t changed clothes yet. Sensing more than hearing his anxious thoughts had kept you puttering around the room, straightening things up, brushing your hair, trying to find something to wear for bed. You just didn’t know how to reach out and comfort him, or even if you should.
But you smiled when you saw him.
“Can I help you, sir?” you teased.
“Just for a minute,” he said, once you let him into the room. “You can kick me out whenever.”
You beckoned him to sit with you on the edge of your bed. You and Dean sat in silence for a moment, both of you trying to think of something to say.
“This is hard, isn’t it?” you said. Dean let out a breathy chuckle, his shoulders sagging a bit in relief. He looked over at you.
“Somehow, thought it’d be easier,” he said.
“Okay, let’s just get this out of the way. We’re basically strangers. Let’s stop focusing on the cosmic bond part of it all, and just try to get to know each other,” you suggested. 
Dean saw the logic there.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. He reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing the side of your face.
A blush dusted your cheeks. “You like doing that.”
“You don’t seem to mind.”
“Not really, no,” you admitted with a smile. Dean returned it, before his expression became more serious again.
“Hey, can you answer something honest for me real quick?” he asked.
“Okay.” Though you wondered where this was going.
“Are you okay?”
You folded your hands in your lap and stared down. “Yeah. I feel fine, Dean. Really.”
“Not what I meant,” he said. You felt his concern through your bond, encouraging you to look up at him.
“I get it if you don’t, but if you need to talk about what happened last night…” He let the thought hang off, giving you the space to decline if you wanted to, or if you weren’t ready. You sensed that he was willing to listen to you, and actually, that he genuinely wanted to know.
Well, that you could believe. He seemed to be the protective type.
You sighed; as much as you didn’t want to think about what happened, flashes of those memories were already resurfacing behind your eyes.
“It happened so fast,” you began. People always said that in the movies, but it was true.
“I got home late. I was…talking with you. As soon as I set my things down in the living room, he grabbed me from behind, dragged me into the kitchen for some reason…” You took a breath. “When I had enough wits about me to start fighting back, that’s when he used my head for basketball practice on the counter.”
Dean was quiet while you spoke. He was trying to keep his darker thoughts from spilling into his connection with you, but that was a feat in itself.
It was a good thing for him that Danny Schmitt was already dead.
“I saw the kitchen knives, but before I knew it I was on the ground,” you continued, though it was difficult to steep yourself in those wild, thrashing moments. Being pinned down, not being able to call for help or reach anything that could help you.
Your hand went to the bruises on your throat. “I couldn’t breathe…then I’m…not sure what happened. Maybe I got some adrenaline-fueled, Hulk Hogan-type strength, because the next thing I knew, I was looking down at Danny’s body. And the kn-knife, somehow I…”
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you started to lose your grip, but Dean reached for your hand, squeezing yours. That, and sensing his supportive presence in your mind, gave you something solid to ground you as you breathed through it.
As was your habit, you twirled your mom’s ring around your finger.
“Danny?” Dean asked.
“Y-Yeah. We went to high school together,” you explained. “He was an idiot then. He got his fingers caught in the automatic stapler. How do you go from that to psycho-killer spree?”
Dean gave you an amused look, but he gave you an honest answer.
“Some people are born bad. Some people do bad things once in a while, and regret it,” he said. “Some people got evil shit on their mind, but don’t got the confidence to actually pull the trigger. Until they do.”
You let out a deep breath as you nodded.
“I just…Dean, I don’t remember grabbing the knife,” you confessed. “But it makes me wonder…what the hell else am I capable of?”
Dean could understand that, better than most. He let you lean into him and drew you close as you finally allowed yourself to let go. You felt bad for dampening his shirt with your tears, but you relished in his comfort and the safety of his arms.
Until both of you shivered. It felt like the room had dropped ten degrees all of a sudden.
Dean got an awfully familiar, suspicious feeling.
“Aw, shit,” he said.
“What?” you asked nervously. Your bedside lamp flickered, and somehow a draft kicked up into the room.
Dean got you to stand up by the elbows and grabbed your hand, heading for the door. It swung closed in your faces, making you gasp.
“Shit,” he repeated.
Your looked up at him in fear. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Whatever happens, just stay close to me.” Dean’s voice was firm, authoritative. It was fair to say you clung to his arm. Maybe that made you the quintessential damsel in distress, but to be fair, you were definitely in distress right about now. You didn’t have a clue what was happening, but Dean seemed to.
Then a strong gust of wind pulled him away from you and threw him into the large wooden dresser across the room. You watched in alarm, but you eventually made yourself move to go and help him.
That’s when a strange mirage glitched and appeared in front of you, startling you. It was a woman, maybe in her late-thirties. She looked familiar, but before you could focus on her face, Dean’s fist swiped through the mirage and made it disappear.
You looked up at him in shock. He was a bit banged up with a couple of scratches on his arm, but he held what looked like the iron handle from one of the dresser drawers he’d smashed into. You touched his arm, and your mind blazed with questions that you were finally able to express.
“Are you okay? What the hell was that? What—”
“All right, for right now just follow my lead, okay?” he said. He grabbed your hand and tried opening the door. It was locked. Damn it.
Sam called from the other side.
“Hey, you guys okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’ve got us a ghost,” said Dean.
“What?” you exclaimed. As in Casper?
Dean sighed. “I’ll explain later. Move away from the door, Sammy.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
In one powerful move, Dean kicked through the door and broke the lock. You and Dean escaped the room, but your eyes widened as you pointed behind Sam. “Watch out!”
The woman was there again. Now you could see that she wore a white blouse with small flowers on them, and a long, dark skirt that seemed to glide across the floor. You realized that you recognized the shade of her hair, the shape of her face and features—many of them were similar to your own.
You felt like the air had fled from your lungs, all while your heart constricted painfully. Dean’s head swiveled toward you; he’d picked up on the shift in your emotions through your connection.
“Mom?” you uttered.
A gun shot rang out, making the vision of your mother scream angrily, and then disappear. Behind her was Bobby with a shotgun full of rock salt.
“All right, let’s get downstairs,” he said.
The four of you ran down quick to the ground floor. The lights continued to flicker as you went, and a draft followed you through the living room where the fireplace crackled with life. You watched as Sam went and got cannisters of salt from the kitchen and started drawing a large circle of salt around you all. Meanwhile, Dean grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace.
“Okay, will someone please explain what the fuck is going on already?” you asked. “Why am I seeing my mom?”
And why is she trying to kill us?
Sam and Dean shared a look before the latter sighed and met your wide-eyed stare.
“Like I said, she’s a ghost. Yeah, they’re real. Salt keeps them away, iron fends them off,” he explained. “Temporary fixes though. The only way to get rid of a ghost is to burn its old body’s bones.”
That was a lot of crazy information to absorb in all of thirty seconds. Dean laid his hands on your shoulders to get your attention, and to ground you.
“Where is she buried?” he asked.
“The cemetery,” you said tremulously. “Don’t say you’re gonna dig up my mom, Dean.”
His face twisted in apology. “That’s kinda where this is going, yeah.”
You were a tad bit horrified.
“But wait, you can’t,” you realized. “They buried her ashes.”
Sam, Dean, and Bobby all shared a similar frown. Damn it.
The ghost of your mother, Christine, reappeared just a few feet away and startled a scream out of you. The four of you stood within the salt circle, but that didn’t stop her. Her dark eyes were focused on the men as she created a gust of wind to blow the salt circle away.
Bobby shot off a salt round from his gun and made her disappear for a few seconds. But she was getting tenacious. She reappeared moments later to continue whittling at the salt line.
“Why is she coming after us?” you exclaimed.
“Some spirits don’t pass onto greener pastures if they feel like they’ve got too much to leave behind,” Bobby explained. “After a while, they start to lose their grip on…well, reality.”
“They turn vengeful,” Sam supplied. “Poltergeists, hauntings—”
“But why would she go after me?” you asked. You buried your hands in your hair and closed your eyes. Maybe you could block all of this out and pretend it wasn’t happening. “This can’t be real!”
“Hey,” Dean said. He grabbed your arms just tight enough to break you out of your spiral. You looked up at him with tears in your eyes. “This is real. It’s happening. Somehow your mom’s ghost is tethered to something else, because I think she followed you here.”
“Followed me?”
“From your house,” Dean said. He was leading you somewhere—with his tone and his eyes.
You gasped at as hit you.
The impossible knife stabbing of Danny Schmitt.
You hadn’t been anywhere near the kitchen knives. You’d been pinned down while slowly choking to death. It hadn’t been adrenaline. There really was no way you could’ve reached them.
“She…she killed Danny.”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Trust me, I know, because this is my job.”
“This is what you do for a living?” You were damn near hysterics.
He offered you a helpless grin. “And it don’t even come with health insurance.”
“He’s right, there’s something else keeping her here,” Bobby said. He looked at you. “Do you have anything of hers?”
“No, I—” You’d started toying with your ring before it dawned on you with a gasp. Dean looked down at your hand and came to the same conclusion.
“It’s the ring,” he said. “We need to burn it n—”
Dean couldn’t finish his thought, because Christine reappeared behind him and threw him several feet away. The iron poker in his hand clattered away from him. She turned to Sam and Bobby next.
Before either one could shoot off a salt round, Christine raised a hand, commanding a desk to shove them against a large bookcase. They had to shield their heads as books fell off the shelves and thudded to the ground.
Christine stopped when she turned to you. Instead of attacking, she raised her hand out to you. Your eyes widened.
“Mom?”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t look at you with the same anger and menace as she had to the men.
“She’s not after you,” Sam said, with a tilt of his head. “She’s trying to protect you.”
He was still stuck with Bobby, while Dean was also pinned against the wall by the force of Christine’s will. He had enough autonomy to raise his head and meet your eyes with urgency.
“Toss the ring in the fireplace,” he told you. “Do it now!”
Your limbs were frozen in place. It was almost like being attacked by Danny; you could see the knives, but you couldn’t make yourself grab one. This time, you didn’t want to.
“I can’t!” You shook your head adamantly.
“I get it,” Dean said. He was struggling to break free of the ghost’s hold, gritting his teeth. “But you need to put your mom to rest. It’s the ring or your life. Throw that thing into Mount Doom!”
You looked up at Christine, and at times you could see through her spirit-like body. She wasn’t really there, nor was she supposed to be here.
Right now you were poor old Mrs. Jenkins, clutching your pearls.
So you ran to the fireplace. But the moment you fell to your knees there, a strong gust of wind blew out the flames. You gasped and turned to see that your mother was there, and she was now angry with you for trying to destroy her.
Frantically you searched for something to keep her away. What you found was Dean’s iron poker.
“That’s it, stick it right through her!” Dean guided you. Inside he was desperate to help you, but he instinctively buried it under the practiced focus of a hunter.
Your hands closed around the iron and you swung it like a baseball bat, making Christine’s spirit dissolve. Sam then called your name and showed you a lighter in his hand. He threw it towards you, but it bounced through your hands and scattered across the floor.
“For God’s sake,” you muttered frantically. You all but dove onto your hands and knees to scramble after the lighter.
“Watch out!” Dean shouted.
With a gasp, you twisted to face Christine again. This time, she commanded a chef’s knife from the kitchen.
“Mom!” you tried. While she heard you, she didn’t acknowledge what she was doing. Her face was twisted with a truly evil expression—one that you’d never seen on your mother when she lived.
The knife turned in mid-air. Then it spiraled toward you.
You instinctively covered your face with your arms and shouted. “Stop, Mom. Please!”
The room was deadly quiet.
Slowly, you realized you were still alive, if breathing heavily. You opened your eyes and lowered your arms a bit. The knife hadn’t pierced you, but it was still hovering in front your face. You remained very still when you looked up at Christine.
Her face revealed her shock. The evil dregs of death had melted away, revealing your mother as she was. As she had been in your fourteen-year-old memory.
Her expression softened into regret and sadness. The knife fell away from you and clattered to the ground. You let out a relieved breath and laid a hand over your wild beating heart.
Then it was Sam, Dean, and Bobby’s turn to feel relieved. Christine released them from her hold, and Sam and Bobby pushed the desk away from them while Dean rolled the kinks out of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” said Christine. Her voice was familiar, and also sounded overlaid with many whispered voices. Tears pooled in your eyes, but your hand closed over the lighter you found at your side.
You toyed with your ring and glanced at Dean. He gave you an encouraging nod.
“Do it, honey,” your mom said.
Shakily, you got to your feet and went back over to the fireplace. You used the lighter to reignite the wood, but once you took the ring off your finger, you hesitated.
A hand rested on your shoulder, and your tearful eyes met Dean’s sympathetic ones.
It’s okay. You can do this, he told you through the soul bond.
With a deep, shuddering breath, you nodded and let go of your mother’s wedding ring. It took a while, but eventually the silver started to melt.
Your mom’s spirit dissipated with a smile on her face.
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The aftermath of that night was difficult, to say the least. The guest bedroom you were supposed to sleep in had a broken door, but the guys had helped you get it back on its hinges, more or less. You all agreed to leave cleaning up the house for tomorrow, as there were only a few hours left in the night anyway.
The way you felt…well, there weren’t really words for that. You laid in bed in a worn-out, oversized shirt you found in the damaged dresser. Your body was exhausted in every way. Your mind, however, was wide awake.
So was Dean’s. He stared up at the wall from his place on the couch, downstairs. Through the bond, he could feel the many shifts in your fraught emotions. It was keeping him awake too, mostly out of concern.
He tried to take hold of that thread of energy and send you something reassuring, even if it was just his presence and not his words. Because what could he say, anyway?
He sensed that you accepted the connection. He felt your gratefulness, despite the rest of it.
Do you want to come up here? you asked.
It surprised Dean, but his reaction was…conflicted. After tonight, part of him wanted to keep some distance between you and himself. His job attracted even more supernatural batshit insanity than a vengeful spirit. He didn’t want you to get caught up in that…
But a larger part of Dean couldn’t deny you, either.
I’ll be right there, he said.
Without waking up Sam on the recliner, Dean got off the couch and climbed up the stairs towards your room.
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AN: Congrats to @spnexploration for figuring out the impossible stabbing of Danny Schmitt! You guessed it right on your first try. But I hope the clues I left were subtle enough lol.
Now that the reader knows about the supernatural, let's see what she and Dean get up to upstairs...
To keep reading: PART 7
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A huge thank you to everyone commenting and reblogging and overall engaging with this story! I didn't think it would end up being this long lol. But there's more to come soon!
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