#lo fic

[hungerpunch]

rabbit heart

pairing: valtteri bottas/zhou guanyu

rating: t

words: 9,715

summary: valtteri makes guanyu a cup of coffee and guanyu makes valtteri tea. or: the art of ritual and taking your time. or: drinks as a metaphor for love.

Valtteri thinks before he answers. “Yes,” he starts, turning his cup in his fingers to give his hands something to do, “of course, it’s more subtle than coffee. But the taste is still good and it’s…” he struggles for words for a moment. “It’s soothing, I think. Comforting. The tea and the—” he gestures to the tray “—the ritual of it.” Guanyu hums. “Yes, it’s peaceful, isn’t it? I need to do it more often.” Valtteri reaches out to rub the ear of the stone rabbit. “Well, now you can.” Guanyu smiles. The kettle clicks.

this is a secret santa gift for sweet @earthdoves and was beta'd by the effervescent @starmotions 💖

[read here on ao3]

#valtteri bottas #zhou guanyu #valyu #zhottas #f1 #lo fic

[141smedic]

Y/N : People who speak spanish are so attractive to me idk why

Soap, panicking : Bonjour

Alejandro, almost spitting out his coffee : no-

#cod incorrect quotes #cod 141 #los vaqueros #cod headcanons #cod fluff #soap x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod fic #cod fanart #ghost cod #price cod #cod imagine #cod modern warfare #konig call of duty #ghost riley #alejandro vargas x reader

[stevebabey]

nine facts, one lie

summary: It didn’t matter that your best friend Robin claims he’s changed, you do not like Steve Harrington. He used to be egotistical, a player, an asshole — and you’re not in any hurry to believe he’s changed his ways.

Never mind that he seems terribly kind now, compliments here and there, or even that he’ll pick you up from a date gone horribly wrong… [16.5k]

[one sided enemies to lovers — you hate steve and by god, does he want to change that] dedicated to my dearest kenny

Fact #1: You did not, under any circumstance, like Steve Harrington. 

It doesn’t matter what Dustin says nor the smug roll of Robin’s eyes, you knew it yourself even if no one else believed it; you did not like Steve Harrington. 

From everything you’ve ever heard about the guy, it was a surprise that he still had any friends — especially with the likes of your friends, a fact that makes you gag when Robin brings it up.

Robin, lovely best friend Robin, who completely betrayed you by associating herself willingly with Steve.

Since the beginning of high school, the two of you had been thick as thieves. Gossip was spilled between the two of you frequently, juicy enough to make even Carol Perkins’ head spin — you talked often enough that it got you split up during class time constantly, giggles too loud to be contained. 

Being at the bottom of the social food-chain —or maybe worse, completely unseen to your peers— there was nothing like sharing snarky remarks between you and Robin about the dunderheads who ‘ruled’ the school through idiotic popularity. 

Robin had a particular dislike for Tina Burgess ever since she’d started the rumour that girls in band were freaks in the sheets and would put out to anyone who would ask. You weren’t sure what had been worse: the obvious dig that Robin wasn’t getting any or the slimy guys who believed it and had the guts to ask. 

You, however, distinctly despised the likes of King Steve.

It was impossible to pinpoint what about him grated you so much; maybe, it was how he seemed to have girls in and out of his bed like he was playing a game, trying to rack up as many points as possible. Or maybe, it was that even you, invisible and not even on his radar let alone on his list, could see the appeal. 

Even better than easy on the eyes, Steve Harrington is one of those guys that makes you understand the word gorgeous.

It doesn’t help that he’s rich as well, with a huge house with a pool and even a swanky car to pick you up in. A complete daydream. Swept away into sheets softer than yours at home, you’d get to spend a night in the arms of the most popular guy in school and if you’re really lucky, he’ll still pretend to know your name the next day. 

What had really stuck with you was gossip you’d happened to overhear, head stuck in your locker as you fished around for your books and papers. Tommy H and Steve were 3 lockers over, at Tommy’s locker, and sharing the details of Steve’s latest conquest. 

So was she any good? Tommy had been asking. I always assumed nerdy chicks weren’t as good- they practically cream their pants considering no one’s ever kissed em’ before.

Steve had laughed along too. Yeah, man. She was all over me. Had to keep picturing someone hotter though, you know those geeks aren’t the prettie— Your stomach had curdled and you had slammed your locker door louder than needed, just to shut him up. You were sure they both saw you leave. 

It drove you insane. And even though Steve likely knew nothing of your existence — didn’t matter you had once been chem partners, nor the fact you shared English class— he was probably as close to an evil nemesis you’d ever get. 

Hence the utter betrayal of Robin’s friendship with him.

Originally, when she’d told you over the phone, gleeful and gossipy, that King Steve had just been hired at Scoops Ahoy, the two of you had snickered. It hadn’t been enough to watch him drift from his other asshole friends, something in you burned deliciously hearing he’d fallen from yet another pillar. 

It had only gotten better. Robin recounted countless stories where he had flunked out with girls — you’d nearly lost it hearing about her whiteboard, tallying up his ‘hits & misses’ when trying to score a date. It finally seemed Steve Harrington was somehow more of a loser than you. 

On the 4th of July, 1985, Starcourt Mall burnt down — and the strangest thing about it all was that Robin suddenly didn’t seem to mind Steve so much. 

They were friends. You’d been a little miffed at her quick change of heart as she doused your gossipy mood in an instant, insisting that Steve wasn’t so bad once you got to know him. 

Rather reluctantly, your teasing remarks about Steve were brought to a halt as Robin retaliated each time, urging you to give him another chance. And while you agreed to be civil, especially considering you had to see him every time you visited Robin at work. But what could you do? Old habits die hard.

Fact #2: Steve Harrington is trying to be a better person. 

Okay, you didn’t know that one, but Steve certainly did.  

It means even though Robin had dropped several warnings and a few premature apologies, Steve was prepared to be absolutely lovely when meeting her other best friend (the other being himself, of course). Robin still seemed tense about the two of your meeting — so far you’d specifically come to visit her at Family Video when you knew Steve wasn’t there. 

But a few shifts had been swapped around and on her late night Thursday shift where you always came by to keep her company, Robin was readying herself for the collision of her two friends. 

Despite all her convincing, she could tell you weren’t sold on the new Steve she claimed to love and you hadn’t come by when he was there, meaning all your experiences to do with Steve were rooted back in his days of assholery. 

It didn’t matter to Steve; he loved Robin and he had lots of practice trying to gain the ‘wow, you’re not a douchebag anymore’ gold star. He had this in the bag. 

The janky chime of the door buzzer announces the arrival of someone in the store and being the one at the counter while Robin tends to the shelves, Steve’s head pops up, ready to greet. 

“Hello! Welcome to Family Video!” 

It sounds far too rehearsed, recognizing the customer service voice you put on at your own job. You nearly smile at the cheery greeting, taken aback by Steve’s handsome grin and his floppy hair, messed from the force of his movement. Then you clock yourself and have to fight off an urge to scowl. 

Eyes already searching over the aisles for Robin, you’re just wondering if she’ll come save you from this conversation when Steve seems to realise who you must be. 

“Oh, you must be y/n.” His easy smile, hands leaning forward onto the counter that separates you, takes you aback.

In your peripheral, you can see Robin spot you and head in the direction — but she doesn’t come quick enough to stop Steve from bungling the whole conversation with his next sentence. 

“Robin’s told me a lot about you. I’m Steve,” His tone is friendly and at your silence, he continues. “Steve Harrington.” 

Oh my God. He doesn’t even remember you.

Over Steve’s shoulder, you can spy Robin burying her head in her hands and muttering something to herself. Any annoyance you had pushed down springs to the surface. You school your expression as neutral as possible, though you’re sure your brow crinkles in irritation. 

“I know.” 

Okay, that was meaner than you intended, especially as you recall Robin’s plea to be civil at the very least. You clear your throat, unsure if you can completely hide your distaste for him.

“We were chem partners, freshmen year.” You remind him, attempting a smile. It might be a grimace. “And I was in your English class your senior year.”

Steve seems to realise his mistake, his cheeks turning rosy and his eyes widening almost comically — fuck, way to go, Harrington. All of his pep talks, amping himself up to be so friendly to you and then he goes and ruins it by not remembering you.

It’s embarrassing. Hawkins is a small town and practically everyone knows everyone, with the exception of popular kids who didn’t think they needed to. He winces, frustrated that his past has come back to haunt him yet again.

“I’m sorry.” He says, more sincere than you’re expecting. Well, you’re not expecting an apology at all — the Steve you remembered would’ve laughed it off, claiming that he couldn’t forget a pretty face and trying to brush over the fact he forgot you at all.

“Seriously,” he reaffirms at the hint of surprise on your features. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to forget your face. I’m pretty sure you’re the only reason I passed that chem class.”

Robin seems to sense your internal battle, baffled by his apology but still irritated by the fact his memory didn’t deem you memorable enough. She also wants to jump on the spot and say ‘told you!’ because the surprise you’d shown means you hadn’t believed her.

A part of her feels bad, knowing the battering Steve’s taken to his head too many times has undoubtedly knocked a few memories loose; but it’s not that they could explain that to you. 

“I’m just shelving — want to come sit?” She offers, taking the conversation away from you and Steve. “We watched Highlander today and I could sit and explain the whole plot to you?” 

It’s the usual activities you and Robin did when you came to bug her on her shift. You loved listening to Robin talk as she possessed a unique ability to turn a 10-minute retelling into an hour-long debate. Each subplot in the film needed to be discussed, with bad analogies that came out of left field and made you laugh til your sides hurt. It wasn’t a bad Thursday night all around. 

Just as you’re about to respond, Steve cuts in and speaks instead. 

“Robs, you’ve only got two hours left. It’s a Thursday, you could take off if you wanted? I don’t mind.”

Robs. Somehow the nickname for your best friend coming from Steve is more jarring than the polite offer he’s extended. Steve’s eyes shift back over to you, offering another weak smile and you wonder if this is a continuation of his apology. 

“Really?” Robin’s excitement is evident. Bunking off early means you two will sneak a movie and have time to grab some greasy food for an actual hangout. “I mean- are you sure?” 

Steve nods sincerely then cracks a grin, shooting a sarcastic smile at Robin. “What think I can’t hold down the fort for a couple hours?” 

Robin is already peeling off her Family Video vest, digging under the counter to pull out her school bag. “I don’t think it, Steve. I know it.” 

He laughs, meandering his way back to where Robin has left the returns cart and, furiously, you have to admit he’s being awfully nice. Robin nearly trips coming around the counter, her hand grasping your arm tightly to keep herself upright and she beams at you. 

“C’mon!” She says, pulling you out the door, the buzzer chiming again as you both leave the store. Once outside, she pauses and you can feel her stare burning into your temple. She doesn’t say it but you can feel the beginning of an i told you so building in her throat. 

“Don’t say it.” 

“Say what?” She plays clueless but her grin gives her away. She links an arm through yours. 

“Don’t say anything.” You say with a scowl, the two of you beginning to stroll down the stairs out the front. The crispness of the night makes you tug her a little closer. “I still don’t like him.” 

Fact #3: Steve Harrington still likes to flirt. 

In the beginning, the compliments are because Steve really wants you to like him. 

He sees more of you with the change of shifts and perhaps, he gleefully thinks, you aren’t completely avoiding him anymore. You’ll come to see Robin in store even if he’s working as well and inadvertently, conversations spring up between the two of you. 

The first time he tries to slip in a compliment casually, he’s not entirely sure what reaction he gets. On this day you’re waiting for Robin to finish out back, packing up some of the schoolwork she’d done in the backroom, and to Steve’s delight, you’ve opted to wait up by the counter with him. 

You’ve already exchanged an awkward couple hello’s and now silence falls between you. Steve clears his throat and tries to earn his not a douchebag star. 

“Did you get a haircut?” 

You blink. Without thought, you bring up your hand and run it over the silky strands — cut fresh from yesterday. Surprise sprouts in your chest at the fact he noticed.

“Yeah,” you nod, tucking it behind your ears. “I did.” 

“It looks good.” He compliments, pairing it with a genuine smile. “It like,” he gestures with a hand, hoping his ears aren’t as red as they feel. “Frames your face better. You look nice.” 

For a moment, you forget to mask your emotions and the simple act of a compliment from an attractive guy makes your lips twitch into a smile. Robin bundles out of the back room before you remember to say something snarky, like What and my hair looked bad before? 

Instead, it hangs in the air and when you leave behind Robin, you really consider smiling over your shoulder at him. 

But it ruminates; the compliment loops in your mind until your insecurity unstitches it and it warps into something else entirely. His motivation is the question on your mind.

In what world does Steve Harrington flirt with you? 

It has to be a joke. He must be making fun of you because that’s exactly what Steve used to do and if he’s not, that means he has changed and you’re suddenly worthy of his attention.

You recall the locker-room talk, his jeering tone and everything about his compliment turns sour. 

Somehow, Steve’s worried he’s managed to make it worse.

His compliments dropped here and there — commenting on film choice, saying he likes your sweaters, all it seems to earn him is scowls. Your scrunched nose and heated glare from your distaste either means he’s worse at flirting than he remembers or it’s a painful reminder that still you see him as King Steve.

He’s not — he knows he is not. King Steve wouldn’t have bothered looking at the film you’d picked out, his comment would’ve been on your body not on the clothes you choose, and he certainly wouldn’t have noticed something as trivial as a haircut.

And because Steve is nothing if not a whinger, he tells all this to Dustin when the kid comes in to visit.

“I mean, I know I was bad but,” Steve cut himself off with a scoff, following Dustin through the aisles. Dustin didn’t even look as though he was listening, eyes trained on the shelves intently. “I apologised for not remembering her, like, an actual genuine apology— and that was years ago! I don’t get why she doesn’t like me, man.”

Dustin, who had indeed been listening to the rant of his older friend, promptly stopped and plucked a film off the shelf with a quiet aha!

“Are you even listening to me, Henderson?”

“Yes, Steve.” Dustin spun, eyes narrowed as he stared up at Steve intensely enough to unnerve him. “From what I’ve heard, you were pretty damn bad so I’m not surprised some people hold a grudge!”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you didn’t remember her. Maybe you did something rude in high school and completely forgot about it?”

Steve waved his hands dismissively, shaking his head in disagreement. Without noticing, you had slipped in the store up front, usual conversation struck up with Robin. However, you’d been quickly distracted as you searched the store for Robin’s other half and were baffled to find him following around a child.

“Looking for Steve?” Robin jibed when she noticed your gaze wandering across the store, your attention going with it. 

You ignored the jab, rolling your eyes with a light laugh. “He wishes. Is he talking to a kid?”

“Who Dustin? Don’t let him hear you call him that.” Robin warned with a roll of her own eyes, shuffling about some stock room records in her hands. “He’s like Steve’s best friend. He was, uh, in the mall fire with us last year.”

The mall fire. Robin doesn’t talk about it at all, a hollow expression taking over her features that freaks you out far too much to push it. Pushing past your surprise, you decide to focus on the other part of her sentence.

“They’re friends?”

As if to prove your point, the two of them head to the front of the store in the middle of a bicker — Steve lags behind a bit, hands waving dramatically as Dustin calls over his shoulder, tone righteous and just a tad smug.

You catch the end of Dustin’s sentence— “Not every girl has to swoon over you, Steve, you know that right? So what if she doesn’t—” cut off when Steve shoves his shoulder, having spotted you.

Dustin looks as though he experiences a ripple of emotions; annoyance, as he whips around, ready to cuss Steve out for the shove, which quickly turns to confusion at the wide-eyed look Steve is staring down at him with. By the time he’s facing you something has clicked as he looks at you with renewed interest.

“Dustin.” He introduces, stepping forward with one hand held out for you to shake. “Dustin Henderson.”

Unwittingly, you peer over his shoulder and connect eyes with Steve — who gives a shrug in response, an awkward smile on his face. Taking Dustin’s smaller hand in your own, you smile and introduce yourself, unable to keep the hint of confusion out of your words.

“I’m Steve’s best friend.” The curly-headed boy explains, gesturing over his shoulder and Steve’s smile gets a little more awkward. He feels a smidge nervous considering there’s no telling what will fall out of Henderson’s mouth next. Steve’s a little relieved when it’s a typical plea for a ride, spinning back round to him.

“Andddd as my best friend, he’ll be totally happy to drive me to the Byers’ right now. Robin can handle the store for 10 minutes without you, can’t ya Robin?”

He slides the tape he’s grabbed onto the counter as he says it, a silent ask to check it out. Likely under Steve’s account which Dustin says it’s for the employee discount — which makes Steve scoff, considering he pays for it anyways.

All eyes move to Robin who freezes at the sudden attention, papers paused mid-shuffle in her twitchy hands. She narrows her eyes at Dustin and you find yourself watching Steve as he has a silent exchange with the girl — another halfhearted shrug that means he’s happy to take him if she doesn’t mind.

Robin swipes the tape and types the details into the computer hastily, waving them both off. “Yeah, yeah. y/n can always get behind the counter, worst-case scenario.”

Dustin fist-pumps, taking the tape back from Robin as she hands it over. He heads to the door and calls out to you as he goes, “And you’d look better than Steve in the vest too!”

It makes you laugh when Steve scowls, sidling up to you to lean over the counter and snatch up his car keys. He pauses, eyes roaming your face and looking as though he wants to say something to you.

“Steve!” Dustin’s voice pierces the glass and you look to see him waiting on the top step, hands raised, expression unimpressed. 

Steve sighs, muttering the word dickhead under his breath and then he’s out the door.

Fact #3: You may have misjudged Steve Harrington.

It’s been just over a week since seeing Dustin in the store with Steve and though you’d never admit it aloud, it has shifted the way you see Steve.

A minuscule shift, you huff to yourself, tiny and not enough to completely dissolve your built in dislike for the Harrington boy. But you find the thought worming into your brain frequently, tripping over it in surprise when you realise you’re thinking of him again. 

It’s just… it didn’t make sense.

Just like the flirting, it didn’t compute in your brain unless you rationalized it back to some asshole motive.

But Dustin had introduced himself as Steve’s best-friend, which was sort of weird enough on its own but you figured it had to be some insane trauma bonding from the mall fire. 

Even if they had been the same age, Dustin didn’t seem like the company you’d expect Steve to keep— but neither was Robin, you thought after a moment of contemplation.

Robin’s knowing grin outside Family Video a couple of weeks ago that screamed i told you so floats up in your memory; you might have to concede she was maybe, potentially, just a little bit right. 

The thoughts weigh on your mind as you wait in the kitchen for Steve’s car to pull into your driveway. A couple months ago you would have outright refused to accept a ride from King Steve and you still weren’t sure if you thanked him for his generosity tonight, whether it would come out snarky or genuine. 

But he did offer, unasked.

You and Robin wanted to see a rerun screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show that was showing a few towns over. Robin couldn’t drive and neither could you, which meant when she’d seen the poster, it had only been a fleeting moment of excitement before you realised you didn’t have any means of travel.

She must have been moping about it at work that day because it was sometime in the evening after she got off work that your phone rang and she nearly shrieked down the line that Steve would take you both. 

So, here you were; waiting for Steve to pick you up. 

God, even the sentence sounded odd in your head. A flash of amber headlights on the street grabs your attention and before you can delve into the flip of your stomach, you duck out of the house and slip into Steve’s car. 

You take the front seat. Mainly because it would be too weird to get in the back, as though he was your chauffeur — though you suppose for tonight, he is. Steve smiles when you get in and you find it easy to mimic it. Gravel crunches as his tires pull away from the curb, gathering speed as he heads for Robin’s house. 

Eyes out the window, you don’t see how he steals glances at you every couple of moments. The air feels tinged with awkwardness and Steve swallows, wondering if he’s allowed to break it. You’ve been a little warmer to him — I mean, hell, you just offered him a smile.

As he pulls the car up in front of Robin’s house, engine idling, he pushes out a breath and dredges up his courage.

Yes, in the beginning, the compliments were because he wanted you to not see him and scowl. Tonight, it’s because you look beautiful and he wants you to know it.

“You look—” Oh god, and now you’re looking at him, eyes a little wide before they narrow in suspicion. “—uh, pretty.” 

“What?” 

“I mean, you always look pretty!” He amends. “But, y’know, you look lovely tonight. Pretty.” Stop talking.

“P-Pretty lovely.” It falls off his tongue in haste, delivered so terribly he’s surprised he doesn’t cringe immediately after. God, it was like whatever flirting skills he had flew out the window with you. 

“No, Harrington, I mean— why do you keep saying these things?” 

Steve feels utterly lost, shown on his face as he blinks, once, twice, and doesn’t say anything. Your insecurity bubbles up, mixed with anger at the thought he might indeed be messing with you. 

“I don’t know if this is funny to you, to- to like, joke that you like my clothes or- or to pretend to think that I’m pretty but it’s not. And I—” 

“Woah, wait — who said I was joking?” Incredulity taints each word, his brows pulled high in surprise. Steve’s stomach twists, feeling his heart recoil at the complete seriousness in your words — you think he’s been making fun of you. 

“Well, why else would you call me pretty?” You ask pointedly, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Because you are?” It’s faint, Steve’s voice suddenly a lot softer. 

You’re not sure you can contain the ripple of emotions on your face, his words sticking you in the throat so you have to swallow thickly. It’s like a switch is flipped, each compliment of the last couple of weeks shifting into a new meaning in your mind.

It’s overwhelming and you find yourself searching Steve’s face desperately, drinking in his sincere expression, brows drawn together as he offers a weak smile. Fuck, you think and along with it, dozens of apologies fester and churn — god, you’d been so rude and—

“Um, backseat please!” A sharp knock at your window scares you, nearly jumping out of your skin and breaking your focus on Steve. When you turn, Robin’s standing on the sidewalk, bent at the waist to peer at you through the glass. You stare at her dumbly for a moment til she wiggles her eyebrows with a grin and it makes you crack a smile, finally reeling yourself in enough to move. 

Unclipping your belt, you’re rather thankful to be shoved to the back of the car. Hidden in the dark, you shift to take the seat behind Steve. Your eyes spy a sliver of his neck, exposed skin about the collar of his jacket and it fixates you for a moment. 

Because you are? Steve’s words follow you, plaguing you in the shadows of the backseat — you purposefully ignore how it makes your heart sing ever-so-slightly.

Fact #4: Bradley O’Connor is not to be trusted.

“Guess who came into my work today?”

It’s said all gleeful, your hands gripping the counter as you nearly launch yourself over it in your excitement. On the other side stands Robin, doodling in her notebook — or she had been, til your arrival had been announced by the door chime, her ‘Welcome to Family Video!’ cut off by your sudden commotion.

“Um,” Robin begins indignantly, brows raised high. “Half of Hawkins? You work at Bradley’s Best Buy y/n, like the whole town shops there.”

Her sarcasm bounces off you, undeterred in your good mood; it was like the sun was shining just for you today. You didn’t even mind Steve obviously listening in on you two, his hands frozen above the keyboard as he eavesdropped from his seat at the computer.

“Yeah, speaking of Bradley’s...” you grinned at Robin, hoping your hint was enough. It was, her expression shifting into something more enthusiastic.

“Bradley Bradley?”

You nod at her question, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip in an attempt to contain your giddy grin. But it’s hard when your long-term high school crush Bradley O’Connor came through your till, flirted like there was no tomorrow, and insisted you jot your number on his receipt.

He didn’t even seem to care that you worked at a supermarket. You knew well that he and all his friends lived in the cushy tax bracket which meant the first job they ever worked would be after college. Kids like you and Robin, stuck working hours in dead-end jobs to help pay rent, were often easy pickings for teasing.

It just made you lean into your naive feelings more, swooning at the fact he didn’t care. You had been too elated in your feelings to notice the piles of his friends waiting outside the store; if you had, it might’ve made you more cautionary.

“Bradley O’Connor?” Steve butts in, swiveling in his chair to question you. The way Steve says his name, tinged in disbelief, makes you narrow your eyes.

“Is that so hard to believe?” You say defensively and chose to not acknowledge Robin’s deep sigh. Eyes widening, Steve splutters for a moment as he shakes his head.

“What? No, not like that! I just mean—him? Really?”

You can’t quite pick what’s hiding in his voice, eyes instead following Robin as she whirls around and delivers a glower that makes Steve reconsider his tone, swallowing.

“I mean—” He starts again, clearing his throat, cheeks a titch pink now. “I didn’t realise he was... your type.”

You stare at Steve, your expression skeptical as you try to pull apart whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. When you can’t figure it out in a moment, you ignore the comment and turn back to Robin and ignore it.

“Asked for my number.” You lean closer to Robin, wiggling your brows as you lead her along the excitement you’d felt earlier today. “Insisted on it actually.”

Robin’s brows manage to raise even higher, nearly disappearing into her hairline and you’d be a bit offended if her grin didn’t match your own.

“Oh. My. God.” She says, her pen punching down on the pages of her notebook to punctuate each word. “Oh my god.”

You don’t bother trying to hold back your grin, nodding along, some form of a squeal escaping you — it vaguely occurs to you should rein it in with Steve listening in, but you can’t find it in yourself to curb your feelings for his sake.

“Finally!” Robin manages to break her script of oh my god’s. “You’ve only liked him for—what? Two years?”

You flush automatically at the admission, your grin becoming a grimace as you shoot a glare at your best friend. She means well, but you’re not exactly lining up to let Steve Harrington in on all your secrets.

Your eyes flit over to where he sits, still watching the conversation. As if he can read your unease, he mimes turning a lock over his lips and tosses the key behind him blindly in an exaggerated motion. You’re in a good enough mood that it makes you laugh lightly, breaking back into a smile and comforted that at the very least, Steve won’t go ratting out your affections.

“Hey, as happy as I am for you, aren’t you supposed to be helping your Mom today?”

Like a bubble bursting, Robin reminds you that, alas, the world exists outside the perfect moment of exchanging digits over the cash register at work. Your eyes widen, a little horrified as you spin around and squint at the clock on the wall. Shit.

“Shit.” You verbalize the thought and you’re out the door before you remember to call out your goodbyes. 

Steve watches you go, your purple wind-breaker flapping behind you wildly as you all but sprint around the corner and out of sight. It’s a bit too comical and he can’t help but chuckle. The sound draws Robin’s attention and all too suddenly, Steve feels as though he’s been caught doing something wrong as she whirls around to face him.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Steve wonders if he’ll have to remind her that despite the jokes they both make, he can’t actually read her mind.

She breaks the silence. “What was that?”

“What was what?” It’s genuine confusion, Steve’s head tilting to the right an inch.

“I didn’t realise he was your type.” Robin mocks, her voice high pitch and hands gesturing somehow sarcastically. “That! What was that?”

Steve frowns, defensiveness creeping up in his tone. “That was nothing!”

Okay, so, that sounded way less casual than he hoped. Steve clears his throat, spinning on his seat to face the computer again. It was nothing. Robin was being a vulture, picking at remains, picking at nothing — absolutely nothing.

“Nothing at all.” He mutters, beginning to type again and Robin snorts behind him, voice still doused in sarcasm.

“Mm, for my own sake, I’m gonna ignore the fact you’re clearly interested in her.”

Steve hits a wrong key in his surprise, an annoyed beep! coming from the computer. It sums up how he’s feeling. He turns his head back to Robin, brows furrowed as he shakes his head. “What? No, no way.”

“Yes, way.”

“Robin, no. Even if I did—not that I do but even if I— look, I’m not stupid enough to get a crush on someone who hates me.”

This puts out the fiery retorts for just a moment, Robin dimming as she recalls the bitterness you harbor for Steve. Well, harbored — she knows you back to front and she’s willing to bet money that if you stopped hating him for just a second, you’d probably like the guy.

“She doesn’t know you.” She lands on eventually, features softening as she recalls the bitterness on Steve’s face whenever some idiot from high school dragged up his past — usually, in an attempt to humiliate him.

“Look, I’m not interested in her.” Steve reiterates, though a little weak, waving his hands wildly as if it will help drive the point home. “Not gonna happen. Never gonna happen. “

The door rattles as it’s opened by a new customer. Robin and Steve both cease their conversation immediately, turning to greet automatically — and who should it be Bradley O’Connor, himself. He doesn’t spare a glance at the front counter, sauntering straight into the action movie aisle.

“In fact,” Steve begins, an idea formulating in his mind. He spins back to Robin with a grin. “I’ll happily help her get her next date.”

“Steve, don’t—“

Steve ignores her protest, sidling out from behind the counter and tracking Bradley down to where the rom-com section starts.

“Welcome to Family Video!” It’s a bit cheery and it makes the boy jump in surprise, surprised by the new voice. Steve continues. “Anything I can help you with today?”

Bradley chuckles stiffly, a little affronted at the enthusiasm Steve’s to help a customer. He clocks the double take he does, the glance down at Steve’s name badge giving away that Bradley’s well aware of who he is. Exhaling, Steve hopes he won’t bring it up.

It looks as though Bradley weighs something up in his head, taking another once over at Steve before he speaks. “Yeah, actually. You know what movies chicks dig?” 

Steve can tell in the way Bradley says the word chicks that he’s an asshole. Not thinking of girls as people, more like scores: notches in his belt. It makes him tick, jaw clenching.

But he was like that once. Nancy Wheeler had found a genuine spot in him and coaxed it out. You — you could do the same.

So, Steve says, “Yeah, man. Anyone in particular? Usually depends on the girl, honestly.” 

Bradley sniffs, one hand nudging under his nose as he skirts his gaze around the store. He lands on Robin, who thankfully, doesn’t look like she’s trying to eavesdrop at that exact moment.

“Do ya know y/l/n?” He jerks his chin in the direction of Robin. “Buckley’s friend?”

Steve nods, glad at the easy segue; now, all he had to do was talk you up. And Steve Harrington was nothing if not a flatterer. He halts a moment later with a frown, realising what a noncommittal date it was. You deserved better than that, Steve thought.

“y/n? You can’t just rent out a film for a girl like that. She’s a total catch, dude— you gotta do the whole nine yards, yanno? Cinema, popcorn, be a gentleman and all.”

He pairs his suggestion with a usual charming smile, crossing his arms across his broad chest. Bradley seems to pick up on the extra interest and his brows quirk up.

“You got like, a thing for her or something?”

His pink cheeks nearly give him away. Steve, to his credit, manages to not blunder his next response. It’s almost like Robin’s line of fire earlier prepped him for this moment. 

“Nah,” he replies, coolly. “She’s just a friend.”

The next words are a little less casual, Steve straightening up as a surprising amount of protectiveness curls in his gut. “And as her friend, I’m just looking out for her.”

Bradley swallows, breaking eye-contact as if Steve could puzzle out his ill intentions if he looked long enough.

“So, be nice and take her out all proper.” Steve lets it sit in the air for a moment, then smiles, a polite way that’s well practiced in his line of work. “Can I get anything else for you?”

It might be the quickest customer Robin’s ever checked out, with Bradley managing to get the film rented and be out the door in under 2 minutes.

Thankfully, Robin is chuckling when he wanders back behind the counter. He had been harboring a thread of anxiety, worried he had really overstepped by thinking he knew best — it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it. On top of that, Steve really doesn’t want this to bite him in the ass, especially considering it was to help you. 

“Don’t—” Robin starts, a smile curling her lips. “—let this go to your head, but that wasn’t nearly half bad.” 

Steve tries not to feel smug, settling instead on pleasantly content. He was in your good books after this, for sure.

When you call the store from home, wire twisted in your fingers and talking loud enough in your excitement that Steve could hear it from beside Robin, she makes sure to mention the good word he put in for you.

Fact #5: If you call Steve Harrington from a pay-phone on a Friday night, he’ll pick up.

The bleak cold of the night air isn’t anything compared to the shame that’s building in your chest. You’re trying your best to ignore it, to not give in to your anxious doubts — what did Bradley say on the phone?

It was supposed to be a movie night at his place — that was what he’d suggested when he toyed with your feelings at work, a handsome smirk on his face. You’d tried not to sound disgruntled at the hurried change in plans, instead trying to lean into your excitement that tonight went from casual to a definite date.

Bradley O’Connor didn’t just invite anyone to the movies with him. And he’d said 7 on the phone, you huffed to yourself.

7 o’clock. The showing of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off that was playing at Hawk cinema. Though, he did sound a bit distracted on the phone, his voice sounding distant.

You glance at the clock above the ticket booth. 7.13pm.

Heaving a sigh, you tuck your coat closer around yourself and wonder how long you should wait before it goes from sad to truly pathetic.

Five more minutes, you think, Give him five more minutes.

Because you hopelessly want his flirts, his coy smile, and charming winks to be real; you want to be swept up in a teenage daydream and have it all work out for you for once.

You swallow, picking at your fingers as you dredge up your hopes, convincing yourself he’s coming — because if he doesn’t...it means Steve and his confused tone were fucking right. That Bradley wasn’t the type to go for your type.

You shouldn’t have waited the five extra minutes.

Technically, you think bitterly, you were right. Bradley does show up.

You’re stepping out, wondering if you should brave the walk home in the dark — but a familiar group of raucous boys in Letterman jackets heading for the cinema freeze you in your tracks.

“Holy shit, she actually came.”

It’s not said kind, not in awed disbelief as you’d hoped. It’s cruel — jeering explodes in the group of boys, unkind laughs and snickers resounding off the bricks as they smack each other, all in on the joke. The realisation sinks into your stomach, staining it black.

Bradley looks smugly satisfied — a pompous conceited piece of shit that you should’ve known better than to believe.

You don’t even want to look at him, a hot sting of tears burning behind your eyes. You don’t want to give him a chance to taunt you. Your feet take you forward, barging through the group and smacking your shoulder against Bradley’s shoulder, hard. You hope it hurts.

“Tell Harrington thanks for the suggestion to take you to the movies!” He calls after you like he knows how it rubs salt into the wound. It does; it stings maybe more than the initial humiliation. “Guess he’s not an idiot all of the time!”

The boys laugh, a series of oohs that finally break your floodgate. Tears streak, hot and fast, and you brush them off before they reach your chin, sniffling. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

The humiliation is coating you, sticky and clinging like a fog and you squeeze your eyes closed as you inhale quickly. You round the corner fast, feet not stopping til you’re at least four blocks from the cinema, further downtown.

You feel dumb. Scratch that, you feel like a fucking idiot.

A stray tear escapes without permission and the next thought is that you want to go home. Blurry eyes scanning the street, you clock the phone booth and head for it, fueled by the urgency of your thoughts: get home, then fall apart.

The glass is cold as you push the door open, creaking and weathered. You close the door and turn, staring at the phone. Who do you call?

Your mom is the first thought. She’d driven you in — though, you’d told her you’d get a lift home with Bradley since he had a car. You’re not up for the coddling you’ll get when she sees the state of you in the slightest. Besides, she’d mentioned heading to a friends for the evening.

Robin is the next thought. And you would, except she can’t drive so all she’d do is ply you with a combination of questions and furious insults directed at Bradley.

Your next thought...No.

You sigh, leaning your head against the glass, not caring about how grimy it might be, and smack your head against it a couple of times. No, no way were you about to call Steve Harrington for a lift.

Not when he fucking set you up. Not when he’d just taken the shred of trust you’d granted him and torn it up immediately. Especially not after crying because you believed a date like that with a guy like Bradley O’Connor was genuine.

You were not calling Steve.

The Harrington household number is easy to find in the paper phone book.

It’s under Steve’s father’s name, some prick with big money who’d likely report you to the police for harassment if he picked up the phone. You stare at it and then at the phone, a frown set on your brow as you weigh it up.

Steve didn’t work Friday night — you know, because it used to be a night to go visit Robin, back when you avoided Steve.

A stray thought floats up, bringing back the words of Robin on the phone as she had celebrated the news. It’s a bitter memory now, made entirely worse as you recall what she had said. Steve talked you up, her voice crackled down the wire, when O’Connor came in. Put in a good word for you.

A new emotion surges in your chest and you’re relieved to shrug off some humiliation for anger. God, you feel even more stupid for thinking Steve would’ve actually talked you up.

As you punch in the number, the keypad taking a bit of a beating, you huff and think at the very least, he can owe you a ride for ruining your evening.

“Harrington residence, this is Steve.”

“Harrington.” You spit it out with venom. On the other side of the phone, Steve recoils a bit, surprised at the tone.

“y/n? I thought you were—”

“I’m on Cavendish Boulevard, right by Tony’s. Come pick me up.” It’s fierce and clipped. You don’t really want to unleash your anger on the phone, lest he leaves you stranded and you have to ring around your mother’s friends just to find her. You just want to go home.

Steve makes a noise of confusion over the phone, a bit slow on the uptake. “But I thought tonight was—”

“Harrington.” you say again, a little softer, your emotions leaking into your voice involuntarily. Fuck, you sound pathetic but in the moment you can’t bring yourself to care. You plead, “Please.”

“I’m coming,” He says, voice indicating he’s caught on to why you might be calling. “Yeah, I’m coming, just sit tight.”

Fact #6: When Steve Harrington says he ‘knows a spot’, he doesn’t always mean Skull Rock. 

You’re angry.

That much Steve can tell. Steve’s reminded too much of the last ride he gave you when you pop the door, sliding almost uncomfortably into the passenger seat and turning your clenched jaw towards the window.

Unrest torments Steve’s head, unsure if he’s gained enough trust to ask what went wrong this evening. On the other hand, you had called him. At the very least, you trusted him to come and get you.

The tires groan as he drives out of Tony’s parking lot, the hood of the car dipping to the gutter and rolling out onto the quiet roads.

“Am I allowed to ask what happened?” Steve drives slow so his eyes can flick over to you, watching the way you smooth your hands down your thighs, a self-soothing motion. It makes his chest twinge, a tad more worry than he’s probably warranted to considering you are barely friends. If that.

“Depends.” you finally turn to face him, a pinch in your eyebrows. “What did you say to Bradley?”

Steve detects the cynicism of your question in a heartbeat. Even though he knows he was all charm, Robin even affirmed it, he still rehashes the conversation, scrutinizing it for what he had said wrong.

You take his silence as admittance. Scoffing lightly, you focus back out the window, eyes boring into the streets. You’re in the middle of a mutter, something like I was so right about you when Steve manages to find his voice.

“I—” Shyness has crept up inside, Steve suddenly worried you’ll find his comments odd and not endearing. Worse, you’ll think he’s being in-genuine again. You’re just quiet, waiting. “I told him that he should take you to the cinema, instead of just renting a film. That you deserved a better— a proper date.”

He shoots a look in your direction, trying to see how you take in the words. Your shoulders have bunched up stiffly, your body turning further away but he can still see the furrow in your brow, angry emotions emitting out in every direction from you — you don’t believe him.

“I swear,” He continues, more desperate to prove himself. “I said something about— that you were a catch and- and you can ask Robin, I swear to—”

“Steve, stop.”

Horror churns through his gut when Steve realises you’re crying, soft tears dripping off your cheeks. As if you can sense he’s about to talk again, ready to rattle off his insistence, you speak before him.

“If I believe you,” you inhale shakily, pushing your palms into your eyes hard. You don’t want to cry in front of Steve. “If you’re telling the truth, then that means...”

Your teeth chew on your lip, hiding its quiver as you relive the humiliation of earlier all over again. “It means, I was actually stupid enough to believe him.”

Painfully, Steve can feel the embarrassment rolling off you in waves as you bury your face away. He swears under his breath. He’d detected asshole from Bradley two words in but this? This was not even in the ballpark of what he’d considered happening tonight. How fucking childish to ask someone out as a joke.

You seem to be slipping into a ramble, uncaring that you’re pouring your feelings out to Steve — Steve who you hate, or at least you did. Steve who you were ready to verbally pummel a minute ago. Steve who is looking at you so gingerly that you might consider he actually cares about you.

“He- all his friends were there.” You admit, words wobbling and tone revealing your utter mortification. “It was just a big fucking joke.” 

For a minute, the car is silent; you stare at the road and watch it get swallowed beneath the car.

“I’m— I’m so fucking sorry.” Steve starts again, feeling like he’s managed to take one step forward and fifteen backward with you. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I had no idea he would do that, I swear, I wouldn’t have—“

He cuts himself off, apparently out of words to say, or taking your silence as a cue to shut up. His apology sits in the silence and you know now, he means it. Bradley’s smugness compared to Steve’s sincerity leaves no contest; you’d been too in your own head to realise you’d muddled them up.

You’re faintly aware that Steve has been driving absently, guzzling up gas so you can have a moment suspended away from reality. But he seems to grip the wheel tighter, with more purpose, and instead of looping the block again, Steve picks a route.

You wipe under your eyes again, sniffling through your clogged throat. “Where are we going?”

Steve adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, throwing a glance at you.

“Where I go when I’m upset.”

A snarky retort rises in your mind on instinct, the hurt part that wants to lash out, make someone hurt like you’re hurting. You think about saying something like what does rich, popular Steve Harrington get upset about? when he says, “Helped me a lot after the, uh, the mall fire.”

You swallow the words on your tongue and guilt stains your throat.

It’s a short drive; Steve drives so comfortably that you question how many times he’s traced this route. Too plagued by horrid memories, forced into his car and driving until he’s tired enough to sleep without nightmares.

You can’t say you’re expecting the stretch of road that crawls out to Skull Rock. For a moment you regard him, wondering if he’s daft enough to try to get lucky right now. But the car veers off track, driving down a less traveled path.

He doesn’t stop til you’re surrounded by timber trunks — there’s not much room to open your door when Steve puts the car into park.

Normally, you make a witty comment — “You didn’t bring me out here to kill me, right? I can’t see how that would make me feel any better.” — but you bite your tongue. You feel too downbeat to be witty now.

Steve rounds the car and pops the trunk, leaning over it with one hand still gripping the top. He rummages for a moment, moving junk around til he pulls out a couple of items: a baseball bat, some bag that clinks noisily, and a few other items, stuffed quickly into the bag. He tucks the baseball bat under his arm.

“C’mon,” he murmurs and waves you to follow him, after shutting the trunk and locking the car. Again, you’re eerily aware that this route is well-familiar to Steve. You stumble to keep up, eyes on your feet so you don’t get a face full of dirt.

Eventually, the trees give way to a clearing littered with various junk, glittering broken glass all around making Steve tell you to watch where you step.

He makes his way towards a rotten tree trump in the centre of the clearing, poorly cut and barely a flat surface on it. Still, Steve digs around in the bag and fishes out an empty beer bottle. You think you can guess where he’s going with this.

Carefully, he manages to balance it on a slanted surface and as expected, he draws the bat out from under his arm and offers it to you.

The wood is warm from being pressed against his side and you curl your fingers around it, sapping it into your hands. He digs around in the bag for another moment, revealing a pair of safety glasses — damn, he’s really prepared.

Steve unfolds them and steps closer, offering them out to you — but you don’t remove your hands from the bat, instead jutting out your chin to indicate for him to put them on for you.

It makes him pause. Steve regards you for a moment, eyes unsure before he steps even closer.

It steals your breath, the intensity of his gaze as he pushes the glasses up your nose, his fingers tracing along the rims and down the arms of the glasses, tucking any stray hair behind your ears. It’s oddly intimate, watching him through the plastic, his expression focused, breath fanning over your face. He looks handsome — the shadows cutting his jawline nicely and you can smell his cologne when he’s this close.

When he steps back, you have to remind yourself to breathe — the scent of him still swirls in your chest.

Even though you know what he’s brought you here for — the bottle, the bat, the open junkyard already doused in broken litter — you still don’t make a move.

Steve gestures to the bottle. “Hit it. Hard as you can.”

It’s a soft instruction; you know if you wanted, you could turn around and he’d drive you all the way home, no questions asked. But then you’d spend the rest of your evening drowning your sorrows, wallowing in a pint of ice-cream and sniffling over the phone to Robin.

You turn to face the bottle, lifting the bat, and readying your grip.

Holy shit, she actually came.

The bat connects fast with the bottle, a loud crash pistoling off and filling the clearing — the brown glass dissolves into the night, pieces are thrown in every direction and you’re suddenly very grateful for the safety glasses.

You heave in a breath, surprised by how that felt. It’s thrilling. You whip around to look at Steve and choke on a laugh at what you see — he’s put on a ridiculous pair of sunglasses.

They’re not at all the usual stylish ones he’s worn to parties before. It’s likely didn’t want that pair damaged but still needed to protect his eyes. Instead, these pair look like women’s sunglasses, with big wide round frames. It’s a bizarre sight, Steve Harrington is women’s sunglasses, at night-time no less.

“Nice glasses.” The tease falls off your lips instinctively, a laugh contained in the words. 

Back to poking fun at him — a definite sign you’re feeling better. He sighs, playing it up, popping his hip, and planting his hands on his sides.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, but he’s smiling. “Be thankful I gave you the cool ones. Normally, it’s just me up here anyways.”

It’s somewhat of a lie. He’d bought two pairs of the safety glasses, one for Robin as well, but she hadn’t liked the loud noises of broken glass when he brought her with him.

But Steve thought the stupid oversized glasses his mom had tried to dump — he was going to offer them to Robin but it had slipped his mind — would be a better choice. You wouldn’t be thinking about fucking O’Connor if he’s in women’s sunglasses.

It’s surprisingly effective; a giggle titters out of you again and you cover your mouth as if it’ll help hide the sound. You’re a bit bewildered at how easy it feels to laugh so soon.

Steve pushes the glasses up onto the top of his head, his hair sticking up at odd angles and he narrows his eyes at you. His smile gives him away. He bends and roots through the bag, finding another bottle for you to smash. The sunnies slip back down to cover his eyes as he sets up the next one. 

It wobbles precariously on the stump but you don’t wait for it to settle, baseball bat swinging and shattering it in a second.

“Fuck!” You scream and the curse is swallowed up in the splintering sound of glass. Steve whoops, looking almost like a suburban mom, cheering from the sidelines. The scream helped — hell, swinging with all your might and channeling your rage into demolishing a bottle was definitely helping. You don’t feel upset, you feel enraged.

The stump isn’t empty for long, Steve dutifully scoops up another bottle and places it out for you. He pauses, sunglasses back in his hair, and points at the bottle as he fixes you with a determined look.

“This one’s O’Connor.”

You meet his eyes, his brows knitted together and an expression that says he wants you to destroy it because he’s angry with you — angry for you. He steps back.

When you hit it, an earsplitting crack thunders out. The bottle fractures,  fragments careening off in every direction. A wild grin sweeps across your face, knowing that whatever comes at school next week— whether Bradley went back to ignoring your existence or used tonight as fuel for taunting — you could just picture how you felt as you shattered that bottle.

“That felt good.” You breathe out, turning back to Steve. Your teeth graze your bottom lip, sinking in to stop from grinning like a lunatic. A delirious laugh wrestles itself out of your chest and you let your head drop back, eyes turning up at the inky sky, laughs petering out.

Steve tries to ignore how the sound lights up his chest like a Christmas tree, some part of him burning with glee with the knowledge you’re feeling better because of something he did.

He watches your gaze rove across the sky, searching for something he doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he should dig out the next bottle or whether this was it — that now, he’d take you home now and he’d be back to just a brief hint of a smile from you if that.

Head dropping forward, you offer back the baseball bat and Steve’s heart sinks.

Reining in his dejection so it doesn’t show, Steve takes it from you and pulls a polite smile; at the very least, he’ll get some credit with Robin for cheering up her best friend.

As he moves to tuck it under his arm, he freezes at your own motions. You’re bending down, rummaging through the bag, and scoring a bottle — this time, a big champagne bottle, left on the bench from the last time his parents had been home. Four? No, five days ago.

You plant it on the stump, hands hovering around it as it quivers for a moment, only dropping them when the bottle finally settles. You step back, look at him and Steve finally understands what you’re doing.

Surprise sprouts in his chest, his lips parting. You’re giving him a turn?

“Well?”

He’s been gawking a bit, he realises and Steve remembers to close his mouth. He shifts the bat out from under his arm and then pulls the sunglasses off his head. He offers them to you, with a nod.

“Swap. I’ll miss the bottle completely with these on.”

“But that’ll make me laugh.” You point out, tone cheeky as you pass them over regardless.

Steve slides them on, a dramatic eye-roll as he steps up to swing. He’s usually only here when his anger is feeling uncontrollable, like hot lava boiling over and burning him from the inside out. He’s calmer tonight, with no emotions running rampant — well, maybe not any bad ones at least.

He scrounges his brain to think of what’s annoyed him this week; Keith, as always. The champagne bottle on the stump, the only bitter evidence his parents had been home in the last week. The agonizing wobble in your voice as you’d cried in the passenger seat of his car.

There’s a familiar burn in his muscles when he swings, another bottle sacrificed to anger and destined to a life scattered in the dirt. You whoop loudly, just as he had, and Steve can understand why you’d laughed at the sight of him in those sunglasses. They’re huge and you look nearly bug-like, shiny round domes of black staring back at him.

“Nice glasses.” He grins cheekily, a copy of your own words. He doesn’t need to see your eyes to know you’re rolling them at him.

The bat and safety glasses get passed between you two, equal turns until the bottles run out. Steve’s only sorry he didn’t bring more, drinking in the giddy and wild grin that overcomes your face when another bottle meets its fate.

When you pack it in and stumble back to his car, Steve revels in the closeness you seemed to have gained. No longer three steps behind, your shoulders brush his on the walk and when you stumble over a root, your hand shoots out and grips his arm, steadying yourself. You hold it for a moment longer than you should.

The skin of your hand still tingles as you slide into the passenger seat. The air of the car is more comfortable now, cozy even, as Steve cranks the heat and the trees pass you in a blur as you drive out. Bruce Springsteen’s Hungry Heart is warbling on the radio, the volume turned low and you can’t help but stare at him.

You were so wrong about him.

You were so astronomically wrong about him; it’s the only thing you can think of as you drive home, amber streetlights illuminating the streets of Hawkins. The clock on the dash reads 9.57pm — meaning you’ve been with Steve for nearly two hours. The fact nearly draws an awed sort of laugh, but you press it down til it’s only a smile, hidden as you turn back to the window.

He drops you off by 10.14pm, insisting on buying you a milkshake to complete the night.

Honest, I get one after every time I smash shit. It’s hard work you just did! He’d said as he ordered. One chocolate shake for you, one vanilla, for him. You gotta, like, replace electrolytes and all. The fact you don’t think he’s said it to make you laugh, makes you laugh even harder.

The milkshakes sustain the silence on the final drive home and you quickly understand immediately the importance of the shake. After all the frustration, the sugar is near soothing as the cold sweet dances on your tongue. 

The engine idles as Steve brings the car to a halt by the curb outside your house. You eye it, astonished by your reluctance to end the evening and you wonder if Steve can tell.

You don’t know if you want him to notice it or not; reading into your hesitancy feels like a whole new can of worms. The porch light is on, waiting for you.

Home. What you’ve been yearning for since 7.15pm this evening — finally, the roller-coaster of emotions has wrung you out and tiredness seeps into your bones. But you can’t leave without a goodbye. Not without telling Steve what tonight meant to you. 

“Thank you.”

You don’t mean to murmur it, but it’s nearly a whisper as you take your eyes off the house to turn to Steve in the driver’s seat.

Steve somehow manages to soften more at the quiet words, an easy smile pulling on his lips. He nods. It means of course like you don’t even have to thank him for it. The car purrs beneath you, filling the silence with a quiet rumble.

You want to say it again, louder because it’s not just a thank-you — it’s thank you, I’m sorry, I was wrong about you, can we start over? I hated you for the longest time but do you ever think you could like me?

The last thought punches a breath out of you and it sets you in motion. You couldn’t be having those thoughts; not with the tension in the air, his closeness so enticing now you’ve tasted it once. You couldn’t be having those thoughts at all.

You’re on the sidewalk, about to close the door before you remember to squeak out a ‘goodnight!’. The walk to your door is short enough that you shouldn’t feel the cold of the night —  besides, you’re too warm inside, emotions churning wildly to notice anyways.

It doesn’t help when you reach the porch and peek over your shoulder, the maroon BMW still waiting by the curb, amber headlights shining, for you to make it inside okay.

Fact #7: You’re way too wasted right now.

You’d started with vodka and that had been, what? An hour ago.

An hour ago when O’Connor had made his entrance with his buddies, stupid cheers erupted from the crowd of high schoolers that were stupid enough to worship the likes of him.

Or maybe, you’re the stupid one for hoping you wouldn’t see him tonight.

But if the open invite to Melody Carter’s house for a late-night Saturday party meant the likes of you and Robin could come, of fucking course O’Connor would be there.

You had been only planning on one more drink, the one you’d been pouring when O’Connor showed face, but his smirk across the room had you finishing it instantly. It burned as you swallowed it down, your hands already moving to pour more liquor into your cup.

Two more shots down of — what was it? The label tells you it’s tequila — and you’re thoroughly drunk. Which, honestly, might not be a great move considering the number of people at this party. There are a lot of people here.

What had started as a party for only the senior year had quickly snowballed, kids older and younger showing up. Hell, you were pretty sure you’d seen Aaron Bright pass through the front door, a boy two years out of high school.

Did that mean Steve was coming?

Oh-kay, that had to be the tequila speaking.

But once the thought is in your head, it spins out, unstoppable, careening and building up your hopes before you remember to crush them. You weren’t hanging out to see Steve; quite the opposite in fact.

The bottle-smashing adventure you’d shared with him had been just over a week ago and maybe your thoughts had strayed to him a couple of times. A couple of times might be putting it lightly.

You just— you didn’t know how to act around him anymore.

Without the shield of ‘Steve Harrington is a douchebag’ to give a reason for your scowls, you had to admit he was utterly charming.

You couldn’t tell if it was the shift in your own perception or if Steve really was this nice, each sentence flirty or teasing — either way, it meant you were as good as reduced to blundering through any interaction with him.

So, naturally, you’d resorted to avoiding Family Video instead, which, hey, might not have been your best idea.

Robin had tracked you down after you didn’t show up to two of her evening shifts to hang. Gossip flowed as you divulged her in your Friday night, the prank O’Connor had pulled, and the subsequent tears that had followed. With a guilty smile, you let Robin get wrapped up in her anger and forgive your absences — too distracted to even ask how you’d gotten home.

Technically, you hadn’t lied. You had just... omitted certain facts.

Besides, you were feeling confused enough about Steve all on your own. You had no doubt that adding Robin, the mutual best friend between you two, and her opinion would make it all the messier.

Or maybe she’ll tell you what you don’t want to hear. Something in your head whispers, the tequila burning a little fouler in your stomach. That you can’t have him. That she knows him and he would never want you.

For good measure, you chase down one more shot.

And that’s how Steve finds you — wasted out in the back garden of a party.

Robin had invited him, halfheartedly during one of their shifts. Honestly, a high school party had very little appeal to him — most parties had no appeal after the events that had transpired in the last couple of years.

But Robin had been a bit adamant as she realised he didn’t have a date lined up like he usually did. He’d winced as she connected the dots, counting on her fingers that it had been nearly two months since he’d used his weekend for social plans. That is, excluding hanging with Robin.

The fact he stopped going on dates round bout the same time you stopped completely ignoring him was completely unrelated. But Steve was glad Robin didn’t notice the coincidence, so she couldn’t grill him about it.

In fact, she was surprisingly mute over his sudden agreement when Robin purposefully mentioned you’d be there. Her twinkling eyes said she knew more than she’d let on.

And at first, it seemed like a colossal mistake to come.

Steve didn’t like alcohol like he used to. The last few years had birthed something in him that hated not being in control of his body, especially when dark corners seem to hold something more sinister, or the lights flickered.

Or maybe it was the fact he hasn’t really been to a party since Halloween ‘84. Steve shoves the memory of that night down, away.

He lasts two minutes in the crowded main room before he’s shouldering out, hoping the garden will provide some relief. It brings lungfuls of fresh air, the natural blanket of the night and you.

You’re fairly certain you came out here to fight the spinning in your head, desperate for fresh air but now, sprawled out on the cool grass, you’re completely distracted by staring up at the sky. You’re not exactly sure what you’re looking for, gazing into the stars.

A head pops into your vision, Steve’s hair flopping over as he peers down at you. “y/n?”

“Steve!”

Whatever he was expecting, it was not the unbridled glee in your voice. You squirm happily, like a slug in the rain, and if your slurring hadn’t given you away, it’s evidence of how drunk you are. It doesn’t matter that something in his head says she’s drunk, he still finds himself smiling.

“That’s me.” He scans the garden for Robin, assuming the two of you would be together. Concern laces his next words. “Why ya out here on the grass, sweetheart?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Steve’s not sure what it is he’s said, but he’s never seen a reaction like this out of you before; your hands cover your face, giggles slipping loosely out as if you’re hiding a secret.

Sweetheart. You hide the flame in your face behind your hands. There’s nothing to be done for your giggles, loud and drunken, not stopping no matter how much you will yourself. The pet-name brands itself onto your heart, the heat of it racing under your skin.

Steve tries again. “Where’s Robin? I thought you two came together.”

“We did.” You remove your hands to reveal your wide-eyed expression as if just remembering the fact yourself. Man, that must have been ages ago. “She was talking to... to...”

“Vickie?” Steve supplies, with an amused smile.

“Yes!” You snap your fingers at him, expression showing a little bit of disbelief mixed with awe. It shows in your words. “How did you know that, Steve?”

Steve. Not Harrington. You’ve called him by his name twice and Steve’s a little embarrassed by how much he likes it. Likes the sound of his name in your mouth, on your lips.

He shakes his head like an etch-a-sketch to get rid of the thought, mind stuck on your lips too long. Stay focused, Steve chides himself. Extending out a hand, he offers it to you with the intent to have both of you track down Robin.

Though, if you’d last seen her with Vickie, there’s a chance Robin would bite his head off for interrupting the two of them. Vickie, apparently, had a hard time believing the fact Steve and Robin’s relationship was entirely platonic in nature. Tracking her down at a party might not help.

He’s pulled out of the tangent of thoughts when you slap your hand into his — and tug.

Steve topples, immediately grateful for his lack of alcohol because, with any less coordination, you’d be squished beneath him. A hand plants on either side of your head, catching himself just above you. You grin, alcohol on your breath and Steve isn’t completely sure whether he’s imagining the pink on your cheeks.

“Uh,” Steve says, before scrambling off you hastily. He wasn’t sure if he could be so close to you without his face growing warm; or worse, he didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. Though spying your amused expression, as if you’d known the closeness would make him blush, maybe Steve didn’t need to be worried.

“S’just,” you say, words a bit mumbled. “s’lay down on the grass. Y’know, look at the stars.”

You point up at the sky in case Steve didn’t understand. The grass is still cool under your back and your head isn’t spinning so much but you don’t really feel like moving. Something in you knows that your limbs will feel like cinder-blocks and movement will send your head back into a tizzy.

Without thinking, your push your lips into a pout and aim it at him. Steve flops down without argument.

“You didn’t tell me why you ended out here,” says Steve, wanting to keep you talking. He’s not entirely confident you won’t just fall asleep if the two of you lapse into silence.

You swing your neck, head lolling to the side to look at Steve. Eyes narrowed, it’s like you’re trying to see if he’s genuinely asking. Whatever you find in your search must satisfy you, because you speak, rolling your head back to peer upwards.

“O’Connor’s here.” You say, bitterness in your tone. “Then my head started spinnin’.”

Steve watches as you tilt your head back towards him, pulling a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “S’now I’m here.”

You’re not sure what convinces you to do what you do next.

Perhaps, it’s because Steve’s expression is tilting too close to pity and you don’t want it; or that you feel lonely enough that you’ll take touch whenever you can, brave enough with the alcohol in your blood to ask.

Or maybe, you just want an excuse to touch him.

“Gimme your hand.” With a gesture of your own, you hold your hand up like you might be asking for a high-five. It wavers, fingers quivering if he looked close enough. After a moment of confusion, Steve humours you.

You feel the callouses first, rough skin scratching against yours as Steve gingerly holds his hand out, letting your press your own against it. It’s warm, warmer than your own and you wish you could twist your fingers until they slotted in with his.

Don’t says a voice in your head, drowned out in the drunkenness. Don’t do this to yourself. Maybe, it’s the voice of reason. It seems you’re very good at building yourself up just to get torn back down.

Hand pressed to hand, you can’t find it in yourself to care about that; you want to touch him, so you ask, and he gives it to you. The alcohol makes it black and white. 

You hated him. You did, but now it’s all garbled and wonky and different — and you don’t hate him at all. Not anymore. Every complication you had worked up, all the knots tied in your brain seem to dissolve; hand to hand, it’s easy to admit what you’d been denying to yourself.

“I used to hate you, y’know.”

Steve’s not sure if this will ever get easier to hear. That people he’s grown close to carry reminders, unshakeable memories, of an old ego that still haunts him.

He doesn’t know what to say. He knows you know he’s sorry, that he’s different now. So, he weakly says. “Used to?”

“Yeah.” A smile finds your lips, tugging them up slightly. Steve thinks he could marvel forever at how your lashes kiss in the corner when you smile. It’s aching. “Used to.”

“S’kinda hard to hate you,” you sigh, eyes turning skyward. “I should. You didn’t even remember me a couple months s’ago,”

Steve focuses on your hand against his to deter the twinge in his heart. Your hand is smaller than his and when he curls his fingers, they hug the top of yours. A breath bursts past your lips, loud enough he hears it.

“M’sorry.” he whispers, though he’s said it time and time again.

He doesn’t care; he’ll say it a thousand it times if you’ll keep looking at him like that. Features soft, so different to the glare he’s all but memorised — instead, your eyebrows drawn together like the sight of both your hands, palm to palm, might be the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Steve feels you push back against his fingers, a gentle pressure like you’re trying to hug him back.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Even while drunk, you can’t look at him while you confess. If you look at him, then it’s real and logic will prevail and you’ll rein everything back in.

Looking at both of your hands, feeling the yearning spool in between your ribs — none of it matters. You like him so much that it feels woven into everything else; weaved into the noises of the party, the black of the night, the grass tickling the back of your legs.

You like him so much it makes you sick.

On second thought, that might be the alcohol.

Steve’s response, whatever it might be, vanishes when you rip your hand away and sit up suddenly — emptying to contents of your stomach into a lovely rosebush to your right. Disgusted with the sudden visual aid to what you had for dinner, you groan. The movement has sent your head spinning again, rotating out of the same orbit as Earth.

Steve’s palm soothes down your spine, rubbing warmth as he murmurs comfortingly.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he mutters, more to himself. “You’ll be feeling it in the mornin’.”

You groan again, eyes sliding shut and tumbling you into darkness.

Fact #8: You’re never drinking, ever again.

You’ll be feeling it in the morning. The last memory of last night curls up like smoke in your head and all you can think is Steve was fucking right.

The sheets feel scratchy as you release an agonised noise into your pillow, coiling in tighter. There’s a pounding in your head, bleeding out of your ears and eyes and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so terrible in your life.

Eyes screwed shut tight, you move slowly and draw your head up. Sneaking a look, relief fizzes in your chest as the recognition of your sheets — you made it home, you’re in bed. Never mind that you can’t quite remember how you got here. A shuffle of your legs tells you, uncomfortably, you’re still in last night’s jeans.

What time is it? There’s sun coming through the gap in the curtains. Daytime. Some sleep-covered murmur escapes you, though even you can’t tell what it’s supposed to mean.

Plopping your head back down, you search your memories. It’s an effort to push past your headache to put together the puzzle of last night. Visions of arriving at the party, of drink number one, and dancing with Robin are clear but sometime after O’Connor shows up they begin to get hazy.

You remember the cool grass. The moon. Steve. God, that’s right, he was there — what you might have said to him is anyone’s guess. Another grainy and fogged memory of puking in the bushes. The rest of the night is locked behind a tequila fueled paywall in your brain

Burrowing back into your sheets, the hangover takes priority and you only hope to sleep it off.

 —

The next time you wake, the pounding in your head has shifted to the door.

You can’t have been asleep for more than an hour according to your alarm clock, blinking midday numbers back at you as you drag your head up. Thankfully, a large portion of your hangover has been cured with sleep — otherwise, the unending knocks on your door might be the end of you.

You struggle to speak, aware of your sandpaper throat but whatever gurgle you produce is good enough for whoever is on the other side of the door. Robin, judging by the intensity of their knocks.

Lo and behold, Robin bowls into the room once she hears signs of life.

“What did you say to Steve?”

Oh.

That has you sitting up, wincing at the pain it brings and you nurse your head in your hands. “What?” you rasp out. “Nothing!”

That might be a lie. You wince again, searching through you scrambled memories for what she could be referring to and come up short. Robin can read your genuine confusion.

“Why?” The word comes out a bit shot. You clear your throat. “Did he say something to you?”

“Nothing specific,” Robin grimaces a bit. She’s never been the best at hiding her emotions. “He just— he asked if you’d talked to me. Said he was checking if you were still alive. Which, yanno, thank god you are! He said you barfed in Melody’s mom’s rose bush, which quite frankly is hilarious and—“

“Robin.” you moan, trying to cut off her ramble. “Why are you here?”

Robin seems to remember the original reason she was nearly breaking down your door, body jumping like she’s been zapped. “Right!”

She suddenly seems to reconsider herself, ducking her head and beginning a well practiced pace across your carpet. “I know you said you don’t like him, which I get, I know- he was the worst! But I dunno, you seemed to, like, I don’t know? Warm up to him? I guess, he just seemed real bummed on the phone when I said you hadn’t called me.”

A series of emotions jolt through your nerves, none as strong as the elation at hearing Steve had called to ask about you. You push it down with another groan and fling yourself backward, bouncing on the springs of your mattress.

Hands hiding your face, you mumble the next words as if you don’t quite want Robin to hear them.

“I don’t not like him.”

“And I can’t tell what that is supposed mean.” Her pacing hasn’t ceased. Her arms gesticulate wildly as she speaks. “You don’t not like him sorta, to me, just sounds like you like him!”

“Robin,” you whine, well aware of the way she can read you like words on a page. “What do you wanna hear? That you were right?”

Robin halts her pacing, leaning her knees onto the edge of your mattress. You peek at her through your fingers. She’s looking a little more wide-eyed. “Yes. Absolutely. If my two favourite people in the world could suddenly get along, maybe even be friends, I think I’d like to know.”

“We’re not—”

“But that is not why I’m here.” She’s gone serious, brows raised as her voice turns softer. You nearly think she’s taunting you, a hint of a smile hidden in her expression.

“I’m here to discuss the distinct possibility that you have managed to skip the part where we become a cool trio of friends and have traveled into more than friends territory.”

Damn her. She’s too good, unspooling your secret right after you’ve only just managed to admit it aloud (not that you could remember that thought). Dragging your hands down your face, you groan again — there’s no point in hiding it from Robin, especially when she seems to have you all figured out.

“I’m gonna take that as a ‘wow Robin, you’re incredibly smart and totally right’.” She jibes, looking far too smug.

Perplexingly, she doesn’t appear to care that you confirmed Steve had you feeling gooey inside and weak at the knees. You dredge yourself to a sitting position, blankets pooling at your waist, and regard her with as much sarcasm as you can.

“Wow, Robin,” you drawl tiredly, still a bit catty from your lack of sleep. “You’re so totally right.”

“Don’t forget the incredibly smart part.”

You wallop her thigh with your sleeve, halfhearted and not at all mean. She grins. For a moment, you’re monumentally relieved to be sharing this with her — you’re best friends, talking about a boy you like, back to feeling thick as thieves with her.

“You gotta talk to him though, you know that right?”

A sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

—

By the time you’ve rinsed the last of your hangover down the shower drain, washed down with the suds of your strawberry shampoo, the sun is nearing the horizon. 

Droplets cling to the ends of your hair, leaving a trail behind you on the carpet as you don fresh clothes. You try your best not to analyse each piece, shoving down any self-doubts and recalling Steve’s generous compliments littered through the past couple of months.

Tonight. It had to be tonight, you decided. Any longer and you’d lose the nerve, crawl back to avoidance because you’re not really sure you want to hear what you said to him in the garden.

You can only imagine it’s some confusing amalgamation of your complicated feelings — mixed with the amount of alcohol you had drunk? It was a stab in the dark trying to guess what you had said.

The plan you have is half-baked at best. The walk to Loch Nora isn’t far — but if your plan goes south, you’ll have plenty of time to wallow and clear your tears on the walk home. Thankfully, It’s still too early for dinner. You can smell the beginnings of it bubbling on the stove as you creep down the stairs.

As soundlessly as you can, you slip out the front door. Warm air greets you. The sunbeams trickle across the sky, dipping lower behind the horizon and painting soft blemishes of pink and orange across the sky.

The other perk of the walk is that you’ll have ample time to decide what you’ll say to Steve; you can deliberate each word, orchestrated so that it can be played down if need be. Minimal cringe and hurt feelings.

You’re running a few options over in your head when the rumble of a car cruising down your road draws your eyes. With a startle, you realise it’s a familiar maroon colour  — a car you’d been in just over a week ago.

You watch as Steve parks, evidently so entrapped in his own thoughts to notice you on the doorstep. He’s messing with his hair anxiously, eyes on the ground and when you look closer, his mouth is moving, an indication he’s talking out loud to himself.

He makes it halfway up the driveway before you stumble out to meet him.

“Steve?” You call out and his head shoots up, a little alarmed to see you. His steps falter, the pair of you met in the middle of your drive.

“Y/n. Hi.” For someone who had come to your house, he seems a bit affronted to be seeing you. Acutely, you realise that he’s nervous. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the road. “Were you— is this a bad time? I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“No!” You squeak. “No, I was just... coming to see you, actually.”

“Oh.” Steve blinks. He ducks his head for a moment, clearing his throat but you still spot the pink on his cheeks. “How’s your head? You’d had, uh, a lot to drink last night.”

There’s only a mild rush of embarrassment to your system, a sheepish grin playing at your lips. “Right. Last night- I’m sorry you had to, er, see that. Or rather, thank you for taking care of me.”

Steve smiles back. One hand reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous motion. You don’t mean to zero in on his large bicep, tan skin on display with his short sleeves but it’s impossible not to — Jesus Christ, it’s like he’s doing it on purpose.

You smile timidly, willing your cheeks to cool.

“Yeah, about that.” He starts, eyes shifting about nervously. He can’t pick a spot to focus, too nervous to look you in the eyes.

Steve’s been throwing around your words ever since you uttered them to him in the garden. And now I can’t stop thinking about you. Tone so sweet, so sincere, your brows drawn together like it hurt you to admit how much Steve had been on your mind.

His stomach had nearly turned itself inside out at your reveal, nerves flaming and relief coursing at the realisation that it was mutual. You’d been on Steve’s mind since even before you’d given him your softest smiles after bottle smashing, sugary grins over your milkshake, a genuineness you’d never shared with him before — and after? God, it had driven him mad.

But then you’d scampered out of the car like a spooked animal. Stopped coming by Family Video and cursedly, seemed to slip back into an old pattern of ignoring him.

Then, the garden.

God, if you hadn’t been drunk, and maybe if Steve wasn’t so surprised by the sweetness you showed him, he might’ve kissed you.

Holding your palm against his, you might as well have been grabbing his hopes and hoisting them out of the depths — that perhaps, your avoidance stemmed from something different this time round. 

Steve takes in your shy expression, bottom lip trapped in your teeth, and prays it’s all for the same reason he’s nervous and not instead, because you’re trying to awkwardly figure out how to tell him it was all the alcohol talking. 

“What you said…” He’s trying to be nice to his feelings, on the defence in case he’s so terribly wrong about this. About you. “Did— did you mean that?” 

The face you pull doesn’t instill him with confidence, his stomach plummeting at your hesitance. Fuck. He’d overshot, as usual, clinging too tightly to the threads of affection you’d shown him. 

“I…” You’re unsure where to begin. God, what did you say?

Steve thinks he can garner what reaction that is; it’s the exact opposite of what his heart had managed to convince him. You went back to avoiding him on purpose. He cuts you off hoping to save himself some awkward rejection, shaking his head and taking a step back. 

“Don’t worry. It was— you were drunk,” Embarrassment starts flooding in, a hot uncomfortable flush up his neck that makes Steve want to sink into the ground. “I shouldn’t have— it was weird of me to ask.” 

He’s rambling too fast to get a word in. You take a step forward as he takes another step back, worried that he’ll leave before you can even get a word in. Never mind that all plans for orchestrating the perfect thing to say are out the window — you have to say something. 

“I don’t know what I said!” You blurt, desperate to halt his retreat. It works; Steve stops, taken aback by your words. Oh God, what now? You debate where to start. 

“Seriously, I— Robin came over and was talking about how you’d called and— I-I remember some of last night but it’s a bit—”

“You don’t...” Steve interrupts, giving a confused shake of his head. The wind ruffles his hair, strands dancing over his forehead. “Remember any of it?”

Why does it feel like you’ve disappointed him? Despite your initial wish to not relive whatever you’d said in the garden, you’re suddenly dying to remember. Even now, you can feel yourself combing the hazy memories, hoping there’s a stone you’ve yet to turn. It’s fruitless.

“I remember embarrassing myself by puking in the bushes.” You grimace as you say it, heat rising in your face. You can feel your nerves fraying, heart pounding but none of it in a good way. “Look, Steve, does it matter what I said? I-“

“It does.” He says, voice suddenly lower. It rasps, more serious than before. “It matters if you meant it. Do you?”

He takes another step forward, close enough that you can smell his cologne again. The same comforting musky scent as when he pushed the safety glasses up your nose and tucked your hair behind your ears in the woods together, touch gentle and eyes kind.

“You said,” He breathes, his honey eyes hopeful. “You couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

Oh.

It seems to be a habit of yours; rewinding through your actions towards Steve in the past, heavy with regret. He’d still been sweet, checking on you out in the garden even though you’d left him in the dark for a week. After managing to make you forget the worst date ever.

Then you’d upchucked your feelings, so drunk you couldn’t remember it, and then your dinner too. You were a mess; Steve Harrington made you a lovely absolute mess. Fuck, you’d likely ruined whatever chance at something with him.

But then again, here he was.

Still showing up, enough hope to dredge together the courage to drive over and ask you what it meant. 

“I meant it.” You say, softly. You feel captured in his gaze, pulled into his orbit with no choice about it. He’s like the sun, gravity pulling you closer the longer you stand this close to him. Your heart feels like it’s made of jelly, each thump echoing out into your limbs. “I— fuck, you made it so hard to hate you. I used—”

“—Used to hate me.” Steve recites the words before you can say them, amusement in his voice. Some of his nervousness has leaked out, shoulders less tight. You can nearly see a glint of his Harrington charm in the curl of his lips. “Yeah, you said that last night too.”

It’s said to poke fun, teasing you for last night’s loose tongue. You groan, head tilting back. “God, anything else I said last night that I should know about?”

Steve steps closer. It makes your breath hitch, your head straightening up and bringing your faces closer still. You’re not sure where this is going, not sure what he’s thinking, if he can hear the thunder of your heart — he hasn’t even said anything that implies the feelings are mutual.

You vaguely wonder how he knew that your words held more weight than they appeared. He’d been paying more attention than you’d expected; knowing that I can’t stop thinking about you meant more than what was on the surface.

This time, you know him well enough to know that his teasing is not mocking. That the Steve in front of you is not at all like the one you’d remembered from the school hallways, the one who’d thrown around shitty comments, had notches in his belt, and didn’t care who got hurt as a result.

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he says, “I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

The world doesn’t stop spinning, but for a moment, it certainly feels that way. Blood rushes in your ears, blooms under your cheeks, and the words sink in. The wind sounds like the sweetest music, the colour spread across the sky is a shade that could only be called love and a boy is telling you he likes you too.

It faintly occurs that the silly teenage daydream you pictured with Bradley — you’re instead getting with a boy you swore you hated not two months ago.

It makes you like him even more.

He’s earned it, your trust, your affection — your kiss.

Wordlessly, you surge forward at the same time Steve does. You clash, gifting each other an awkward headbutt instead of some swooning kiss. Pain splinters momentarily across your forehead, gone after a moment.

You can’t help it, a laugh bursting from your lips. You’re so nervous. It doesn’t deter you, peering up at him with adoring eyes. Somehow, you still manage a tease. “Were you trying to kiss me, Harrington?”

His hands cup your face, fingers tucked under your jaw, and thumbs stroking your cheeks. His own smile barely contained, elation shining in his eyes.

“I will if you stop calling me that.”

He kisses you before you even get a chance to agree.

There’s bliss hidden in his lips, you think happily. Steve kisses soft, plush lips that mold to yours like its second nature, two pieces of the universe aligning.

You can feel the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his thumbs upon your face and you sigh, content, into the kiss because no one has ever kissed you like this.

He kisses you and suddenly, there is no war-torn battle in your mind. Your hands have twisted into the fabric on his shirt, tugging him closer. It’s unbearable. You want him, completely, embarrassingly, and undeniably. You’ll take anything he’ll give you — you want him to give you everything.

When the kiss breaks, it’s only for a moment; Steve presses another, short and gentle, then another, and another, like he can’t handle not stealing another taste of your lips.

“Steve,” you rasp, chuckling a bit. Your eyes are still closed, like you’re worried it’ll all be some dream if you dare to open them. His nose nudges yours, crushing closer to you, unwilling to relent the closeness he’s finally been granted.

“Let me take you out.” He whispers and it’s enough to open your eyes, lashes crinkling as you beam up at him. Steve drops a kiss on your cheek, thumbs stroking with a tender care that makes you shiver. “Please.”

As if you could say no. You give a minuscule nod but your delight is given away in your smile, eyes bright as you admire each detail of his face fondly. “Yeah, alright.”

It makes him laugh, amusement dancing across his features, and God, he looks so handsome you have to kiss him again.

You do, hands escaping the confines of his shirt and twisting around his neck. Steve hums happily, something you’ll come to learn he does whenever you kiss him first. It makes you gleeful, a shot of pure euphoria tipping down your spine. You shiver, wonderfully.

“Just promise me,” you say when you pull back, breathing a titch ragged. You grin. “Not a movie date.”

Steve grins, one hand leaving your face to curl around your waist. It’s warm, heat radiating into your skin.

“Still no faith in me, sweetheart?” He chides, fingers dancing along the skin of your waist, giving away his joy. The pet name makes your knees weak, a flash of a forgotten memory in the garden breaking through.

“Something tells me you’ll convince me.”

Fact #9: The first fact is a lie.

His next kiss feels like a promise; that he’ll do the work to convince you, just like he’d done the last few months. That he’d be more than happy to. You drink in affection from a boy who’s so sweet on you with a happy sigh.

He tastes like sunlight.

Fact #10: You might just be falling in love with Steve Harrington.

taggin sum mutuals below!

@hawkinsindiana @spideystevie @harringtonbf @writtenbybelle @hoesbloated @familyvideostevie @lurkymurker @sattlersquarry @steddiesandwich @circesstars @upsidedownwithsteve @raggedyoldwitch @sunshinehollandd @ohschmidts @appocalipse​

#this... was so scrummy to write #i can't believe i pumped out that many scenes #i think i started this wanting to prove that i could indeed write a fic past 5k #LO AND BEHOLD 16K LATER #good god i hope u love it #anyways i'm LITERALLY IN LOVE WITH HIM!!!! #steeb...come gimme kiss #i deserve to be called sweetheart by my babygirl bf <3 #ruby writes #ruby writes steve #steve harrington #steve #harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve x reader #steve harrington fic #steve fic #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #sending a sacrifice (my sleep while i wrote this) to the fic gods....

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

#tumblr polls #hrmm... a little poll perhaps.. about a subject I find interesting.. since this image came across my facebook today #still really not feeling that well. no longer shaking violently and such but I still feel weird and weak much more than usual #They did say my markers for like infection or inflammation were elevated but that they werent sure of the cause so hopefully #it's nothing too serious. they did also say a lot of different things can cause that thing to be higher than normal but didn't go into spec #fics of what. maybe some of them are relatively benign or something. I still havent felt much back to normal since #I got really sick that one time though. I feel fine on and off but then little bouts of feeling weird and sick happen. hrmmm #ANYWAY.. looking for small ways to be productive. such as little doodles on evil ipad or editing game videos #or posting polls or cat pictures or some other like not very labor intensive things #I WISH I COULD FOCUS on writing HHRGGhh... I need to finish my game.. it would be so freeing.. a project that's been looming #over my head for like 5 years even though througouht that 5yrs I've probably spent a total of 3 months working on it lo.. ANYWAY #I still partially really cannot beleive that people CAN see stuff in their heads. There's always part of me that's thinking like. well mayb #e everyone DOES see the same exact thing but we just describe/conceptualize it so differently that we think we're talking about #different things when we're really not. But I have been assured by people I've talked to about it that they can GENUINELY really see #stuff in their heads like as vivid as an actual picture in real life or something. And the other senses are neat too. Like for exmaple I #can hear in my head much better than I can see imagery. I still CANNOT hear vividly like as if I were listening to actual music out loud.. #but I think it's developed more than my sight. AND interesting how this varies the creative process. a friend I was talking to on the phone #said they write by literally just watching stuff play before them like a movie. where my process is COMPLETELY different. AND that affects #the content/what details we focus on as well as our individual styles of writing have differences that can be traced back to that.. hrmm

[cod-dump]

Has teen Gaz or Price ever walked in on Teen Simon and Teen Soap making out or just kissing when they finally get together?

Holding Your Hand (teen!Ghost au)

———

Three months. It had been three months since Johnny confessed to Simon and Simon stuttered out returning affections. The mall parking lot wasn’t the ideal place for such a thing, but Johnny couldn’t hold it back anymore.

They were together, but no one has exactly been able to actually notice. They were so nervous, barely able to hold hands. Sitting close enough that their shoulders touched was as much as either could manage. It was cute but also sad. Kyle expected more from them, at least more eagerness to hold hands.

Alejandro was there when they confessed. He was in his car, waiting for Simon to get in when it happened. His father’s stolen cigarette fell from his lips in shock before he called Rudy. Simon had to deal with Alejandro for those three months. His near insufferable best friend who wanted to know every detail that has happened between him and Johnny.

“You two are driving me crazy! You think Val and I waited that long to-“

“I’m not a whore like you!”

Alejandro cackled before he pressed his body against Simon’s side, “Si! C’mon, man! You’re Los Vaqueros! Not a little, shy church boy!”

Simon refused to look at him, muttering, “I think I would burst into flames if I stepped foot into a church…”

“Exactly! Show your new man how much you’ve been wanting him! Get it on!”

Simon snorts as Alejandro shimmies a weird dance. One of the Los Vaqueros, Peter, ran up and said something about Rudy before running back off. Alejandro smacks Simon’s shoulder before running after him.

“Rudy’s here!”

Simon watches Alejandro dart out of the garage, mind immediately going back to Johnny as soon as his friend disappeared from sight. He hung out with his friends before heading back home. If it got too dark Nik would probably come grab him and take him home and his friends had just finally stopped teasing him about last time it happened.

When he made it back home, he chose to go through the kitchen side door rather than the front. Kyle liked hanging in the living room around this time and Simon wasn’t prepared with the possibility of coming in and seeing Johnny. Seeing him without a warning, a heads up, might be a bit much. He felt like since the confession he’s been drowning, confused. He hasn’t had a romantic relationship before. Hell, his only genuine friend was Alejandro. The Los Vaqueros were his friends, they were inclined to be friendly with him.

Nik was in the kitchen, drinking coffee like the madman he was, focused on his phone. He didn’t even look when the door opened, just took a calm sip of his coffee before he sighed.

“Kyle’s friend is here.”

Simon tensed and Nik just looked at him with an all-knowing look. Wordlessly, he points at the chair next to him, and Simon sat without a comment. He couldn’t help but glance towards the hall, knowing Johnny was in the house, probably expecting to see him at some point.

“You don’t look like the kid that had his affections returned by the boy of his dreams.”

Simon jerks and turns to Nik, “What does that mean!?”

“It means you look lost. Kind of scared.”

Simon blinks, eyes drifting away from Nik as he thought about what he said, “Scared?”

“I know English well enough to know that is the correct word, no?”

“Debatable.”

Nik glares with an amused smirk as Simon snickers. He takes another swig of his coffee before he puts the mug aside and leans over the table. Simon tries to avoid looking at him, sensing a conversation waiting that he didn’t want to have.

“Si.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re not? This is new territory for you. You sure you’re not a little bit scared?”

“I feel like this is something Dad should be talking to me about.”

Nik grins, “Oh, your father and his emotions are as in sync as a cat and dog. Sometimes they understand each other but they mostly coexist.”

Simon groans and lays his head on the cool table. He hated it when Nik was right, which was surprisingly often. The man was smart, crazy but smart. He was more capable of talking about this than his father. Simon sits up, taking a breath before he looks at Nik.

“I feel like I’m not doing things right.”

“Oh? Talk about it, tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“Everyone is just… they seem to know what to do. You get with your crush, you take them on dates, hold their hand, kiss them— I’m not doing any of that! I feel like things are the same, like he didn’t confess to me! Like we’re still dancing around each other!”

Nik hums, thinking as Simon breathes for a moment before continuing, “Ale and Peter and June— All the Los Vaqueros keep asking if I’ve kissed him yet. What dates we’ve gone on, if we-… If we’ve done anything… God, I can barely hold his hand and I’m supposed to do all these other things!”

“Kid, you need to breathe and relax. There is nothing wrong with taking your time with him, going your own pace. Everyone has their own speed.”

“What if Johnny’s speed is different than mine?”

“Well, then you’ll have to talk to him and figure that out. No one can read minds.”

Simon blinks before nodding, Nik reaching over and rubbing his shoulder, “Talk to him, be honest. Things will work out.”

“Thanks, Nik.”

“Of course. Now, go on. Tell Kyle to come in here, I need to talk to him about something.

Simon nods and gets up, grabbing his bag and walking into the hallway. He stopped by the stairs to compose himself, feeling nervous. He takes a deep breath in before straightening his back and letting it out. Then he continued on, refusing to falter when he heard Kyle and Johnny talking. He threw his bag by the threshold to the living room, even though his father told him to stop that since he left a hole in the wall, before walking in. Simon stops when he sees Kyle stretched on the floor, rambling as Johnny laid across the couch listening. They both turned and looked at him and Simon almost lost his confidence.

“Hey, Mr. Warrior Cat,” that earned him a glare, “Nik wants to talk.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, “Ugh, fine. If I’m not back in five minutes-“

“We’ll mourn.”

Kyle glares, Johnny laughing. Simon tried focusing on Kyle as long as possible before he eventually turned his attention to Johnny.

Why is he so handsome? God-

“Hey,” Johnny said softly, sitting up on the couch.

Simon couldn’t help but stare, his hair was getting long. The scruff on his face was showing signs of a promising beard in the future. Oh, his smile-

“Hey, just gonna stand there and stare?”

Simon flushes, clearing his throat before he walks over and sits down next to Johnny. His skin lit up when he felt Johnny’s knee brush his. The warmth pierced through his jeans, seeping into his skin in a pleasant manner. Johnny seemed to be a warm person, both metaphorically and literally.

“Kyle said you were hanging out with… what was it again?”

“Los Vaqueros. Cowboys.”

Johnny looks like he wants to laugh but chooses to just grin. God, he was bright like the sun.

“It was Ale’s idea. He loves old westerns and the Wild West and all that.”

“Right! I figured. Cowboys aren’t really your thing.”

Simon flushes. He was so pathetic. Unable to even look at Johnny without getting flustered, unable to hold his hand without feeling like he’s going to catch fire. Simon takes another breath, calming himself before he looks at Johnny, almost losing it when their eyes met.

“I think we need to talk.”

“You think?”

“I- We do! We… I need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Johnny hums and turns his body to face him, “Right.”

“I-I don’t want to seem like I’m delaying or holding back… Fuck,” Simon turns, now mirroring Johnny, “I can barely hold your hand. I know you were expecting something else.”

Johnny frowns, “What do you mean by that? Expecting something else? I’m expecting you.”

Simon feels his face grow redder and Johnny leans forward, “It’s cute. The-the shy thing. I don’t want to rush you into doing anything you don’t feel ready for!”

Johnny rubs his hands together, face flushing as he avoids looking at Simon, “I don’t have experience in relationships… Unless you count my sister’s because she’s dating a new guy every week! Which I won’t do- I haven’t done! Of course not! I just said I don’t have much experience! Oh you fucking idiot…”

Johnny turns away in a attempt to hide his red face. Simon felt his nervousness melt away as Johnny displays his own. It was comforting knowing he wasn’t the only one nervous about this. Not the only one worried they weren’t doing something right. Johnny continued talking, trying to fix each thing he had just said. Simon puts a hand on Johnny’s face and turns him so he’s looking at him.

He wasn’t sure what came over him but it felt right. It was a peck, nothing steamy. Simon felt Johnny’s warm lips, felt him melt against him and grab his shirt. It felt right. When they pulled apart, both flushed and speechless, Simon finally felt like he was on track, the flutter in his chest only confirming such.

Then he realized there was someone standing in the hall.

Simon slowly turned and saw his father staring at them. He had a mug in his hand and his phone in the other. It looked like he was talking with someone when he came by. Johnny stood up quickly when he saw the man, stammering away.

“Mr. Price! I- uh- was just leaving! Gotta go… go help Gran with dinner! Gotta walk the dog!”

Simon’s father blinked, “I thought you didn’t have a dog?”

Johnny had already shoved his shoes on and was by the door with his bag, “It’s a- uh- metaphor! Scottish!”

Johnny was out the door in a second, Simon could see him running across the street to his house at lightning speed. Simon blinked as his dad walked over to the door and shut it, Johnny having left so fast he didn’t even check to see if he closed it. John was too quiet, seemingly processing everything in silence.

“So… birds ‘n the bees-“

“Dad- No! Oh my god! You already put me through that!”

“That was the censored version! This is the full, educational version!”

“DAD!”

The yelling would attract Kyle and Nik to the living room. Simon blocked it all out, face on fire as he thought about Johnny. And his chest only fluttered in response, even with the embarrassment of it all.

#ghost is los vaqueros #valeria and ale used to date before him and rudy #teen!ghost au #call of duty #cod mwii #modern warfare ii #simon ghost riley #cod nikolai #alejandro vargas #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john price #soapghost #ghostsoap #drabble #fic #ficlet #ask #thanks for the ask <3

[icarustypicalfall]

December

Alejandro Vargas x reader

masterpost • Ao3

Summary: And only when you feel like there is nothing left, you'll find me waiting for you, I'll make it feel like home.

Or

Where Alejandro comes home, because home is you.

Warnings: SFW, bath scene, sweet fluff <3

Note: I die for the unsexual ways of showing intimacy. I tried a new style, not really sure of it, but i just love this trope; where A washes B's hair and takes care of them in a non sexual way, and they are both comfortable and happy :( <3

“Be still my foolish heart

Don't ruin this on me”

The journey from the base to home was long, uncomfortable, and, above all, tiring. Alejandro shifted, letting out a deep sigh as he rubbed his eyes, careful not to touch the still numb cut on his forehead.

The medics had urged him to get his wounds stitched up, or at the very least, checked. But he dismissed it as pointless, with only one thing on his mind: coming home to you.

As soon as the debriefing ended, he hopped into the nearest car, beckoning Rudy and some other vaqueros to join him. A younger member, barely awake, asked, "Where are we going, colonel?" Alejandro gazed at the purple sky with a knowing smile and replied, "Home."

Home.

Alejandro was the colonel, but that didn't mean he didn't care. If anything, he was the exact opposite. He checked on every member, praising some and ordering others to go straight to their family houses to rest. Los Vaqueros were his family, he celebrated their joy and grieved their sorrow as his own.

Even in his most exhausted moments, Alejandro never forgot about his long-time friend and second in command, Rudy. He made sure Rudy reached his family, sain et sauf after every mission, as he had done for the past twenty years.

Alejandro sighed, stopping at the side of the road to check his phone after the last vaquero had left. The background was a selfie of you and him, licking ice cream under the moonlit sky.

You never understood why he liked this picture so deerly, he's been gazing at it for the last two years, whenever he was away from you. As if your sweet smile comforted him and buried his dark thoughts somewhere only you knew.

If anything, it was a sweet picture, tongues out, wide grins, your hair sticking to your foreheads, a proof of the swimming session you two had beforehand.

He remembered it perfectly—the day you got married. Instead of going home, he insisted on going to the beach to have your own celebration. It was surprisingly warm and deserted. Time didn't matter to you—three in the morning. You danced, swirled, and swam in the dark water with your dress on.

To hell with makeup and his suit.

All you wanted was a laugh and a kiss under the moonlit sky. And you never found it lacking, not once, after meeting him.

You were both madly in love. Two fools swimming in an ocean of sanity and adoration. You completed each other. You longed for each other.

Alejandro reached home after the long journey. His muddy boots left traces on the doorstep as he fumbled for his keys, trying to be discreet. It was almost midnight, and he didn't want to wake you—or any of the neighbors.

Before the key even grazed the hole, the door slowly unlocked.

You gazed at Alejandro with a calm smile on your face and uttered, "Welcome home, colonel."

You were silent, still. Gazing at the astonished man. You promised, never quitting this habit of waiting for him.

He complained, nonsense about how you should rest and let him surprise you and bla-bla-bla.

You didn't give in his pleas, not even once.

You were always waiting at the doorstep, every ounce in your body craved a glimpse of your beloved husband.

Alejandro grinned, stepping inside and letting his bag fall to his side. His arms found their way to your sides, sweeping you off your feet and crashing you into his chest as he murmured, feeling a sense of peace wash over him, “Mi mondo… mi todo...”

The embrace was a burning fire, melting both of you into one. Alejandro closed the door with a kick of his heel, slowly stepping into the warm flat.

You cupped his cheek, running your thumb over the cut on his temple. He winced slightly, his eyes shutting before he uttered, "It's nothing...mi amor."

You shook your head, knowing his stubbornness was just a cover to hide his pain. Not because he was afraid of being vulnerable to you, he simply didn't want you to worry. He wished for you to live your ultimest youth, without a single cloud of onus to disturb your shining sun and skies.

You were a Phoenix to him, healing every scar and cut with your gentle touch and soft whispers.

"Come with me."

You guided him upstairs to the bathroom.

The room was hot, steamy with fog clouds floating around you. The black marbelic walls were covered with small beads of water vapor, slowly racing down to the ground.

Alejandro leaned against the door, resting his against the hard material with a long and tired sigh.

You checked the water temperature, motioning for him to climb in the tub. He steeped closer, gazing at the surface of the colorless liquid. His face emerged, and he couldn't help but chuckle. He cupped your cheeks, smiling wearily. "Mi amor, you didn't have to..."

"I wanted to..."

You ran him a warm bath, filled with devotion to the brim.

Just the way he liked it, with oils and conditioner that he enjoyed smelling on you. Alejandro adored every detail about you. Somehow, you had captured his mind and soul within your hands. Your little gestures only served to deepen his affection.

You helped him take off his dirty, blood-soaked clothes—thankfully not his own. The military uniform fell to the floor, followed by his torn shirt. He sighed deeply, shivering slightly as your hands trailed over his scarred skin, the cold sensation leaving goosebumps in its wake.

He remembered when he brought you to the beach, embarrassed about his battle scars, thinking you'd be disgusted by the cuts on his skin. But instead, you cradled his flesh with merciful tenderness, Washing away his worries through kisses scattered on his back. He held back his tears, letting you heal his skin and carve a lasting memory in his mind.

Back to reality, Alejandro smiled at you, his eyebrows furrowing in question at your grinning face. He was wearing cat-printed shorts, and you couldn't help but laugh as he blushed slightly.

There was no tension, no other thoughts, not at this moment at the very least. This precious moment was too good, too perfect to be tainted and corrupted by any sin, even if it wasn't a wrongdoing anyway. He saw it no other way, and neither did you. You helped him wash away the weariness of duty, making him feel at home. Could he ask for more?

Alejandro slowly submerged himself under the water, his head lazily resting on the edge of the tub. He gazed at you, silently observing your every movement. He missed this, missed you deeply. No words could express how desperately he longed for your presence.

You held the shampoo bottle, scooping some product into your hands before lathering it into his now wet hair. He shivered, letting out a contented sigh. You massaged his shoulders, washing away the aches of war and leaving nothing but love that cascaded down his shoulders like honey.

Silence filled the house, the only sounds audible were the hushed breaths he took and the occasional dripping of water from the sink. Finally, wrapped in a large towel and smelling of fresh grass and vanilla, Alejandro sat on the edge of the tub as you searched for band-aids in the small box. He chuckled wearily as you placed a green plaster on his temple.

Standing between his legs, you cupped his face, examining his very being before whispering silently, "I love you, thank you for coming back."

Taken aback, he kissed you, your lips intertwining in a gentle embrace of madness before he uttered, "Thank you for waiting, mi todo."

It was around 2 am, as you lay in bed. The scent of warm chumpurados filled the room, igniting in his soul and heart a longing for home. But, would he complain? He was indeed at home, for his heart and mind resided with you.

Alejandro placed his mug on the nightstand before resting his head on your thigh. You ran your fingers through his dark locks, gently caressing his hair.

Alejandro leaned in, murmuring nonsensical words against your limb. His gratitude was beyond imagination. Without you, he would be lost, despondent. He found his missing piece with you, you little thief, stealing his heart and claiming it as your own. He didn't mind in the slightest, willing to sacrifice his very essence for your sake.

Silently, you asked, "Is something on your mind, mi amor?"

He whispered instantly, his fingers intertwining with your form in a tenderness that would make the clouds shy away. "You... mi cielo."

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you broke the silence once more. "I know, mi amor. I meant, is there anything bothering you?"

"No. Nothing at all.. when I am with you, I am so much happier…”

#𓆩♡𓆪 faith writes #cod x reader #cod fic #fanfic #alejandro cod #alejandro mw2 #alejandro vargas x reader #alejandro x reader #alejandro vargas #alejandro vargas x female reader #call of duty #los vaqueros #writblr #cod fanfic #cod mw22 #call of duty mwii #alejandro vargas x you #alejandro call of duty #Alejandro fluff

[blankerthought]

something about how much of the danny phantom fandom is based on fanon and how we all build up on one another and tell the stories over and over with different details until it's the same people and story but intrinsically different and you can clearly trace how those small details changed one another and also about how fanfiction is just folk stories isn't it

#dp #danny phantom #phandom #lo's stuff #thoughts and things #it's just. reading fic and knowing what it's been impacted by. the ripples.

[bad268]

Hi I love your work can you write about justin and a reporter ask a question about you( your relationship is unknown) and he’s loses his temper a lil but Is also trying not to disclose anything.

Private, But Not Secret (Justin Herbert X Reporter! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/NFL

Requested: Clearly (I love him so much)

Warnings: mentions of when Justin broke his leg in college

Pronouns: Third person (They/them)

W.C. 1031

Summary: A reporter takes a question too far, so Justin takes evasive action.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

It all started when they met in college, the University of Oregon. Y/n, a sports journalism major, and Justin, a science major on the football team. A match made in heaven, one would say. Their classes did not overlap a lot, but Y/n was assigned to cover the football team. It was only natural for the two to spark something. 

They began hanging out outside of the games and practices during the summer of their junior year and became official at the end of the football season. The two decided to keep it between themselves because the last thing they needed was people making comments about the quarterback and a journalist being together.

Fast forward a few years, Justin is doing well with the LA Chargers and Y/n has established themself with CBS. Y/n was the lead journalist when it came to the LA Chargers, and they were always reporting on Sundays. Their relationship remained strong, and no one other than their respective families and closest friends knew of the two.

Even though they were on the down low, everyone could see that Justin had a soft spot for Y/n in conferences. No matter the outcome of the game, Justin would smile and give very detailed responses. Heck, he would even banter back and forth with them!

One game in particular, Y/n could not attend. Y/n was visiting family, so they asked one of their newer reporters to fill their space. The game was pretty good for the LA Chargers and Justin with him throwing three touchdowns and running one in himself. Despite being at their parents’ house, Y/n turned on the post-game conference just as Justin came on the stage. All of the journalists were congratulating Justin and asking game-related questions until it got to one reporter. 

“Perla with CBS,” she started, Y/n immediately recognized the voice as their coworker who filled in for them. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my colleague, Y/n, is not here today.”

“No, I noticed,” Justin chuckled. “They’re at every game and every press conference, so it’s nice to see them taking a break.”

“Many people, myself included, have noticed that you two seem to have a stronger bond than just reporter and player,” Perla scoffed. Immediately, Y/n could sense where the question was going, and so could Justin. “Is there anything happening behind the scenes between you two?”

“That has nothing to do with the game, and frankly, it’s none of your business,” Justin answered monotonously.

“I mean, it’s obvious to everyone that Y/n doesn’t have the proper experience to have this job, so it’s clear that they’re doing some ‘behind the scenes’ favors,” Perla continued, completely disregarding Justin’s first answer and obvious distaste for the question.

“First off, don’t ever talk down on someone like Y/n who is higher up than you,” Justin started off, glaring at Perla through the crowd. “Second, if we were in a relationship, how would I have any say in their job? I have no personal connection to CBS, and I just don’t have that power. Lastly, if you’re going to keep talking shit, you can leave, and we’ll make sure that CBS knows how you aren’t actually working within your role. I don’t think your boss would appreciate that his sports reporter is poking her nose around in topics that don’t deal with sports, right?”

“Are you threatening me?” Perla gasped, surrounding reporters were eating it up. Justin was known for being quiet and reserved, so seeing him lash back was a one in a million shot. 

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” Justin replied. “Slander against Y/n will not be tolerated, especially when I know that they specifically chose you for this gig because they believed in you.”

After the conference, Justin called Y/n on his way home.

“Thank you for standing up for me, J,” Y/n greeted almost immediately after answering the phone. “People need to learn to stay in their own lane.”

“I’ll always defend you,” Justin laughed. “We do need to talk to your boss about that, though. That was unacceptable.”

“I really thought Perla was just misunderstood,” Y/n replied sadly. “Turns out she’s just out for drama.”

“If people are going to keep asking about it,” Justin started, “how would you feel about us announcing us? We could be private but not secret, and I’ll make sure to add that we’ve been together since junior year.”

“If I get to help choose the pictures and the caption, I think it would be best,” Y/n admitted. “Plus, you kind of already outed us during the conference when you said ‘we’ will make sure that CBS knows.”

“For fucks sake,” Justin chuckled in disbelief. “I tried so hard to keep it hidden.”

“Well, now we don’t need to,” Y/n comforted. “Remember, private but not secret from now on.”

The next game day came faster than either were prepared for. Both shared two pictures to their Instagrams with the caption, “Five years and counting.” One of them was taken during the off-season, and the other was of the two sitting on the couch with Justin’s broken leg and Y/n dressed up as a nurse from junior year. The posts gained a lot of traction, but it was now in the open. Neither wanted to change that.

After the game and another win for the LA Chargers, there was, of course, another conference. This time, Y/n was back in their place.

“Y/n with CBS,” they smiled as Justin looked their way. “First off, congratulations on announcing your relationship. You two look very happy together.”

“Thanks,” Justin laughed at the brief teasing. "We've been through a lot together. Couldn't see myself without them, honestly."

“That's cute, but I would rather talk about that last play though,” Y/n quickly got on topic. “A 69-yard throw to Keenan Allen for the game-winning touchdown. With this win, you helped secure your place at the top of your division and a place in the playoff. Tell me, does your arm hurt with these long throws?”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

#justin herbert x reader #justin herbert #justin herbert imagine #justin herbert fanfic #la chargers #los angeles chargers #nfl #national football league #nfl football #nfl imagine #nfl fan fic #bad268 #ship268 #thing268

[gatzbright]

dream & george; falling in love

Dream: 'Have either of you talked about liking each other in the past?' George: *Scoffs* Dream: ... Well— George: *Giggles* Dream: Well, none of the answers fit. But I'd say, like, we've talked about 'whether' ... George: The weather? Dream: Yeah.

Dream: The realisation that, once again, I met someone that's not going to be my friend, but something more. They were never meant to be my friend in the first place. I can't avoid it. If I'm going to fall in love, I'm going to fall in love. So this song is a cry to please be gentle, please don't make me even more paranoid.

Dream: I want that part of my life to be private, you know? Regardless of who that person is ... Once the cameras are off, once we're not doing anything, it's our time. It's me and you. There's no one else. No one else exists in the world, regardless of the fact that there's thirty-million people that are looming over.

Dream: Because I'm famous and because I have all this attention on me—when I'm in my normal life it's like, I want to put the people in my life in the spotlight and make sure they feel that way. But then there's lyrics like 'the celebrity in my bed' and 'close the curtains now you're all mine' ... It's about, you know, that special someone in your life, and how in my mind, because I feel so special, I want them to feel that same specialness. So, yeah, it's about relationships and how I want that person to feel special like I do.

dream @/dreamwastaken: .@/GeorgeNotFound you've had such a big impact on my life I don't even know where to start. helping me code my videos sometimes, helping with random ideas within videos, encouraging me and always being the light in the room to make things even just a little bit brighter. you took a chance on me out of university, making thumbnails and coding for scraps because we wanted to make it big and I’m proud to say that we did it and I’ll have an appreciation for you for the rest of my life because of your friendship, kindness, and love you’ve shown me. love you man. idc if you’re never serious or if we joke around a lot, you have a place in my heart and I’m looking forward to finally meeting you and taking our next step in content creation and friendship. LOVE U

Dream: 'Spotlight' is a song I wrote about making that special someone in my life feel as special as they truly are ... I want to be there to support them through the ups and downs, and make them feel like they have a million fans screaming cheering them on, even if it's just my voice echoing a million times. They are the most important person in the world and the only one in that spotlight of love and admiration, and I want them to know that.

a lot of my future is your future

Head Over Heels / Broken, Tears for Fears | Dream and George retake 'Am I In Love With My Bestfriend' Quiz, DNF Discord Podcast | Head Over Heels / Broken, Tears for Fears | Dream Team House Cooking Stream, Awesamdude VOD | The Diaries of Franz Kafka, Franz Kafka | Paranoid, Dream | to whoever wants to hear – lyric booklet, Dream | Franz Kafka Letter, Franz Kafka | Red Doc>, Anne Carson | Photograph of Dream and George during the Foodbeast's Panel at Twitchcon San Diego, @/itsjusttai_ | Dream Team Christmas – Baking Cookies, Sapnap VOD | Paranoid, Dream | Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince, Taylor Swift | Dream's Snapchats of George, @/dream | Paris, Taylor Swift | Dream breaks down his new EP track by track, Associated Press | long story short, Taylor Swift | Dream and George on set: Everest – Dream & Yung Gravy BEHIND THE SCENES, Dream Music | Dream breaks down his new EP track by track, Associated Press | Spotlight, Dream | Technoblade Charity Stream George's POV, GeorgeNotFound VOD | Dream and George during Foodbeast's Kitchen League Battle Royale at Twitchcon San Diego, Twitch VOD | October Passed Me By, girl in red | Waiting for a Star to Fall, Boy Meets Girl | Dream Team Christmas – Gingerbread Houses, GeorgeNotFound VOD | dream Tweet, @/dreamwastaken | Dream Team Christmas – Baking Cookies, Sapnap VOD | "George napping and the sun is literally beaming him square in the face" – Photograph and Tweet, @/dreamwastaken | Paranoid, Dream | Dream and George on set: Everest – Dream & Yung Gravy BEHIND THE SCENES, Dream Music | to whoever wants to hear – lyric booklet, Dream | Dream Team House Cooking Stream, Awesamdude VOD | SOMEONE MADE A DISSTRACK ABOUT ME???, GeorgeNotFound VOD | Paranoid, Dream |

#whew !!!!! WHO ELSE IS FEELING CRAZY #memememmeememem #constant state of delirium and just utter hysteria like. dream wrote love songs about his george his boy his soulmate his best friendhis lo #both of whom we've been shipping n writing n reading fics n creating fanart for YEARS bc we could see it and. now its kinda beenhardlaunche #romance is not dead if u keep it just yours !!!!!!!!!!!!! #IM SO HAPPY FOR MY BABIES MY DNFIES ohmygod likeisferejrghrgeuoegrh #this took hours btw its now 9am and i had 1hour sleep ijust. don't know anymore this is dnfs fault #poured my blood sweat n tears into this load of crazy TRUTH. time to write dnf fic now o7 #compilations #web weaving #dnf #my dnfies #dreamnotfound #dreamie #georgie #love #timeless #tin can #my webs

[hungerpunch]

yukierre + “fuck! you scared me! why are you sitting in the dark??”

"fuck!" yuki yelps when he hits the lights inside his hotel door and sees someone sitting in the courtesy armchair opposite the bed. they've dragged it to face the window instead but yuki knows the back of that head all the same.

the fear tempers into relief in an instant but his heart is still racing as he moves further into the room, soft-close door dragging shut behind him and automatically locking. "you scared me," he says as he goes, the gushing sigh of his voice like pressure releasing from a steam tank.

the relief curdles into wary confusion as the details start coming into focus: pierre is in his room, in the dark, gazing at the astronomical twilight enfolding the landscape of budapest below. he notices both an uncorked bottle of red wine and a goblet, empty but stained, on the floor beside the chair and curses internally at the portent pair. red wine makes pierre maudlin, is the thing.

"why are you sitting in the dark?" yuki asks instead of asking how did you get in my room? or why are you drinking alone? or is it charles or esteban this time?

"well, i'm not anymore," pierre says. yuki recognizes his attempt at his signature casual drawl but it wavers, watery, and yuki's heart seizes in his chest. he hates when pierre cries. not that pierre shouldn't be allowed to, it’s more that yuki never knows how to fix it.

"why were you, then?" yuki amends. he kicks off his shoes and slides quietly on socked feet to draw even with the arm of the chair; looks down at pierre. all he can really see is the top of pierre's head, the point of his nose and his chin, and his hands folded in his lap.

"yukino," pierre says quietly. then he tilts his head back, bringing his face into view. it's devastating. his eyes are shining, welled up glossy with tears, and his mouth is a dark pit—an awful case of wine lips.

"pierre?" yuki whispers. he doesn't know why. the moment just feels so delicate; fragile enough to shatter under the weight of normal conversational volume.

"i miss you," pierre says sadly, his drunken gaze boring straight into yuki's.

yuki has seen pierre cry over charles. he has seen pierre cry over esteban. but he's never seen pierre cry over him.

"but your car is performing much better—" yuki starts around the dreadful lump forming in his throat.

pierre shakes his head. "did you turn into a car when i wasn't looking?" he asks, syllables slurring together a bit. "i miss you."

"i'm right here," yuki breathes. "i'm in the paddock with you every weekend." he tries a smile first and then he tries to puncture the awful tension with a joke: "i didn't know you were so needy."

all the beautiful, horrible openness of pierre's face slams shut in a moment. he frowns, mouth tight, and looks away from yuki, back out into the city. "forget it," he says. "i shouldn't have said anything."

"no, no," yuki rushes to backtrack, wincing at his poor judgment call. he moves his hand to clutch over the junction of pierre's trap, that damned curve from his shoulder to his neck, and squeeze it. he can feel pierre's body heat bleeding through the cotton of his shirt. "i'm sorry, i was joking. but i am right here, pierre. i haven't gone anywhere."

pierre keeps staring out the window. "i know," he says miserably, "but it's not like it was before."

yuki swallows. "it couldn't be," he says quietly. he pets pierre's shoulder in what he hopes is a soothing manner. "we knew it wouldn't be. you have a new teammate now."

pierre brings one hand up, digs a knuckle into the hollow of his eye. "i know, but he's… he's not…"

"easy like me?" yuki offers, a little sad about it.

that gets pierre to look at yuki again. sharp. indignant. "you were not easy," he spits. "but he is not natural like you." he reaches up to tug at yuki's sleeve. "we did not feel like... co-workers." his lips tremble. his nostrils flare. he's staring at yuki like he is searching for answers, answers to questions yuki could never guess. "to me."

yuki's hand stills on pierre, palm splaying over honed muscle, each fingertip a pinprick. "to me, either," he says. pierre should know that. they'd talked so often about how genuine their friendship was.

pierre blinks his stupidly long lashes and a fat tear finally breaks free from the queue in his eye and rolls, slow and gleaming, down pierre's cheek. "what did we feel like, then? to you?"

yuki bends to gather one of pierre's hands in his before he speaks.

#MY GOD IN HEAVEN CAN I JUST DO A SHORT ONE OF THESE ACK #yuki tsunoda #pierre gasly #yukierre #milflewis #f1 #ask #fill #lo fic

[shadowtriovibes]

take my hand

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x f!MC

Word Count: 3.8k

Rating: E

Warnings: 18+, aged-up characters, explicit sexual content, references to consensual sex between minors, loss of virginity, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex

Summary: Ominis lets you know he’s ready to go all the way with you, and you quickly realize he likes being told what to do (a.k.a. my “sub-inis” response fic to #dominis)

"That should work, right?" you murmur, stepping closer to him so you can unsubtly press your chest against his and drape your arms around his shoulders. "I know you’re clever, Ominis. I can tell you how to touch me, and you’ll do it?" "Yes," he breathes, quickly stealing a kiss and letting his hands shift all the way down to the curves of your ass. He’ll have to learn by touch, you think. Or maybe even by taste. You have absolutely no problem with that.

Ominis Gaunt is simply going to drive you mad.

For several happy, lovely months you've called the young man your classmates jokingly referred to as “Slytherin’s most eligible bachelor” your love. You’ve kissed his plush lips, memorized the sharp lines of his cheekbones with the tips of your fingers, and even draped your legs across his lap while you curled up together in a secluded corner of the Slytherin common room to study.

…Actually study, of course. Because, unfortunately, he’s kind of a tease.

In fact, the real reason he’d garnered his cheeky nickname? Not one of the girls in your year had gotten anywhere near Ominis’ bed, which, by your seventh year at Hogwarts, was admittedly uncommon.

Even when you started bringing him to the Room of Requirement for some additional privacy, hoping to tempt him into some of those intimacies you know he’s never experienced with anyone else, he’s been a perfect gentleman.

Sure, by now you’ve spent many wonderful nights tangled in the sheets with him, kissing him breathless and letting your hands roam as far as you can get away with. But Ominis wants to “take things slowly,” and you respect that.

(You’re slowly going feral over it, but you respect it.)

He takes you completely by surprise one evening when he tells you that he’s finally ready to go further with you. However, when you sit on the edge of your bed with him and ask him to clarify what that means, he balks.

“Whatever you’d like to do,” he insists, noncommittal. “I’m ready.”

“Ominis,” you say gently. “I do think we should talk about this, so we can both be comfortable.”

He bristles. “‘Both?’ You mean me.”

You bite your lip. It’s true that you are significantly more experienced than Ominis, though it’s not something you’ve talked about in great detail with him. You know that you’re his first everything, that he’d abstained from any sort of physical relationship with anyone thus far because he genuinely wanted to be in love with his partner.

You, however, had pretty much done the opposite after the residual trauma of your fifth year left you with a mindset of “you only live once.” You became more and more selective after you eventually realized that, while occasionally fun, meaningless sex didn’t make you feel better about what had happened. The only thing that did was talking about it with Ominis, which is one of several reasons you fell hopelessly in love with him.

“I mean us both,” you insist. “Just because I’ve had sex before doesn’t mean I want to rush into anything either. This is important. You are important, love.”

He softens a bit when you lace your fingers with his, tugging his hand into your lap.

“I just… I don’t know how to talk about this,” he forces out. “And not because I’m posh or repressed or anything like that, but simply because I fear I don’t know what I need to know.”

“What you need to know?” you ask curiously.

“Truthfully, most of what I’ve ever heard about sex is from the other seventh-years,” Ominis admits. “It’s not like I could have those kinds of conversations with my parents, what with the way they are. I suppose if there’s anyone I could have asked, it would be Sebastian.”

You wince a little and Ominis laughs softly, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t worry, I’m not intimidated by the two of you,” he murmurs.

You and Sebastian had been “friends with benefits” (as he’d delightedly called it) toward the end of your sixth year, and thank Merlin you’d been able to maintain your friendship after it had ended.

You wouldn’t dare assume just how much Ominis knows about that fiasco, but the real reason it ended was that the two of you were simply too alike in bed – both far too dominant. Every time you came together, it felt like a duel, which was quite fun at first but quickly became exhausting and left neither of you truly satisfied.

“Well, I suppose you could talk with Sebastian,” you agree. “He’s not, er – he’s knowledgeable enough.”

This time Ominis winces, and you pat his hand apologetically.

“You could also just ask me, you know,” you tell him. “We can talk about these things. What we like, what we don’t like, what we want to do together.”

Ominis shifts closer and presses his shoulder against yours, resting his head against the top of yours. “I know. I suppose it’s just… challenging to feel so ignorant.”

“Love,” you sigh. “You aren’t.”

“I am,” he insists ruefully. “But we can… try new things together, right?”

“Of course,” you tell him, dropping his hand so you can stand between his legs and cradle his chin in your hands to pull him in for a kiss. “As long as you’re sure you’re ready.”

“Very ready,” he murmurs, resting his hands on your waist and dragging them down to your hips, more adventurous than he usually allows himself to be.

“Besides, it’s not as if you know nothing,” you tease him. “I’m sure you know how to make yourself feel good, right?”

Ominis goes red and doesn’t offer an answer, but you don’t need one to know that you’re correct.

“I can show you how I make myself feel good.”

It only falls a little flat when Ominis pointedly asks, “‘Show’ me how?”

It’s only then that you realize Ominis had a fair reason to be nervous. He probably has much less familiarity with the female body than many of his Hogwarts classmates would have had, from studying nude forms in classical Muggle art to the risque illustrations and photographs his male counterparts pour over in secret.

He would have been excluded.

“Right, er…” you mumble, thinking on your feet. “Maybe I could… tell you what I like, and you could do it for me?”

“Do it for you?” he asks, and you blink surprisedly when you realize he doesn’t sound annoyed at all with being tasked with your pleasure.

Honestly, he sounds quite interested.

“That should work, right?” you murmur, stepping closer to him so you can unsubtly press your chest against his and drape your arms around his shoulders. “I know you’re clever, Ominis. I can tell you how to touch me, and you’ll do it?”

“Yes,” he breathes, quickly stealing a kiss and letting his hands shift all the way down to the curves of your ass.

He’ll have to learn by touch, you think. Or maybe even by taste.

You have absolutely no problem with that.

For a while you let him kiss you while his hands roam, letting him refamiliarize himself with the figure he already knows quite well beneath your uniform. Then, while his hands slip underneath your skirt to explore your bare thighs, you strip off your tie, dress shirt and brassiere. He undoubtedly hears the rustling of your clothes as you remove them, but he keeps his hands where they are until you reach down and grab his wrists.

Ominis exhales softly when you press his hands to your breasts, and you hum happily when his fingers flex against your skin.

“Touch me,” you tell him softly. “Not my clothes.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says softly. “You feel… you’re so soft.”

You giggle and arch your back into his hands, and when he drags his thumbs across your nipples, you lean down and press your forehead to his.

“Not too soft,” you counter.

“Can I… may I use my mouth on you?” Ominis asks hesitantly.

Merlin.

You’ve observed that your love certainly has an oral fixation. You suppose it could have to do with his blindness, but it could simply be a part of him like anything else. Ominis has been known to suck on quills for hours while he studies – the sugar quills from Honeydukes and, regrettably, regular ones as well – which has occasionally been distracting to some of your classmates who are driven to less-than-pure thoughts while watching him redden his mouth.

“Yes, use your mouth,” you breathe, tipping your head back when he brings his lips to your skin.

He doesn’t just immediately suck at you like some of your past partners have done in a rush. He kisses you all over – the curves of your breasts, across your collarbones, down to your navel and back up again. He’s learning you, and it’s making your head spin.

“Let’s move on,” you slur after a while, nearly dizzy from how good you feel with your skirt still on.

“May I?” Ominis asks, reaching behind you for the clasp of your skirt.

You assent and he deftly unclasps it, letting your skirt drop to the floor and leaving you in just your undergarments. But before he can tug them down – and he does try – you pause him by grabbing his wrists once more.

“I am nearly naked, and you’re fully dressed,” you remind him. “Seems unfair, love.”

“Fine,” he says with a bright laugh, leaning back onto his elbows to let you tug his tie loose and pull it over his head. You unbutton his shirt deliberately slowly, treating yourself to each new inch of bare skin you reveal as you work your way down.

When you reach the bottom, you can tell he’s quite ready for you by the state of his trousers, and you deduce those need to go as well. His breath hitches when you unbutton and unzip them for him, coaxing him into lifting his hips for you to tug them down.

After that, you both hurriedly tug off your undergarments and toss them… somewhere, to be sure.

He looks like sin sitting before you, completely nude with his long cock hard in his lap.

“Are you going to show me now?” he asks hopefully, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

“Mmm, soon,” you murmur. “I think I want you to show me something first.”

“You – you want to see…?” Ominis asks, his eyebrows raised. “But you know what men like, how we…”

“I know how men get themselves off, yes,” you say, finishing the sentence he lets die on his tongue. “I don’t care about what men like. I want to see what you like.”

“I can’t imagine I’m that unique,” he retorts.

“Then show me because I want to watch,” you challenge, gently pushing on his shoulders so he’ll scoot back and let you straddle his thighs. “I’m asking so nicely, Ominis.”

He exhales shakily and rests his hands on your bare hips. “Well, I usually… I usually have something to – Merlin, I have a salve, so it’s not dry.”

“Let me take care of it,” you purr, lifting one of his hands to your mouth and licking across his palm. He nearly chokes, but he lets you wet his hand for him and wrap it around his cock.

“Touch yourself,” you murmur. “Tell me what you think about when you get yourself off.”

“You,” he says quickly. “It’s always you, kissing you, touching you.”

You watch hungrily as he starts to stroke himself, observing the way he drags his thumb across his sensitive head and squeezes firmly at the base.

“Touching me how?” you encourage him.

“I… like this, touching your breasts, your bare skin,” he whispers. His other hand trails from your waist down to the crease of your hip. “Here too.”

“Do it then,” you whine. “Touch me, feel me.”

Finally, with his free hand he reaches between your thighs, tracing two fingertips along your folds. You’re already wet, and he groans softly before cursing under his breath.

“Let me show you,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to guide his hand.

You shift his hand up until his fingertips are pressed to your clit. “This is one of my favorite places to touch when I’m alone,” you tell him, nosing along his cheek. “Just touching here can get me off, actually.”

“R-really?” he breathes. “But what about… inside?”

“Inside, hm?” you croon. “Seems like you aren’t as ignorant as you let me believe.”

Ominis blushes a little and ducks his head, but he quickly tips his sightless gaze back up to you when you trace his fingertips along your slit to your entrance.

“Here,” you breathe. “If you want to go inside, it’s just here.”

“Can I?

“One finger first,” you tell him, and he’s perfectly gentle as he presses his long middle finger into your body.

You press your lips against his cheekbone and murmur, “Tell me how I feel, Ominis.”

“Warm. Wet, so wet,” he groans. His hand on his cock has gone completely still, forgotten in favor of exploring you with his other hand. “And – tight.”

It’s then that you have a brilliant idea.

“What if I let you use your mouth on me here?” you keen when he drags his thumb across your clit with his finger still inside you. “Would you like that?”

“I can do that?” Ominis asks. “You would want me to?”

“If you’re comfortable,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair to loosen it a little from his daily coiffe. “I’d like to try it with you.”

Stunned, he nods and gently pulls out of you so that you can join him on the bed and lie on your back. Carefully, you drape one leg and then the other over his shoulders as he kneels between the apex of your thighs. You cross your ankles behind his back to coax him closer and onto his elbows, his face inches from where you most want him.

“What, er… how should I…” he asks.

“It’s instinct, love,” you croon, leaning back on your elbows and watching as he leans in a bit more, transfixed by how close he is to you. “I couldn’t possibly tell you, I’ve never done it myself.”

“Has anyone ever…?” he asks suggestively, one of his hands wrapping around your thigh.

“Ever what?” you tease him, utterly in love with the way it makes him blush harder.

“Has anyone else ever used their mouth on you?” he asks more firmly, nuzzling his temple against your inner thigh.

“Mmm, no,” you murmur.

He smirks to himself. “So I suppose I needn’t be worried about being compared.”

“Ominis,” you sigh. “I need you to do something, anything. Just try, I promise I’ll tell you if it’s working or not.”

“Please, tell me,” he requests. “I might not… It’s harder to be sure that I’m doing it right, if you’re quiet.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem,” you reply cheekily.

Without another word, Ominis leans in and presses his tongue to your skin, licking you open with broad, curious strokes of his tongue while he learns the taste and feel of you. You quickly lose your breath as he explores your drenched core.

You gasp sharply when he presses his tongue against your clit, and he quickly asks, “How does that feel?”

“Amazing,” you breathe. “That’s good, Ominis, right there, keep going.”

Ominis simply lights up after receiving your praise, and it makes your heart race adoringly to see how much he loves this – loves you.

He becomes more and more assured as he presses his tongue against your clit, and even without his sight, he couldn’t possibly miss how your legs tremble helplessly when he moans into your body, the vibrations sending you closer and closer to your climax.

He experiments with pressing his tongue inside you as well, and it feels nice, of course it does. But it’s just not as nice as when he’s paying attention to your clit, so without thinking, you reach down and tug on his blond hair to direct his mouth back to where you want it.

This time, when Ominis moans against your clit, it’s not for your benefit.

“Did you like that?” you ask knowingly, twisting your fingers deeper into his hair. Usually it’s so perfectly coiffed, but you imagine by the time you’re through with him, it might look more like Sebastian’s does after Quidditch practice.

“Yes,” he admits, his voice nearly a whine.

“Good. Make me come and you can tell me how else you’d like me to touch you.”

Desperate to finish you off, Ominis first wraps both hands around your thighs and positively buries his face between them, his tongue flicking over and over against your clit. Then he pulls one hand back and presses the tips of two fingers against your entrance.

“Inside?” he asks quickly.

“Yes,” you grit out. “I’m so close Ominis, don’t stop.”

Obediently, he presses his long, thin fingers inside you and curls them how you tell him to, and you only last another minute under his focused ministrations before you come hard, both hands now tangled in his hair to hold him in place until you’re too sensitive to take anymore.

When you finally push his face away, Ominis looks drunk. His mouth and chin are soaked from your release, his pale skin is burning red and his hair is a wild mess.

“So…” he murmurs, dragging a thumb across his lower lip and briefly sucking it clean. “How was that?”

“Don’t be daft,” you laugh deliriously, still staring up at the ceiling. “You’re a natural, Ominis, you get an Outstanding from me.”

He smiles and rests one of his hands on your bare hip, trailing the other up your waist to your neck so he can lean down and kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

However, despite how formal his countenance often is, he’s still a young man – and not a very patient one.

“I believe you said something about touching me now?” he murmurs, kissing down your chin to your neck and gently nipping at your pulse point.

“Mmm, yes, I do think you deserve a turn,” you agree.

You reach down to wrap your hand around his cock and slowly stroke him, earning a choked-off moan and a much less gentle bite against your neck.

“Which would you like, Ominis? My hand, my mouth, or my cunt?”

Ominis curses under his breath – you can tell he likes it when you’re vulgar, despite how often he chides Sebastian for using similar language around their other mates.

He zones out for a moment, considering, so you stroke him harder to bring his focus back to you. “Tell me, love.”

“Your – your body, I want… I want to be inside you,” he admits. “But I don’t think I’m going to last very long.”

“That’s alright,” you reassure him. “It’s only your first time, we’ll have many more times to practice.”

He whines softly and presses a kiss over the bruise he’s worked into the skin below your jawline. “Many more?”

“Focus,” you tease him. “Let’s enjoy this time first, alright? Are you ready?”

You drop your hand from his cock so he can sit back and line himself up against you, and you think that this must be where some amount of instinct kicks in because the juts of his hip bones line up perfectly with the insides of your thighs without so much as a guiding hand from you.

“Good, Ominis,” you breathe, and his cock jumps, its wet tip tapping against his stomach.

He takes himself in hand and presses the head of his cock against your entrance, tracing a line from your hole to your clit and back to learn just where to press in, and then he starts to sheath himself within you.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, and you beam delightedly – you’ve never heard him talk like that before.

“That’s it, keep going,” you encourage him. “I can take all of you.”

He’s quite long, but he takes his time with you, slowly pressing in until his hips are flush with your thighs and his arms are trembling slightly as he holds himself above you.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, restraint clear in both his voice and the tense line of his jaw.

You cup your hand against the side of his face and murmur, “Not at all, you feel wonderful.”

“Can I move?” he pleads, and you breathe your yes against his lips.

Even without the muscle memory of a more experienced man, Ominis is a fast learner. He quickly sets a rhythm that has you dragging your hands down his chest and demanding more, harder, faster.

Your heart can barely take it when he simply meets your demands without a word, his hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you like it’s a gift to be inside you.

“I want to make you come again,” he confesses, leaning down to kiss you wherever he can put his mouth on you – your jaw, your shoulder, your lips. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you breathe, because your first orgasm had left you so sensitive you’re sure you can come again before Ominis finishes.

In fact, you think if you asked him, he’d make himself wait for you.

You slide a hand down your body and start to touch yourself, rubbing your clit the way you know you like when you need a release. You want to be quick – you want him to learn how it feels when you come around his cock.

“Close,” he grunts, his hands fisting in the sheets beside you. “Love, please…”

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, leaning up to nip at his lower lip. “Let me come first, Ominis, I promise it’s worth waiting for.”

“I can’t,” he whines, but you know he can – you can see how he’s straining to hold back, his stomach taut and his arms tense beside your head.

“Just a little more, love, and – ah!” you gasp, because when he sits back just a little – as if trying to physically pull back from falling over the edge – his cock presses against a spot inside you that’s just enough to make you see stars.

It’s barely seconds after you come that Ominis groans helplessly and spills inside you, his thrusts coming to a halt when he feels you become impossibly tighter around him.

You stroke your hands lazily up and down his back while he catches his breath, mercifully not dropping his full weight onto you in favor of gently rolling to the side, hooking your leg over his hip.

“What’s the verdict, then?” you ask him softly, tracing your fingertips along his jawline and smiling at the blissful look on his face.

“We’re doing that again, quite literally as soon as I can,” he pants, and you can’t help but laugh brightly and bury your face against his chest.

“How charming!” you tease him. “That’s it, hm? Have I finally made a monster of you?”

“Without a doubt,” he agrees, pressing his nose to your hair.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #my fic #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis x mc #ominis x reader #i know we love dominis but LISTEN #por que no los dos i merely offer an alternative #this is beta'd but nobody's perfect xoxo #experimenting with not using an image bc what would i POSSIBLY put so please don't let this flop

[thebradleybradshaw]

a-z nsfw prompt | b. bradshaw

synopsis: nsfw alphabet for b. bradshaw (18+ MINORS DNI!!)

note: thirsty bitches only !! byeeee i blacked tf out writing this. this was highly requested, i hope i did it justice!! likes, comments, & reblogs are always appreciated. have fun and stay thirsty xx

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Rooster is completely exhausted after sex. He’s glistening from sweat and completely spent. He likes to dramatically lay there, huffing his breath, bragging about ‘how good’ it was. He’s dying for a compliment, hinting at you to also talk about just how mind blowing that experience was. Once the adrenaline has died down he becomes clingy. He makes sure that you’re cleaned up and assesses any damage he may have done, leaving little ‘sorry’ kisses wherever a bruise seems to appear. Once the cleaning process is done he’s curled up next to you, looking at you with such puppy dog eyes you’re ready to explode.

This is typically when the pillow talk happens. Now that he’s more relaxed he’s more open to talking about things. He’ll just spew out everything that has been on his mind as he absentmindedly plays with your hair. It’s quite endearing to watch him ramble on and on without any end in sight. Don’t even consider moving or getting up. The second he feels you shifting his arms are locked around you and he’s whining. “I don’t think so, honey.”

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Rooster is extremely proud of his hands. He’s a pilot after all. His hands control an entire airplane. One slip of the wrist and he’s fucked. His hands hold so much power in and out of work. He finds it humorous just how weak in the knees you get from his touch. Whether it’s a soft caress of your cheek, squeeze of your ass, or a strong choke - you love his hands. He has the shape and feel of your body completely burned into his brain, but still likes to take his time to explore further. You particularly like the callouses that form after his workouts.

On you, he’s a big fan of boobs and hips. It doesn’t matter the size - A to GG cup - he’s foaming at the mouth. He’s constantly buying lingerie, night gowns, or sports bras just so he can stare at them as you walk around the house. Your hips are more specific. Not just your hips, but that spot below your hips before your thighs -its delicious. It’s a place he’s holding onto for dear life when he’s being particularly rough. There’s constantly fingerprint shaped bruises in that area. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

In the beginning of the relationship Rooster advocated for safe sex. He always wore a condom. There was no room for potential pregnancy scaries. It was just sex- two horny people who were constantly in the mood. It wasn’t until a year later that things became different. He looked around the room, checking every possible drawer for a condom. THe two of you had completely depleted the box. It would take too long to buy a new box, and he needed sex now. He nervously asked you if you would be okay skipping the condom. After much consideration, you decided to have at it. You never changed your mind. The first time Rooster was able to feel you completely he made a sound that came from Heaven above. It was a pathetic whimper that lit a flame you never knew you had. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He's always wanted to make a movie. He wants to be able to watch over and over again. The way you move, the way you sound. He wants to keep a video on his phone whenever he needs to hear you, but you're not there. What keeps him from asking is the fear of it being leaked. It would embarrass him completely if it did. But, he does contemplate how much money the two of you could make with it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s had sex before - that much is for sure. Does he know everything? To an extent. Sex in the beggining was clumsy and a learning process. You had to learn what each other liked and didn’t like. However, once he knew something you liked - he never forgot it. His mental index card holds every position, feeling, and words that make you lose control. The more comfortable he got with you, the more he started asking to do new things. It’s not uncommon to be yeeted about the room as Rooster figures out the next surface to fuck on.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Oh, there’s a few.

Missionary - it’s a given. Having you underneath him gives him a power trip. You’re prey to his vices, trapped. He especially likes it when he wants to be as close as possible. He’s practically folding you into the mattresses as he tries to bury himself as deep as possible. He’s peppering kisses along your neck and ear, whispering sweet nothings and encouragement. He likes to feel your legs squeezing around his waist, your nails raking down his spine. It’s an absolute position for morning sex.

Cowgirl. Boobs. Rooster is below you and mesmerized by the way your tits bounce up and down with each thrust. He’s more quiet underneath because he’s so blown away he can barely breathe. It’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. He lays back with a grip on your waist and let’s you use him for whatever you need.

Face down, ass up - doggy. This is for when he’s feeling dominate and fiery. The sounds of hands smacking your ass are loud and echoing. He’s got a fistful of your hair in a makeshift ponytail. The other hand holds down your lower torso and he goes wild. You typically end up in this position if you’ve made him jealous. It’s the perfect way for him to put you in the place - no mercy just endless fucking.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It really depends on the mood. If it’s a quickie before the two of you go to work he’s probably being a bit of an annoying tease, thinking it’s hilarious. He’s cracking jokes as the two of you calm down and try to get dressed for the day.

When the mood is more sultry he’s all serious. He’s making demands, praising, even possibly degrading. He’s the boss. There’s no room for silliness. You do what you’re told and that’s that. Although, that is more during anniversary or jealousy sex where Rooster is in more of a dominate mood.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

His hair is beautifully sunkissed. The carpet only slightly matches the drapes. He’s darker and more curly. He’s big on grooming. It’s not completely gone, but it’s nicely shaved down. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Rooster can be so intimate to the point of cheesy. He just can’t help it. The bedroom is his safe space. It’s where he can be vulnerable and emotional. When he’s in a soft mood he’s placing kisses to your temple and neck, gently thrusting at an agonizingly slow place. He likes to take his time and enjoy the warmth and heat that radiates from you. It’s like a fuzzy blanket that creates tingles down his spine. It’s not uncommon to get a few ‘I love yous’ and he’s staring into your soul. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

It happens. If you’re gone on a trip or he’s on a mission, it’s what he resorts to. He has a high sex drive and few of your polaroids in his pocket. He usually does it in the shower to get his day started. But it could never beat the real thing with you. He also has an arsenal of nudes that he keeps on his phone is a separate album. Sometimes he just stares at it.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Let’s discuss:

Bottom of the pyramid: hair pulling. It’s simple and it’s effective. He’s sandwiched between your thighs, eating away as if it’s his last meal. The first time you gave his hair a squeeze, he let out such a squeal you couldn’t help but do it again. The soft tugs on his hair seemed to give him more energy. You learned that by gently squeezing a fist into his hair he would release a delicious vibration that sent you right over the edge.

Middle of the pyramid: biting. It’s fun, it’s kinky. Since he always has to be clean and proper in his uniform, Rooster has created a game of leaving bite marks in places no one else could ever see. Pink and purple marks are scattered over your chest and torso. You find new ones every time you strip to take a shower. You’ll send a snap of the map of bite marks, where he replies with a simple “can’t wait to add more”. He’s gentle with his bites, but he likes for you to go full vampire. He wants to feel your teeth sinking into his shoulder as he’s pounding away on top. The sheer adrenaline and pain drives him an extra mile. As he’s changing into his uniform he swipes a finger over the bruise, reliving the fond memories of the night before.

And finally, the top: praise kink. This kink never fails to completely derail the two of you. Rooster is so starved for validation. All it takes is an ‘I’m so proud of you” and he’s bending you over the nearest surface. He’s had a rough day at work, everyone seemed to get on his last nerves. He was desperate to come home and hide away from the ick of the world. He came to you for a hug, an innocent simple hug to help make himself feel better. Your arms snaked around his neck, a hand resting on the newly cut, prickly hair at the base of his neck, “Aw honey, I’m sorry. I’m sure you did so good today, I’m still proud of you.” You made sure to keep your voice low as you dragged out the praise. His once tired muscles tensed up below you. Before you could register, you were being propped up onto the kitchen counter, Rooster practically tearing his uniform jacket from his body. He knew you were just teasing him, but he made sure to do something to make you exceptionally proud of him. As he always said, he ‘aimed to please’.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Work is, of course, completely off limits. He’s a man of privacy and reputation. The home? Fair game. Bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room. Every single part of your shared house has witnessed at least one sexual encounter. It was his mission to ‘bless’ each room of the house. Then there’s the truck. What’s more romantic than a gorgeous sunset on the horizon while being absolutely obliterated by your boyfriend? Nothing compares. As long as there is privacy, Rooster is all for it. He’s protective, he refuses to risk any chance of someone seeing you in such a private state. He really wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you got caught. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

All you have to do is ask. He’s watching you laugh at something your friend said, he’s hard. You’re in a bubble bath, hard. You’re innocently putting on clothes for an event, hard. You’ve almost become such a habit that he gets withdrawals after too long. Of course he understands if you’re not in the mood, or a bit too sore from the last time. But the minute you give him those fuck me eyes he’s all about it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that would cause you physical, deep pain. He respects kinks, but the protectiveness he feels for you would not allow him to participate. A little nimble and joking bite is soft. Anything with hitting or blood would cross his boundary. It’s just not something that he is interested in. He would respectfully say no and think of something else to try.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

It’s a two way street. His favorite sight is you on your knees, hair pulled back, and dick in your mouth. It’s beautiful, it’s feral. Your makeup is a mess and there’s a tear going down your cheek and he is done for. It’s something he constantly daydreams about. 

Rooster is a master with his tongue. He’s buried deep, airway constricted, and he goes to town. He never gets tired of your taste flooding his senses. He’ll go all night if you let him. The mustache adds a delicious burn that leaves you raw and aching. He’ll go until your voice is hoarse and you’re spent. It’s a hobby of his.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s fast and rough when the situation calls for it. If it’s angry, makeup, or jealousy sex you are fucked. He’s thrusting hard and fast, filth spilling into your ears, the sound of balls slapping skin all around you. He’s got a strong grip on your throat controlling your breathing. He’s teasing and degrading a bit, never letting you second guess who exactly you belong to.

In normal situations, it’s a gentle rhythmic pace. Rooster really likes to take his time. There’s kisses and whispers and soft touches. He’s complimenting you left and right. It’s the kind of rhythm that can last as long as the two of you possibly can. There’s no rush. He’s got the entire night free to do nothing but shower you in love and attention.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Loves them. Since he’s practically always in the mood, sometimes he needs a quick outlet to get it all out. Quickies are usually in the morning before he’s running late for work, lunch time when he randomly comes out, or before you all go out with friends. He doesn’t need much time, just enough to get the point across that he wants to fuck.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He is always up for learning what you like, and what he likes. He typically won’t say no unless it crosses a personal boundary. He likes to keep things spicy and interesting so that it doesn’t get old and boring. He’ll surprise you with new lingerie or a new flavor of lube just because he thought it would add a little bit of fun.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Normally he’ll give it all and exhaust himself in one round. He gets it all out so that the two of you can spend the rest of the time relaxing and spending time together. Unless it’s quickies, he can last two rounds. There’s a point where it can become too long and things start getting uncomfortable. He keeps it about 40 minutes, taking his time, switching it up, so that you’re not getting too exhausted. Unless, of course, it’s one of those nights where he wants to take as long as he possibly can. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s got the basics: vibrator, cuffs, blindfold. The vibrator is solely for your use. It gives him a power trip to be in control of it. He’s changing the intensity, placing it anywhere rather than where you need it most. He’ll turn it off just when you can feel yourself getting ready to spill- just be an asshole. The cuffs are his favorite. When he lets you take the reigns he loves nothing more than to have his arms cuffed above his head. It gives an extra spice to watch you on top while he’s restrained. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Rooster is an asshole. He loves to get you all hot and bothered, give your hair a squeeze and place a sloppy, deep kiss to your mouth and then dip. “See you later, baby.” and he’s out the door. You’re left gasping and incredibly frustrated. He loves the way you glare at him as he’s walking out the door. It does nothing but add to his ego to know you’ll be waiting for him when he gets back, even when you try to say you won’t be.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a cursor. “Oh my fucking God, you feel so good” “holy shit” “fuck, fuck, fuck” amongst others. They’re low grumbles that rattle your chest, and octave lower than his normal voice. He gets in your ear, barely whispering “I know you like that, baby”. He’ll never be loud enough for anyone else to  hear. He keeps his grunts soft and low. He’ll let out a growl here and there when he’s being pretty rough. A lot of the time he’s breathing deep, brows furrowed in concentration, mouth slightly open as if he’s taken aback by how good you look being fucked.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Rooster was pissed. Guys had flocked to you all night and you absorbed all of the attention you could possibly handle. It was innocent on your end, no matter what their intentions were. You were having fun. Rooster did not agree. He was angry, insulted, jealous. He was pretty much silent the entire ride home, knuckles glowing white from his grip on the steering wheel. He followed you into the house, locking the door behind him. He found you in your shared bedroom, beginning to undress.

“Get on your knees,” his voice finally rang out. His eyes were nearly black in the dim light as he stood before you. 

You smirked, “excuse me?”

Rooster wasn’t in the playing mood. “I said get on your knees,” he repeated, “I didn’t fucking stutter.” 

Every hair on your arm stood up at attention. Slicked pooled in your matching lingerie as you contemplated disobeying him. You decided against it, slowly dropping to the floor and maintaining eye contact. Rooster held no expression on his face, but there was a sinister gleam in his eye. He held you hair in a makeshift pony tail, guiding a hand to his belt. “Get to suckin’.”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

We’ve all seen the beach scene. Rooster is absolutely fucking ripped. Abs that run for miles, arms that could squeeze a melon in half. Arm veins that are delicious. He’s fucking hot, point blank period. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

It’s high. Almost annoyingly high. He enjoys sex. It can be fun, passionate, intense, whatever. He finds sex one of the best ways for him to show you his feelings. Sex is vulnerable and private and only you can see him in that position. Not to mention he just finds you extremely attractive and tends to think with his dick. It’s his favorite way to start and end a day.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Since he spends all of his energy fucking your brains out, he’s exhausted when it’s over. He takes a few minutes for aftercare before he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. He’s curled around you, still babbling on, as his voice begins to get quieter and quieter. He’s practically mumbling nonsense as he begins to fall asleep. And he always has the best rest of his life after sex. He’s satisfied, happy, and completely relaxed. You sometimes try to stay up just to look at his peaceful figure, but you’re just as spent as he is.

#leave a message at the beep lo has left the building #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun maverick fic

[slumped-in-the-arms-of-fiction]

Several people are typing…

A modern day Hellcheer group chat au

Part One

Next part

This will hopefully make its way to AO3 at some point but will be posted in all its glory here first! It's completely written so the parts (nine in total) will be posted in quick succession.

Thanks as always to my beta @justhere4thevibez ❤️

#fic: several people are typing #Hellcheer #Hellcheer fic #my writing #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #and jeff lol #munningham #eddissy #also can I just say I know there are apps that make these? but I made this from scratch because I'm a control freak & I love making shit lo

[sacachorch0vo]

Tontos

#prisjake #jismo #jake x prismo #prismo x jake #adventure time #prismo adventure time #jake adventure time #jake the dog #hora de aventura #jake el perro #prismo #saquen los fics carajo #lo hice en clase #sorry #se ven tan sillys #así un fic bien angts #amo sus diseños #soy una cobarde y censure mi propio dibujo para insta #merezco sus mejores insultos #pero a ellos ni los toquen #fanart #mi ship #gabarato #dibujo yo

[talaok]

Your writing is absolutely fantastic 😭 Can i request a Joel x reader fic?

I was thinking reader and Joel are together and during the events at the hospital they are both there. While they’re being taken out of the hospital by the fireflies and Joel knocks them out reader is like “let’s go get our daughter” and it’s basically them both saving her. Angsty but happy ending because maybe Ellie didn’t actually want to do it and reader being so scared to lose Ellie. Just them being scared and then happy they get to be a family in Jackson 😭

I don't know if I did exactly what you wanted but I tried 

"let's go get her"

Your fingers gripped the heavy rifle as, with only a nod, he made his way up the stairs, towards her, towards the light.

The thumps of your heart filled your eardrums as you followed his heavy footsteps, always a step behind him, but always in reach.

He was not gonna lose both of you today.

You froze as the first man stumbled in front of you, but Joel didn't even blink as he pulled the trigger.

The loud bang echoed off the walls as he fell to the ground like a brown leaf in autumn.

Joel turned to you, small splatters of red stained parts of his face and neck, but his warm eyes were as caring as ever.

"I'm ok" you answered without needing to be asked 

"for her" you nodded, reminding yourself as the body, the man, lay on the cold and dirty tiles "It's for her"

He grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly, as if wanting to gift you of all of his courage.

"For her" he repeated.

What came next could have been ten minutes, just like it could have been hours.

You followed him in a focused trance, helping him get rid of all the obstacles in your way, obstacles, that were men, and whose screams were gonna haunt your days and nights 'till the end of your time on this earth.

But it didn't matter, because two simple words were all that filled your mind and ears as you chanted them over and over.

For her.

For Ellie.

Because for her, you would have done anything. 

Because she deserved, everything.

She deserved a life, one not made of pain and suffering, but one made of everything else there was to have, of everything else she could ever get. And if it came to fighting for it. Then you were gonna fight,

for her.

And only once you watched her in Joel's arms, did you realize how you had left a part of it out.

it wasn't only for her, but for you too, because without realizing it, she had made her way into your life, and with that, into your heart, because as much as you liked to believe she needed you- you needed her the most, and so did Joel.

That's why you gripped Joel's hand and your heart felt about to combust once she woke up.

You had decided you were gonna tell her the truth, and that meant that she could either hate you for the rest of her life, or understand, not fully, but partially at least.

"What happened?" her voice was quiet, seemingly scared, as she finally asked you what had been hovering over your heads for the past hours.

she had woken up in the car but said nothing until you were an hour into your hike toward Jackson.

Both you and Joel stopped, briefly shooting each other a glance before focusing on her.

"We took you away," you said bluntly, gulping your nerves away.

"why?"

"They wanted to hurt you" 

"wh- how?"

"they were gonna kill you" Joel now spoke, his voice rumbling deep from his chest.

Something flashed behind Ellie's eyes, and you felt a pang in your chest.

"Did anybody get hurt?" She asked, making your eyes tremble before you spoke.

"yes"

She paused for a moment, looking between you.

"Marlene?"

And at that, you could not do anything but nod quietly.

"fuck" she sighed, looking around at the forest and then at the town hidden down the hills.

You took a step towards her.

"I'm sorry Ellie" was all that came to mind as you got closer "I... fuck I don't know" you confessed, now right in front of her as she gave you her back "But it isn't your fault, none of it," you said "I promise"

Joel got close too and you heard her take a shaky breath before she turned to you.

Her eyes were glassy, a tear already making its way to her jaw.

"I could have saved the world" her voice broke

"I know" a tear fell to your own cheek "but... but it wasn't fair- I just... I couldn't do it" You glanced at Joel, who nodded "We couldn't"

And before you knew it, her arms were wrapped around your torso, holding you tighter than you'd ever been held.

"I'm sorry" you sniffled, wrapping your own arms around her "I'm sorry Ellie"

"don't be" she spoke as tiny sobs fled her mouth 

Both your eyes were closed, and it was only when you felt Joel's hand on both your backs, that you realized he had reached you too.

"It's over now" he promised, his own voice shaky "It's gonna be alright" he vowed, to you, but just the same to himself.

because it was you now. Only you. And no one was ever gonna try to take that away from him without a fight.

"It's over"

#si una frase è ispirata a quella poesia di Ungaretti lo ammetto #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us #tlou #the last of us hbo #tlou hbo #joel miller the last of us #joel miller angst #joel miller smut

[wikiangela]

tease tidbit tuesday

tagged by @jamespearce9-1-1 💖

here's another tiny snippet of the christmas fic - i'm done with the sad part, now only fluff haha - just one and a half scenes and it's gonna be done just in time for christmas (also, I might have gotten a new idea for a christmas fic, where they decorate a tree - I wanted it here but it didn't happen and can't fit it in lol so that might also be in the works once this one is done haha - no promises tho, who knows lol)

prev snippet | moodboard

___

“What’s- Christmas is tomorrow.” Buck points out with a small chuckle, but he tentatively takes the box. He glances at the tree in the corner, with a pile of gifts underneath, that they decorated together just a few days ago, after buying it together as well. It was the most domestic thing, and Eddie was dying to lean in and kiss Buck, or grab his hand, or just do anything, his feelings trying to leak out of him in any and all ways. Soon he’ll be able to shout it from the rooftops if he wants to. Hopefully.

“Yeah, but I wanted to give you one of your gifts a bit earlier.” Eddie scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Open it.” he adds excitedly when Buck’s just standing there, looking at the box. 

“Why am I the only one opening a gift early? What about you guys?” his frown deepens.

“Don’t worry about us, this is about you. Please?” he waves the question off, because it’ll all make sense in a minute.

“Just open it, Buck.” Christopher chimes in, excitement in his tone. Buck looks at him and his smile melts into fondness.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @weewootruck @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @911-on-abc @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @jesuisici33 @lover-of-mine @giddyupbuck @exhuastedpigeon @buckaroosheart @king-buckley @disasterbuckdiaz @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @hoodie-buck @spotsandsocks @jeeyuns @steadfastsaturnsrings @daffi-990 @callmenewbie @hippolotamus @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

#tease tidbit tuesday #buddie christmas fic #fic snippet #buddie #buddie fic #buddie wip #wikiangela writes #my writing #my wips #i accidentally involved chris in the love confession and wanted to change that but tbh i kinda love this #wrote smth like 'he wanted to be in the room to make sure eddie doesn't chicken out' and i find this concept funnier than it probably is lo #also i guess it'd be cute to have both of them assure buck they're a family the way buck wants them to be haha #idk im excited for this and can't wait to share once its done