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sometimesanalice · 7 months

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Bedside Manner

Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 8K

Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.

The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.

“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.

Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.

But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.

Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.

All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.

Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.

Normally.

But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss.

“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.

You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.

The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.

You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.

It was supposed to be a fun day.

You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.

There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.

You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.

The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.

The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.

Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.

You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.

Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.

And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.

You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.

He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.

“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.

“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.

And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.

When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.

“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.

You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.

You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.

“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”

You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.

“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.

“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.

“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”

Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.

Respectfully, of course.

Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.

“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.

“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.

You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.

And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.

You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.

And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.

Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.

He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.

Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.

But he’s never made a move.

If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.

You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.

Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.

The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.

Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.

And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.

You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.

You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.

Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.

The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.

You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.

The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.

Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.

The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.

For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.

Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.

And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.

“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.

They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.

It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.

It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.

You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.

There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.

You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.

As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.

“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.

They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.

Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.

Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.

His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.

You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.

“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.

“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.

“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.

“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.

The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.

And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.

Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.

The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.

Just not like this.

With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.

Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.

Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.

Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.

“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.

“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.

You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.

She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.

“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.

“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.

You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.

And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.

The two of you silent and motionless.

You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.

His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.

“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.

“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”

Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.

“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.

He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.

You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.

All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.

You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.

This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.

You want the Bradley from earlier.

The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.

The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.

You want your Bradley.

The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.

You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.

For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”

We.

You wanted that with him.

You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together? You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.

The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.

Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.

When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.

“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.

“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.

Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.

“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.

He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.

It’s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.

He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.

It’s never felt this strained with him before.

It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.

Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.

He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.

He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.

“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.

You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?

He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.

“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”

“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”

“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.

“Ok, good,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you lob back.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.

“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.

“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.

A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”

Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.

You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.

Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.

“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.

“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.

And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.

“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day. I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.

“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”

He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.

“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.

The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.

“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.

Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”

The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.

“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”

“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.

“Bradley, the light.”

The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.

“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.

“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.

Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.

He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.

The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.

“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.

The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.

“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.

He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.

“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.

“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.

He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”

“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.

“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.

Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.

He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.

There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.

“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”

“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”

“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”

“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.

“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.

“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.

“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.

“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.

“Done.”

“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.

“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?”

“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.

He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.

“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.

“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”

“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”

“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Guess we will,” he rasps.

Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.

You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.

There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.

You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.

Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.

You’ve got that forever feeling about him.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.

This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!

The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader

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wannabespiderman · 3 months

Text

Instructions unclear, sent a bowl of chocolate cereal.

Bucky Barnes x reader

You get your grumpy old man a smartphone. Chaos ensues.

Bucky suspiciously inspected the black rectangle between his fingers. “That’s not the phone I had in mind.” Of course, he had probably been thinking of a damn rotary phone when you suggested he needed something to keep in touch with people. You knew he had this weird relationship with modern technology, he was very wary of everything electronic and if he didn’t get the hang of it immediately he would just get frustrated. On the other hand, if he was able to figure it out himself he was openly proud of it, telling you how easy it was. You always had to walk the fine line between something enhanced enough that it was actually useful these days and simple enough that he wouldn’t become grumpy and pout about it while talking your ear off at how ‘the simpler times’ were called that for a reason.

A Smartphone was very very risky. Sure, you could’ve found an old flip phone or a Nokia brick but those things just hadn’t survived the test of time and according to your very professional opinion as his partner and self-proclaimed emotional support nuisance, this man desperately needed to stay in contact with the few people he would call his friends.

Despite your worry you put on your most supportive smile and turned the phone in his hand so he held it right side up. “Try it at least, okay? It’s cool.” You tried to assure him. He didn’t have to do a lot, you already set it up for him and downloaded all the apps you deemed necessary, helpful or fun, you even turned on the accessibility option so he could navigate his phone with one hand since the metal one wouldn’t work on a screen and would probably also leave scratches, so all that was left for him was to explore his new toy. You guided his pointer finger to the side of the phone and let him press the little button which made the screen turn on. Bucky gave you an unsure glance before turning his attention back to the phone in his hand and just kinda…stared at it until the screen turned off again. For a moment you didn’t know what was going on until you realized that with Bucky, specificity was key. You shook your head to shoo away the previous confusion his behavior caused and shuffled closer to him. “Do it again.” You encouraged him. Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly.

Oh no.

You held your breath, waiting for him to potentially hand the phone right back to you and suggesting that writing letters would be enough. After what felt like a minute he finally pressed the button again and you quietly released your breath. “Great! Now you just need to drag your thumb gently over the screen and you’re good to go.” Bucky slowly followed your instructions and you could practically feel the pride radiating off him, his eyes lighting up. Still, he tried to play it cool. “Huh. That was easy.”

Not specific enough.

You looked at your phone and tried to make out what exactly Bucky had sent you. It must’ve been a picture of his face, right? You thought you could see the brown of his hair in this blurry mess but on the other hand it could also be…maybe a bowl of chocolate cereal? Some Chili, maybe? No, there was definitely too little red for it to be Chili.

The man recently learned how to text like a normal person, more or less, but you didn’t know he also kind of figured out how to send pictures. His picture moved upwards when another blurry mess appeared in your chat. You squinted your eyes at the new picture, it was mostly white with some grey stripe in the middle. You gave up, no way you could figure out what the hell that one was.

Bucky…what is that? You typed out. The next message he sent you gave you move questions than answers.

I need a new phone. That was impossible, his smartphone was less than three days old. Sure, it could’ve cracked but you were sure he would’ve told you about that.

What’s wrong with your phone? Maybe I can help? You suggested. You didn’t have to wait for an answer too long.

Yes, please. You quietly chuckled to yourself, half amused by his struggles, half compassionate of them. You decided it would be best to talk to him face to face so you raked your fingers through your hair a few times to hide the fact that you’ve been hanging around in your bed for the last few hours and clicked the video call option on your screen. It rang and rang and…rang…until finally your screen lit up, or dulled down because all you could see was darkness with a touch of a chestnut color. You should’ve known that this would happen.

“Bucky, it’s a video call.” You informed him and watched as he pulled the phone away from his ear and instead looked at his screen, his brows furrowed like he always did when he lost a fight against technology. “Oh…” He grumbled.

“So, what’s wrong with your phone?” Bucky pressed his lips together, his eyes looking anywhere but at his phone.

“Bucky?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. Bucky let out a sigh and wiped his face with his right hand but you could see the slight blush forming on the apples of his cheeks.

“Was anyone going to tell me that there are two cameras? Why the hell would anyone need two?” You saw him lean against the headrest and turn his head to the side with an annoyed expression. Your heart melted a little bit, you couldn’t help but find it endearing at how clueless he was when it came to things that were common knowledge to you.

“James, stop pouting.” There was a tone of amusement in your voice even though you tried to feign sternness. Bucky’s head shot back towards where he could see you on the screen in his hand and blinked a few times as if he was trying to comprehend what you just said. You never really called him by his first name and his reaction made you clench your jaw and hold your breath so you wouldn’t burst out laughing.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You asked innocently and batted your lashes towards your camera. Bucky narrowed his eyes but couldn’t suppress the little smile that was tugging on the corners of his mouth. You grinned triumphantly, happy that you could at least lighten his mood a little bit. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” You finally said and playfully scrunched your nose. “So was that it? Did you have a problem taking pictures because you tried to take them with the outer camera?” Buckys smile slightly faltered but he chuckled nonetheless.

“Yeah, I guess. Sorry to be a bother with all the…you know, modern stuff, I-“ You cut him off immediately. “Don’t you dare apologize for that, you’re still learning and I’m happy to help. Hey, I’m very proud of you for making it work with the phone.” Bucky rolled his eyes good-naturedly but you could see his eyes soften. “I try.”

You continued talking to him for a while about nothing in particular until you decided that you both needed some rest and hung up. It was merely twenty minutes later, you just settled down and closed your eyes when your phone vibrated. A message from Bucky. You curiously opened the message to see if he had any more problems but instead your lips curled into a big, bright smile.

He sent you a picture, this time you could fully make out what it was, a photo of a shirtless Bucky laying on his couch, his eyes crinkled as he wore a proud grin with the caption I figured it out!

__________

Tag list: @lunaroserites

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #fanfic #fanfiction #boyfriend!bucky

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cultrise · 6 months

Text

THIGH RIDING. SAL FISHER

☠︎︎ CONTENTS NSFW, riding his thigh near the lake, sal being touchy, clothed clit rubbing ᵎᵎ wc 1.1k

ᵎᵎ check the mlist for kinktober here !

being in nockfell was often too much to handle, especially now that the cult’s activity was dormant. it all puts too much stress on your little group, especially with college work dropping in like a storm.

that’s exactly why you and your boyfriend, sal, decided it’s better to go on dates to wendigo lake, where you can enjoy the quietness of nature. just you two, a blanket, some snacks, his guitar and the night sky was enough to get you in a good mood and raise your spirits again. however, this night was a little bit different. even though the cute date sal had prepared did put you in a good mood it also made you needy for his touch, wanting to feel him closer.

as the sun went down, your small discussion had turned into a makeout session as you straddled sal, his back pressed against the bark of a tree. his mask was thrown somewhere on the blanket that was under you, even if he had protested against it. even after all these years, he was still self-conscious about not wearing his mask, sometimes even with you.

it’s not that you didn’t understand it. to sal, even if he had accepted his accident and condition, his face still held a grand amount of trauma and he still felt afraid that you might see him one day for the ‘monster’ that he was. your heart always ached as you heard him say that.. how could the sweetest person you’ve ever met think that about himself? it was beyond you.

you did everything in your power to reassure sal about his aspect as the years passed and now you were happy to say it mostly worked. he had grown much more comfortable, often having his mask off when your friend group gathered for movie nights and hangouts at your shared house or the apartments.

“wait…” sal muttered as he pulled away. you could see his scarred cheeks turned a nice shade of pink, giving his pale skin some colour. you had two hair ties on your wrist, ones that you got after taking out sal’s pigtails so you could play with his hair as you kissed him. your hands rested on the sides of his face.

“what is it?” you looked around, thinking he had heard something in the woods surrounding the lake. sal’s fingers dig into your waist and you turn around to face him again.

“what if someone comes by? maybe we should stop…” sal’s blue eyes look into yours as you smile in relief. you twirl a strand of his hair around your index finger, brushing his bangs away from his eyes.

“do you.. want to stop?” you ask as you keep caressing his face. sal’s ears turn a bright red as he exhales sharply, fingers tapping on your lower back.

“no…” he whispers softly, smiling as he hears your chuckle ring in his ears. his eyes soften, lips finding yours again as he pulls you closer, enough so he can press his torso on yours. your hands pull his hair slightly, making sal groan and deepen the kiss.

the calm breeze blew against your faces as the lake’s water glistened in the moonlight. sal starts to grow touchy, hands pulling at your hoodie and caressing your thighs. you feel the heat surge through your whole body, now aware that it has been a long time since sally had touched you. you realise how needy he is acting in return.

to test the waters you decide to slowly grind your hips against his thigh, just in case he asks you to stop. that was proven to be useless, however, when he decides to push his knee upwards into your cunt, eliciting a choked moan from you. you pull away from the kiss with a gasp as your eyes meet his.

“don’t stop.. it’s okay….” sal reassures softly as he pecks the side of your chin, guiding your hips with his hands. you bite into your lip, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you stabilise yourself by placing your palms on his shoulders. you soon realise the reason sally wanted to stop kissing you was because of the growing boner that was now pressing against your legs.

as thin as his thighs are you can’t help but whine as he flexes them, wet kisses being applied to your neck as you continue to grind your hips faster, harder, pushing yourself down on him “shit.. sally…” you mewl against the shell of his ear as his body shivers, his nails digging into your skin.

“i know… i know, baby..” his comforting voice goes straight to your heated core and you bite the flesh of your lip again. if you keep doing it, you might draw blood. who cares, anyway? it felt way too good to stop and for some reason you were now the shy one, afraid to make any noise. you knew sal loved hearing you, but you also knew he understood, that he didn’t mind. that all he was chasing was getting you off. and hopefully getting himself off too afterwards, since realising how desperate you were for him.

it doesn’t take long for your legs to start shaking as he starts rubbing your clit through your pants, the circling motion and grinding of your hips making your head spin as you hugged his neck. all sal does is hum contently, trying to ignore his own needs as he tries to help you relieve some stress.

“feel good?” he whispers as he kisses the bare space between your shoulder and neck, sucking a love mark into it.

“mhhmm.. yeah” you breathlessly say as you take a handful of his hair, making him smile. sally knew he wasn’t necessarily a catch, especially in bed. but knowing he got you acting like this was enough of an ego boost.

the kissing, soft praises and grinding all start to become too much for you and you end up cumming in your underwear in minutes, shivering against your boyfriend. as a reward, he makes sure to give you plenty of gentle kisses to your face as you pant “you did so well” sal muses as you look around.

“can we go home? i need you” you almost beg as sally smiles, fixing your hair.

“i think todd and neil are out tonight..” you smile at sal’s insinuation, lips ghosting over his before you pull him into a kiss. never before had you hurried so quickly to gather your belongings and leave the peacefulness of the lake to go back home and spend the night in the arms of your loving boyfriend.

#✦— kinktober.#𐙚 — pages.#𐙚— dreamscape.#sal #sal fisher #sally face #sal fisher x reader #sal x reader #sal fisher x reader smut #sally face x reader #kinktober '23 #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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heizlut · 2 months

Note

Hallo! I am very new to tumblr, so please excuse any mistakes i may make qwq

I really enjoyed your Venti and Kaeya story(ies)! Could you do something similar for Lyney with the addition of a breeking kink? He doesnt have cat ears or a tail like his sister- instead, the feline side of him shows through his obsessive need to breed :x

jshdhdhd i’ve been thinking about this like crazy and i’m so glad we got to clarify a few details over messages before i wrote this! again, welcome to tumblr! i’m so glad you stumbled across my page🫶🏼 (was also totally inspired by the yaoi when writing this lmfao)

Jinx

cw: breeding kink, textured feline tongue, hypnosis, rope-play, mentions of pregnancy

tags: sub fem!reader, dom!lyney with recessive feline traits, mostly proofread

a/n: here's a lil translation for the pet names- "mon chaton"= my kitten; "mon cherie"= my beloved; "bonne fille"= good girl; “ma bonne fille”= my good girl

nsfw under the cut

m!list here

જ⁀➴✧:･.˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.・જ⁀➴✧:

Ever since becoming his girlfriend, Lyney found he had a particular jinx; all because one evening he fucked you so hard backstage before his performance, filling you so full of his sticky cum, and his show ended up being the greatest one yet. The next performance, he wanted to test out his little theory; fucking his cock into your tight cunt til his cum was leaking out and dripping down your thighs. Lyney had yet another show stopping performance.

When he told you his theory, you had simply laughed, “Seems like you just want to relieve some pre-show nerves. I doubt it’s some type of jinx, my love.” The cute little pout on Lyney’s face made it hard to take him seriously. You give him a kiss on the cheek, “I don’t mind this little routine though. If it means getting fucked so full of you before a show, I’ll do it.”

Tonight was a performance that Lyney knew he couldn’t fuck up. It was meant to be another show stopper with prominent Fontaine guests in the audience. You made your way to his dressing room as you usually did. Lyney was seated at his vanity touching up his hair when he saw your reflection behind him in the mirror. The corners of his lips curl upwards, “There she is~”

You smirk in response, “I have something special for you tonight…Master Lyney~” Lyney turned his body in his chair to face you as you begin to undo the buttons of your dress. The soft material slips off your body, revealing a red lacy lingerie set with a black garter belt that matched his. Lyney’s lips part, taking in every inch of you with his violet eyes. Lyney almost wanted to curse his innate feline genes for almost pouncing on you right then and there. The way you looked right now and using that title he'd teased you with before was almost too much for him to bear. He wanted to be able to take his time with you, or at least as much time as he could before he had to make his way to the stage.

Lyney gets up from his seat, sauntering over to you with a sultry look in his eyes. His fingers reach out, tracing the lacy edges of your lingerie, "Look at my sweet girl dressed so provocatively... Wearing my extra garter belt no less." He runs his finger under one of the straps and pulls it back and releases, letting it lightly slap back against your skin. Your breath catches in your throat as he does so. Arousal pooling against the thin fabric of your panties when he leans in, his lips grazing yours as he speaks in a low tone, "I have something special for you too, mon chaton~" Lyney backs away from you, the lingering touch from his lips sets you ablaze with desire.

Lyney digs through his pocket and pulls out a carnelian pendulum with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Be a sweetheart for me and keep your eyes on crystal, yes?" You draw your bottom lip between your teeth and nod, fixing your gaze on the pendulum. Your eyes follow the swinging pendulum as Lyney begins to speak, "Relax your mind and your body... Focus on the sound of my voice..." He continues on as you feel your mind go blank. He smirks at your dazed expression, now having you fully under.

He softly caressed your cheek, running the pad of his thumb across your soft lips, "Be a good girl and get the purple rope, yes?" All you can do is nod and follow his instructions. Lyney's cock twitches as he watches you bring back the rope he requested. He takes it from you hands and moves behind you, his lips against your ear, "Arms behind your back, mon cherie~" Of course, you comply. His voice filling your mind like a sweet melody that was only meant for you alone. A tingling sensation pricks at your skin as the ropes loop through your arms just tight enough for you to be forced to stay in that position, unable to touch him.

Lyney's fingers trace your skin as he moves to the front of you, admiring how gorgeous you looked. He takes hold of the straps of your pretty bra between his digits, using his pyro vision to carefully singe them just enough to let a piece of them burn away. The straps fall loose to your back and he singes the front connecting the cups. Your perky breasts are left exposed to his lustful gaze as the bra makes a soft noise when it lands on the dressing room floor. You squirm a little in your spot as the need between your legs begins to consume you. Your eyes stuck on his violet ones that burn with deep desire, "Be still, mon chaton."

Your lips part as you let a soft moan slip when Lyney cups your breasts in his nimble hands. He squeezes and massages them, mesmerized by the way the plushness squishes between his fingers. He lowers himself and leans forward taking one pebbled nipple into his mouth; his rough feline tongue flicking and swirling around it. Your body tries to fight against the hypnosis, desperate to tangle your fingers in his hair as his rough tongue does its work on your body.

Leaving your breasts sore and swollen, Lyney kisses down your body softly til he's eye level with your clothed cunt. His eyes flit up to your face, pleased to see you looking so needy. He taps your thigh twice, "Spread out so I can enjoy my pre-performance meal." You comply, taking a small step to the side to give him more room. Lyney smirks, "Bonne fille..." He places his hands on your thighs and licks a stripe through your thin panties. He lets out a broken groan at the scent and taste of you as your arousal soaked the material. Lyney tugs at the panties until they rip and glide down, now hanging loosely around one ankle.

Your moans fill the small dressing room as he dives in between your folds, lapping up your juices with his rough tongue. His grip tightens on your thighs as you shake with pleasure; his tongue relentless against your sensitive clit. White hot pleasure courses through you as you cum on his tongue, making him snarl as he overstimulates you, unable to get enough of your taste. "Please, Master Lyney~!" you cry out, feeling as though your legs are about to give out from underneath you. The title you give him and the way you taste and smell kicks his feline instincts into full gear. Lyney needed to breed you.

Lyney straightens up and tugs you by your garter belt to his vanity. He bends you slightly and tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling your head up to look at the reflection of you both in his mirror. "Oh, mon chaton... See the way you look right now? I simply can't resist~", he chuckles as you whimper when you're forced to look at how dazed and desperate you are for him. He undoes his pants, tugging them down just enough for his twitching cock to bob free against your ass.

Lyney's hands travel down your curves and to your round ass, giving your cheeks a light squeeze. He spreads them apart, giving himself a better view of your leaky pussy. He moves his hips, letting his fat pink tip rub against your cunt and gather your arousal. Lyney stills himself, his tip pushed against your wet entrance as he leans over, locking eyes with you in the reflection, "Keep your eyes on us." Unable to do anything other than what he says, your eyes widen as a pretty cry leaves your lips as he pushes himself inside of you.

His fingers dig into the fat of your hips as he fucks into you deep and hard. Lyney completely loses it when he sees your eyes flutter and drool slips from the corner of your mouth as you keep your eyes on the lewd display. His pace becomes harsh as the tip of his thick cock bullies your insides over and over, "Need to breed you nice and full... Need to see your cute stomach swell with my children- Fuck, mon amour...-" His hips stutter when he sees the white ring of cum that had formed at the base of his cock. Lyney lets out a breathy chuckle, running his fingers though his hair, “Creaming around my cock? You must really want me to breed you, huh”

You’re so fucked out the only way you can respond is by moaning over and over. You looked angelic and so fucking slutty that when your eyes crossed in pleasure and your tits bounced in time with his thrusts, Lyney releases a whiny moan. With a final thrust, his hot cum floods your fluttering pussy. His cock throbs as he regains his senses, groaning as he pulls out and his cum begins to leak from your cunt.

As much as the sight of his cum leaking from you filled his ego, Lyney needed it to take. Quickly grabbing a silicone prop, he pushes it inside your pussy with a curved smile, "You shouldn't let my seed go to waste. We need to keep you stuffed full 'til my cum takes..." Your eyes meet his devious ones in the vanity mirror, still looking for more. A sudden knock on the door causes Lyney to snap from his thoughts as Lynette's voice sounds from the other side, "Lyney, it's time."

"I'll be there in a moment!", he calls back and then lets out a sigh. His gaze returning to your dazed one. Your were still under his hypnosis... Lyney's voice is saccharine when he speaks his next words, "Sit still at my vanity and don't even think about covering up or fucking yourself on the prop that's keeping my cum in you." A sly smile forms on his lips when you let out a small whimper when you sit, making the silicone prop push deeper inside of you. Lyney presses a slow kiss to your lips and smiles, "Ma bonne fille..." He readjusts his clothes and fixes his hair one last time before heading out for his grand performance,

And what a performance it was. A standing ovation, thrown flowers covering the stage, and raving reviews from the prominent figures of Fontaine; all thanks to you. Lyney walks back to his dressing room and his lips curl up when his gaze lands on your shaking, restrained body still sat as his vanity as your own arousal had pooled in the chair. You were his lucky charm, his special jinx; and oh how he would reward you for being so perfect.... Breeding you time and time again.

જ⁀➴✧:･.˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.・જ⁀➴✧:

a/n: i turned myself on just writing this lol also plz if you’ve read the yaoi i referenced, let’s be friends lmao

#lyney smut #lyney x reader smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #lyney x reader #genshin lyney #genshin impact lyney

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munson-blurbs · 7 months

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Summary: A trip to the thrift store becomes overwhelming for Harris, and you and Eddie have to work as a team. But the real test of your relationship's strength is the crisis that unfolds days later.

Warnings: financial insecurity, school lock-in, missing child, police presence, mention of kidnapping, mention of drug addiction, blood (no gore)

WC: 8.5k

Chapter 19/20

Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie has already been awake for two hours when the phone rings. One part of parenthood that he hadn’t anticipated is that children do not understand the concept of weekends. Harris had flung himself out of his racecar bed promptly at 6:30 in the morning, crawling under Eddie’s sheets and poking his nose until he woke up.

“Har, go back to sleep,” Eddie had grumbled, the last word extended in a whine. One cheek was smushed against his pillow, muffling his complaint. “It’s Saturday; you don’t have school.”

In response, Harris pursed his lips into a perfect pout and used his thumb to peel Eddie’s eyelid open, getting as close to his face as possible. His morning breath was tinged with the scent of chocolate; Eddie groggily made a mental note to better supervise his nighttime teeth brushing routine.

“‘M hungry.”

That’s how Eddie finds himself pouring his third cup of coffee while his son keeps his eyes glued to the TV screen, watching Doug stutter and stammer in front of Patti. Eddie smiles, a blush creeping into his cheeks when he realizes that that’s probably what he looks like around you.

“‘Lo?” He cradles the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, wincing as he clumsily clinks the carafe into place. There isn’t enough coffee left to slosh over the side, a small miracle in and of itself, although he’ll have to brew some more if the caffeine doesn’t kick in soon.

“Hey, baby.” Your voice is sleepy yet sweet, smoothing all the creases of the morning. “Did I wake you up?”

Eddie laughs and takes a sip from his favorite mug, the one that proudly declares #1 Dad. It’s stained and chipped, but he’ll never throw it out. Wayne had bought it for him on his very first Father’s Day; ironically, Eddie had bought him a #1 Grandpa mug that year, probably from the same kiosk at the mall.

“Not even close,” he says, tongue flicking to the corner of his lip to catch the drip of coffee that’s pooled in the crevice. “Someone was up bright and early this morning.” His gaze flits over to the bowl of Cheerios snug between Harris’s criss-crossed legs, mostly uneaten despite his earlier protests that would make an outsider believe he was starving. “How was your sleep?” he asks, swinging back to your conversation.

You switch the phone from one ear to the other. “It was good. Would’ve been better if you were next to me, though,” you add, twirling the cord around your forefinger. If you could, you would capture the safety of his embrace and bottle it, releasing a bit each time you craved his gentle touch. “I might’ve even let you be the little spoon.”

He balks at this with a playful scoff, nearly spilling his coffee with the sudden movement. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles, licking the side of the mug before the bitter liquid can slide off and hit the ground. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Admittedly, his skepticism is rooted in truth; whenever you do get the chance to cuddle in bed, he’s always the one wrapping his arm around your waist, often taking the opportunity to snake a hand up your shirt and let the pads of his fingers brush over your breasts. It isn’t always a display of sexuality or desire–though you can’t say you mind that–but a connection, a way of ensuring that you stay close.

“Just a few more weeks until we get to find out for ourselves,” you tease, though he needs no reminding. Only sixteen days remain until you officially move in together, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s counting down. “Speaking of which,” you continue, glancing at the clock, “I was wondering if you and Harris wanted to do some furniture shopping for his new room.” You knew that he would be keeping his racecar bed; it’s unlikely he’ll part with it until he’s outgrown it completely. “Y’know, a new dresser or nightstand or something.”

There’s an extended pause on Eddie’s side of the line. You think the call dropped and are about to hang up and redial when you hear him say, “I, um…I don’t get paid until next week…” He nervously scratches the countertop with one fingernail.

“Oh.” You grapple with a response, trying to strike a balance of empathy without condescension. “Well, I was going to surprise you, but I sold some of Grandma’s old—”

“No way,” Eddie interjects, firmly but not harshly. “I’m not having you spend your money on me. We can just wait until payday.”

“I want to buy this for Harris. I…I probably should have cleared out Grandma’s room months ago, but I couldn’t. I mean, I could, but it felt wrong because I had nothing to put in its place.” You don’t care that you’re babbling on, forging ahead with your impromptu monologue. “It would’ve been too empty, but with you and Harris here, it won’t be empty anymore.”

Eddie tucks his thumbnail between his teeth. “Are you sure?” he prods, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

“Positive.” You’re much more assured in your reply. “If she knew Harris before she got sick, she would’ve spoiled the hell out of him, anyway.” The moment she saw him happily digging into the Oreos, she would have ensured that the cupboard remained stocked with Double Stuf. “In a way, s’like she gets to spoil him now.”

You can sense Eddie’s resistance tempering with an audible exhale. “He’s an easy kid to love, that’s for sure,” he muses, buying time to process the influx of emotions flooding his body. There’s the obvious gratitude that you’re so eager to take care of his son, but it’s cut with the insecurity of him not being able to do so. If you’re going to buy Harris furniture, it should be because you want to, not because he can’t. What if you hold this against him? What if, in the future, there’s an argument and you fire back with a retort about his shortcomings as a father?

Except…you have never done that. Ever. Not that night in the emergency room, or when you’d found out about the CPS report filed that evening. Not even when Eddie had made it his personal mission to tear you down, pulling insults from the depths and hurling them at you with reckless abandon.

You hadn’t brought up the way he’d helplessly panicked when confronted with the possibility of Harris’s learning disability, or how he’d let anxiety overtake him when he officially received a classification. With everything the two of you had endured, you’d never once echoed his anxieties about his parenting abilities; it was quite the opposite. With you by his side, he feels as though he can take on whatever challenge life chucks at him.

“Eds? Is everything okay?” Your tone is thick with concern; Eddie realizes that you probably think you’ve upset him. “We don’t have to go—we can do something else, or—”

“Sweet girl,” he says in one exhale, both to reassure you and to remind himself that you’re his, and he’s yours. Love surges through the phone lines when he speaks. “We can pick you up in an hour, if that works? I should be able to wrangle Harris by then.”

“Y’sure?” And, Christ, how his heart sinks when you shrink inward, reflexively making yourself smaller when you’re worried that you’ve offended someone.

Eddie doesn’t answer you directly, instead, calls out his son’s name. “Hey, Harris?” He frowns when Harris completely ignores him in favor of watching the cartoon. Using his free hand, he cups his mouth in a makeshift megaphone, amplifying his voice. “Harris Wayne Munson!”

The sudden sound jolts him out of his TV-induced stupor. “Huh?”

“Go get dressed and brush your teeth; we’re gonna go shopping with Ms. Sweetheart!” Eddie grins as Harris turns to him with a wide smile of his own. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Harris jumps up without further hesitation, inadvertently tossing his bowl from the makeshift table of his legs. Milk splatters, instantly soaking into the carpet, and the Cheerios topple out and land in a soggy pile. “Nooo, my bref-ist!” His big eyes well up with tears. “Daddy, you made me drop my bref-ist!”

“You, uh, wanna deal with that?” You can’t hide your amusement at the usual Munson chaos.

“Probably should, huh?” Eddie jokes back, stretching the phone cord as far as he can and reaching for the paper towel roll. “I love you, babe. See you in a bit.”

“I love you, Eds,” you tell him. “And Harris, too, of course.”

Some more static and shuffling; then, an energetic voice greets you. “Hi Ms. Sweetheart! Daddy made me drop my bref-ist,” the little boy reports.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Har.” You’ve perfected the art of mustering up sympathy for children’s not-soearth-shattering issues, a skill that every preschool teacher must possess. “Why don’t you help him clean up? That way, I can see you even faster.”

Harris pauses, mulling over his options. “Yeah, okay! Gotta go! Bye!”

You hear the clunk of him struggling to replace the phone on the hook, followed by Eddie saying, “Let me say good-bye before you hang—” click.

Pulling your own receiver from your ear, you stare at it with mild amusement. Never a dull moment with my boys.

Your boys drive up to your building just over an hour later. You stand up from the bench outside the entrance and smooth down your shorts where they’ve creased.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” Eddie lets the pet name roll off of his tongue. He wants to kiss you as you slide into the passenger seat, but he withholds his affection for Harris’s sake. It seems silly, considering you’ll all be living together, but he doesn’t know how his son will react to the romance aspect of it. Will he be happy? Excited? Disgusted by any display of affection?

You give his hand a subtle squeeze, turning around to greet Harris. “Ready to shop till we drop?”

“Till we drop?” Harris wrinkles his nose, glancing between you and his dad. “Why would we drop?”

“It’s just an expression,” you explain, catching a glimpse of the smile tugging at the corners of Eddie’s mouth. “Just means that we’re going to shop until we’re too tired to shop anymore.”

“I never get tired,” Harris declares, sticking his legs straight out so his flexed feet push up against the back of the driver’s seat, nudging Eddie slightly forward. “Grampa Wayne calls me an ‘Energizer Bunny.’” He bounces up and down in his booster seat to prove his point.

Eddie reaches his right arm around, keeping his left firmly gripping the wheel, as he moves Harris’s feet from where they’re planted into his lower back. “So, Har,” he starts, easing his weight onto the brake as he approaches a red light, “we’re gonna look for a new dresser for you, and maybe a nightstand.” He takes a deep breath as he delivers the news: “That means we’re not making any pit stops for toys. Got it?”

You want to interject, to let Eddie know that you don’t mind splurging on a small treat for Harris, but you bite it back. Whether or not you have the spare funds is irrelevant: this is the boundary he’s set for his son, and you have to respect it, regardless of your desire to spoil him.

Harris, however, does not accept the announcement as readily. “Not even, like, a little one?” he presses, holding his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Even if I’m really, really good?” He gives a hopeful smile, eyes blinking expectantly.

Eddie looks at you, serving as your cue to provide your input. You nod your approval, trying to hide your delight in being asked to make a parenting decision, regardless of how menial it may seem. He peers up through the rearview mirror at his son’s waiting face. “If you’re really, really good,” he acquiesces, features pinching into a grimace when Harris’s exuberant squeal echoes through the sedan. “You have to use your inside voice and stay next to us the whole time. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harris confirms. “Deal, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Deal.” Laughter bubbles up inside you and you let it spill out uninhibited. You know that telling a child he can get a toy is an easy part of parenthood, but you silently swear to never take for granted being included in that choice. Harris joins you, though he’s not quite sure why he’s laughing, but your joy is contagious.

You lean your head against the car window, listening to the buzz of the radio filling the silence. Harris hums along, more on-key than the average five-year-old, which you can safely attribute to him having a musician for a dad.

“I’m not getting a new bed, right?” Harris says with sudden urgency. “Because I wanna keep my racecar bed.”

“Mhm,” you affirm, smiling when Harris relaxes back against the headrest. “Your racecar bed will be in your new room, don’t you worry.”

“Okay.” That response satisfies him until he thinks up another question. “An’ you’re bringing your bed, Daddy?”

Eddie chuckles as he pulls into the Goodwill parking lot. He picks a spot close to the store, right next to a green Ford with a faded “Clinton ‘96” bumper sticker. “Um, no. I’m not bringing my bed.”

“So are you getting a new bed?” His eyes dart from side to side as he assesses the size of the car. “Where’s it gonna fit?”

“I’m, uh, not buying a new bed, either.” Eddie kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, swiveling to face Harris, who is more confused than ever. “Ms. Sweetheart and I are going to share her bed.”

Harris kicks his feet, processing this new information. “But you didn’t get married yet,” he points out, “so how can you share a bed?”

You rest your palm on Eddie’s forearm in quiet reassurance. “Some people share a bed before they get married,” you explain simply, knowing that less is often more when talking to young children.

“When are you gonna get married?” he asks, more curious than meddling. “Because it’s taking forever. My friends’ mommies and daddies are already married.”

Eddie doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Harris essentially referred to you as his mommy; instead, he slowly exhales. “I’d like to marry Ms. Sweetheart someday, and I think she’d like to marry me, too.” He looks over at you with a sheepish grin, and you give his hand an agreeing squeeze. “But, for now, we’re just going to try out living together. How does that sound?”

“I guess that’s okay.” Harris isn’t completely thrilled with his dad’s response, but he relents anyway.

“While, we’re, uh, on the subject,” Eddie continues, the tips of his ears flushing pink as he carefully considers his words. He chews on the inside of his lower lip. Is he really doing this? Is he opening his son up to this relationship? “You know that Ms. Sweetheart and I love each other very much, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes,” Eddie continues with only some trepidation, “sometimes, when grown-ups love each other a lot, they hold hands o-or kiss. Would that be weird for you? If Ms. Sweetheart and I held hands, or kissed?”

You avert your gaze, partly from bashfulness but mostly so Harris doesn’t feel any pressure from either of you.

The little boy looks at the car’s ceiling, centering his focus on the overhead lighting. Finally, with utmost certainty, he declares, “just no tongue-kissing.”

You snort out a laugh while Eddie goes bright red and sputters, “where did you learn about that?”

“Young and Restless,” Harris reports nonchalantly.

Eddie rubs his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his lids until his vision blurs. “Remind me to tell Wayne to stop letting him watch the soaps,” he grumbles to you, turning back to his son. “Yeah, no tongue-kissing.”

You easily lace your fingers with Eddie’s as you walk through the front doors of the Goodwill. Harris starts making a beeline for the toys, but Eddie uses his free hand to pivot him in the direction of the furniture department. Harris huffs but complies, trudging alongside you.

There’s a bright blue nightstand on display that immediately catches his eye. “Look!” he points, smiling so wide that all of his baby teeth are on display, “can I get it? Please?”

Eddie smiles warily, flipping over the white tag hanging from one silver drawer handle. He breathes a small sigh of relief when he sees the price is within the range of what he’d like to spend; rather, what he’d be comfortable asking you to spend.

“Looks like we’ve got a winner,” he says, posture straightening with the announcement. He runs his fingertips over the surface, checking for any chipping paint or splintering wood, but the finish appears to be intact. “I’ll go tell someone to set it aside for us.”

He sets off in search of an employee, leaving you alone with Harris. You swallow the nervousness building in your throat. You spend nearly every day taking care of children, but you’re suddenly inundated with the memory of losing him at the flea market. Those few minutes when you couldn’t locate him were some of the scariest of your life.

And yet, it hadn’t prevented Eddie from giving you another chance.

“Are you excited to move in with me, Har?” you ask, reaching out to ruffle his curls.

He nods, then looks straight up at you so that you’re staring at his nostrils. “Ms. Sweetheart?” The position of his neck changes his voice’s pitch so it’s froggy. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Can you marry my daddy?” His eyes shine with potential. “And then you can be my mommy for real?”

You crouch down to his height, heart melting at his request. “Harris, I love your daddy very, very much. And I love you very, very much, too.” You poke his nose gently, and he giggles. “Being married is a big responsibility—”

“‘Sponsibility?”

“Mhm. Responsibility. It means a really important job.” You slide your heart pendant across the chain on your neck anxiously. “And your daddy and I want to make sure that we’re ready for that kind of responsibility before we do anything, okay?”

Harris nods, but you can tell from his crinkled nose and furrowed brows that he doesn’t fully understand. You can’t blame him; it’s an abstract concept, one that even you often have trouble comprehending. “But I can tell you one thing: whenever your daddy wants to propose, I’ll say ‘yes.’” You smile at the thought of Eddie asking you to be his wife.

“Is that where he gets down on one knee and asks ‘Will you marry me?’” You’re about to respond when he adds, “and then someone runs in and yells about being their long-lost ‘dentical twin?”

Yeah, no more soap operas for Harris.

Finding a dresser proves to be a much more difficult task than picking out the nightstand. Everything that Harris likes is out of budget, and everything within budget is too worn down or small. There’s one that’s in good condition and isn’t too pricey, but it’s covered in hand-painted unicorns.

“That’s for girls!” Harris groans, stomping his feet. The last word is stretched in a whine. “I can’t have girl stuff!”

“We can paint over it. Whatever color you want,” you quickly jump in, trying to avoid a meltdown, but your efforts are fruitless. Fat tears stream down his cheeks; he’s already determined that the dresser is tainted.

“No! No, no, no!” he howls, throwing himself on the floor. He smacks down on his tailbone, fanning his tantrum’s flames. He quiets for a moment, too shocked to cry, but then he’s screaming louder than before.

It’s as though he’s lost control of his body, arms and legs knocking into the lower shelves without care. You can’t block him in time before he knocks over a lamp—a Nickelodeon-themed one that would have been perfect in his new room, ironically—and it shatters on the ground. Ceramic splinters, scattering across the linoleum like roaches in the light.

People start to stare, some with sympathetic looks, and some glare angrily at the child daring to interrupt their shopping. Eddie’s face blazes, vision swimming as he wracks his brain for a solution.

You’re faster, slapping a few bills into Eddie’s palm and jolting him from his thoughts. He watches you scoop Harris off of the floor, trying to avoid his flailing limbs.

“Go get the nightstand and pay for the lamp,” you tell him, straightforward and precise. “I’ll get him to the car and calm him down. Keys?”

Eddie blinks, the information swirling around him but not quite penetrating the surface. It’s when you hoist Harris onto one hip and balance his weight in one hand, using the other to make a ‘gimme’ motion that it registers.

“Y-Yeah, sorry.” Eddie fumbles for the car keys and tosses them to you, the two of you working in tandem. A well-oiled machine. You nod gratefully, wincing as Harris’s foot makes contact with your thigh. “I’ll be right out.”

You’re able to bring him to the car, struggling to unlock it and hold on to Harris. After a few failed attempts, you manage to open the passenger door and sit him on the seat.

“Harris, hey, Harris?” you start, keeping your voice soft and even while trying to pull his attention. His sobs are slowing down but he’s definitely breathing too rapidly for your comfort. “Hey, bud. You’re okay, all right?” You extend your hand and he tentatively places his own palm on top of it. “You wanna give my hand a squeeze?”

He does it, the motion grounding him enough that he can focus on your body in front of him. You don’t want to touch him, knowing that his senses are already overstimulated from the tantrum. Instead, you relax as his squeezing grows stronger and his breaths gradually even out.

“There ya go, Har. Just like that.” You smile warmly. “That was a really big feeling, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” His voice shakes and hiccups. He swipes at the tears on his cheeks, smudging them into his skin.

You reach into the center console and grab a tissue, wiping the mucus from his nose and lips. “Good as new.” With no trashcan nearby, you shove the used Kleenex into your pants pocket. “Can you tell me what made you so mad in there?”

“D-Don’t want girl…girl st-stuff,” he stutters through ragged breaths.

There’s a time and place to discuss the optics of categorizing interests into ‘boy’ and ‘girl,’ but you know better than to have that conversation now. “Oof, that’s why you were angry! That’s a lot to handle.” You gingerly tuck a curl behind his ear. “But, Harris, did you see what happened when you started hitting and kicking?” He shakes his head. “Well, you knocked over a lamp and it broke. You could have gotten hurt, or someone else could have gotten hurt.”

Harris’s face falls as you speak, absorbing what you’re explaining. “I-I didn’t mean to,” he sniffles. “‘M sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you sigh, “sometimes, when we have big feelings like getting angry, we do things we shouldn’t without even realizing.” You pause for a moment, biting your lip as you consider your words. “Do you want to hear what helps me when I have really big feelings and I can’t scream and cry?”

“Mhm.” He nods again, little tongue peeking out to swipe up the tears above his mouth.

“I take a deep breath and close my eyes,” you start, demonstrating both actions. Inhale for three, exhale for three, and repeat. “And then I picture myself being in my favorite place in the world.” You smile at him, blinking back the sadness that comes with memories of holidays at Grandma’s. “Wanna try it together?”

Harris responds by closing his eyes and breathing in slowly. “Good job, Har,” you softly praise him. “Now breathe out; make sure you’re thinking of your favorite place, okay?”

“Thinkin’ about the zoo,” he whispers, voice raspy from shrieking for so long. “Daddy taked me there and we saw so much animals.”

“Zoos are a lot of fun,” you agree with a laugh. “I’ve never been to the one in Hawkins. Maybe we can go over the summer?”

“Yeah! I wanna show you the flamingos!” His grin stretches across his cheeks “Do you like flamingos?”

Like most people, you don’t have a strong opinion on flamingos, but you respond with an enthusiastic, “I love them!”

“Love who?” Eddie’s voice breaks into the conversation. He’s rolling out the nightstand in a cart, keeping one hand on top of it to hold it steady. “Me?”

You laugh, opening up the back door so he can wedge the furniture next to Harris’s booster seat. “Yes, Eddie. I love you very much, don’t worry,” you tease, seizing the opportunity to inconspicuously check him out. His biceps flex as he maneuvers the nightstand, and you have to tear your gaze from his denim-clad ass when he stands up and triumphantly wipes his hands on his pants.

“C’mere.” He pulls you in, pursing his lips in an exaggerated pout and planting a smacking kiss on you.

While you giggle, Harris is not as amused. He claps his hands over his eyes and groans.

“No tongue-kissing!”

You’re wrapping up storytime, your students fidgeting with their shoelaces—some fidgeting with their friend’s shoelaces—eager to move onto the corresponding art activity Will has planned.

“Okay, we’re going to use our walking—” Your announcement is cut short by Principal Sinclair’s voice coming over the loudspeaker. Her tone is typically warm and excited, but the way she speaks so sternly sends chills through your entire body.

“This is a lock-in. All staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified. I repeat, all staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified.”

You breathe out, though you’re still concerned about the cause of the lock-in. It’s usually some kind of medical issue that requires emergency services to have unblocked access through the halls. You hope that whatever it is isn’t life-threatening.

Will locks the door wordlessly, and you repeat your directions to the class. The kids walk to their seats, asking non-stop about what a lock-in means.

“We just have to stay in the classroom,” you find yourself repeating, losing patience with each iteration. You’re thankful for small miracles; your class has already gone out for recess, which means you don’t have to break that news to them.

Will is helping the kids glue multicolored strands of crepe paper in the shape of a rainbow, complete with cotton ball clouds. You’re unclogging a bottle of Elmer’s when the classroom phone rings, startling you. You place the glue bottle on the table, promising Joshua that you’ll be right back, and answer it.

“Hello?”

“We need you to come to the office immediately,” the secretary’s clipped voice informs you. “Bring your personal items. We’ll send someone to assist Will.”

Stupidly, you nod before remembering she can’t see you. “Y-Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” You hang up, tell Will the plan, and bolt out the door.

What the hell is going on? Why are they having me break the lock-in to go to the office? You hike your purse higher up your shoulder, trying to ignore the dread pooling in your stomach and creeping up your throat.

Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

Your feet can’t carry you fast enough. You nearly stop breathing when you see Eddie pacing in the lobby, Marion and Paula standing off to the side and speaking with Chief Hopper. The two teachers wear matching worried expressions.

As soon as Eddie spots you, he’s charging over. “Oh, thank God,” he murmurs, throwing his arms around you and hugging you tight. You can feel the tears falling from his eyes, wetting the crook of your neck. His hands squeeze against your back and your shoulder blades as his body is wracked with sobs.

You weave your fingers through his hair, holding him as close as you can. You’re desperate to know what’s going on, but you doubt he could explain if he tried. Instead, you continue comforting him while Principal Sinclair walks over.

Her strides are long and purposeful, and she meets your own terrified gaze with her own. “Harris went missing during recess,” she says quietly, “and Mr. Munson let us know that you might be an asset in locating him.”

Harris went missing. Bile inches up your esophagus and you swallow it, wincing at its burn. “Why would he—” You stop mid-sentence; his motive is not important right now. All of your focus needs to be on finding him.

Chief Hopper approaches you and Eddie, tapping your boyfriend on the shoulder with two fingers. Eddie looks up, wipes his face with the heel of his palm, and clears his throat, but a fresh batch of tears threatens to spill over anyway.

“We’ve just collected statements from his teachers,” Hopper reports, looking down at his notepad. “They said that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that Harris was just playing with his friends one moment and then gone the next.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No, something had to have happened.” Harris had wandered off plenty of times, like at the flea market. The difference was that he was easily found. “If you haven’t found him, then he’s either hiding, or someone…” The thought is too painful to finish.

Hopper looks over at the principal. “You’re certain that the playground is secure?” He asks her, not accusing, but waiting for confirmation.

“Yes, absolutely secure,” she affirms, nodding her head. “The gate can only be opened from the inside, so no one can access it off of the street.”

You know this, of course, but it doesn't bring you closer to finding Harris.

“We’ve taped off the playground,” Hopper continues, “and we’ve got a search squad going now. Considering that Harris has been diagnosed with a disability, we’re beginning this investigation right away.”

“Mr. Munson,” a second officer chimes in, “is there anyone who would be inclined to take your son? Perhaps a non-custodial parent or an estranged relative?”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “His mom, um, isn’t in the picture. Never has been.”

Hopper cocks one brow. “Never?” he asks disbelievingly. “How soon after he was born did she relinquish her rights?”

“She, um,” Eddie swallows, rubbing his nose in embarrassment, “she never did. Never relinquished her rights, I mean. She just kinda split.”

“So there was no formal agreement that she could no longer be involved in Harris’s life?”

“N-No,” he stammers, shame seeping from every pore. He’d always meant to start the legal proceedings, but that takes time and money…and maybe a small part of him had always hoped she’d come around and do the right thing.

He looks over at you now, the way you’ve stepped into a mothering role like a puzzle piece. Like any parent, you’d made some mistakes, but you’re also the most compassionate person Eddie has ever known.

He thinks of the times he’d tried to make his ex get clean, to want to get clean, and to be there for Harris. The weight of disappointment caused his chest to ache every time she’d mumble, “I’m gonna, but not right now” or “I don’t need help.”

Perhaps it’s unfair to compare the two of you; after all, you hadn’t struggled with addiction. But Eddie can’t help himself. You’d loved Harris before you’d even loved him, he realizes. And he’d never had to ask you to.

“Do you have any contact information for her?” Hopper taps his pen against his notepad. “Nine out of ten times in these situations, the child is with someone they know.”

What about the ‘one’ time? What happens then? Heat pulses in Eddie’s cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t need Hopper to answer the question; he already knows what that means.

“It’s from five years ago, so I don’t know if it’s still accurate.” He stumbles over his words, thinking about the last time he’d called her; it was the invitation to Harris’s birthday. “I don’t know it by heart, but I have it in my address book at home.”

Hopper gives a brusque nod to his colleague and to your boss. “We’ll give you a lift. And, uh, it’ll be good to set up your place as a home base.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Eddie mumbles, simply going through the motions without processing them. He’s on autopilot, a robotic version of himself. If he was able to fully absorb his surroundings, he would note the irony of him sitting in the back of the cop car because they’re helping him instead of escorting him to the county jail.

You don’t let go of his hand the entire ride there, your thumb rubbing the soft hairs on his knuckles. “We’re gonna find him,” you whisper reassuringly, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

But Eddie is too embroiled in his own thoughts, imagining every possible tragedy that could have befallen his son. As soon as Hopper pulls up to the apartment complex, Eddie is flying up the stairs, two at a time, unlocking the door as fast as he can. You run in behind him, watching as he flings loose papers and pens from a kitchen drawer. He’s kicked over the boxes he’s already packed; clothes and some of Harris’s toys are scattered across the floor like a poorly-designed booby-trap.

He holds up the tattered black book, flipping through it until he lands on the right page. “Here. Right here.” He frantically points to an entry at the top, fingertip jabbing into it over and over.

Hopper takes the book from him, careful not to rip the already weathered materials. He dials the digits and frowns when he’s greeted by the automated we’re sorry, this number is no longer in service, far too chipper for the circumstances. He tries once more in case he dialed incorrectly, but he gets the same message.

“Disconnected,” he says gruffly, hanging the receiver with a clank. “Is there anyone else?”

Eddie can only shake his head somberly. If Wayne got Harris from school early, he would have told him. He wasn’t even sure how much of Harris’s maternal family knew of his existence, let alone his location. If someone took his son, it was more than likely a complete stranger.

Hopper’s walkie crackles with static; you and Eddie stiffen with anticipation. “Hey, Chief?” comes from the garbled voice on the other end.

“I’m here.”

“We’ve got a kid here at the school who says he spoke with Harris Munson right before he went missing today.”

Eddie stands up, walking closer to Hopper. Part of you expects him to grab the walkie and try talking straight to the other officer, but he doesn’t.

Hopper presses the small black button and speaks. “Copy. Does he know where we might locate him?”

There’s a deafening silence for a few moments; no more than ten seconds pass, but it feels like a lifetime. Finally, there’s some information: “No known location; just says that Harris told him he was having ‘big feelings’ and needed to go to his favorite place.’”

“The zoo,” you murmur aloud, drawing confused looks from both men in the room. “When he got upset on Saturday—at Goodwill—I taught him to do some deep breathing and picture being in his favorite place, and he told me it was the zoo. But I…” you swallow, furrowing your brows, “I told him to picture it, not actually go there.”

“Zoo’s too far for him to walk, and no bus driver is going to let a kid that young ride by himself,” the chief points out.

You nod, biting your lower lip. “He might not be at the zoo, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to get there.”

Hopper thanks the other officer and turns to you and Eddie. My guys are deploying the search party as we speak.” He takes a deep breath and makes direct eye contact with you and Eddie. “We’ll do everything we can to bring your son back safely.”

Eddie buries his head in his hands, collapsing back against the living room wall and sliding down to the floor.

You look over at the police chief. “Can we help? Join the search…or something?” Anything besides sitting around and waiting for answers.

“Absolutely. We’ll keep an officer stationed here in case Harris comes home.”

You nudge your foot against Eddie’s. “C’mon, babe.” You try to keep strength behind your words, to be what Eddie needs right now, but it gets harder with each passing second. “We’re gonna go look for him.” He looks up and notices that you’ve extended your hand, and he takes it, pulling himself up.

He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you and Hopper out the door. He’s gnawing on his lips so violently that some skin peels off between his teeth; flecks of blood dotting his usually perfect mouth.

“We’ve got some time before sunset, so that’s on our side,” Hopper says as he drives back the way he came. “We’ll start in the woods near the school, and we’ll move from there.” He peers back at the two of you through the rearview mirror with a determined gaze.

“My uncle,” Eddie says suddenly, no certain expression on his face. He’s practically catatonic when he talks. “I want Wayne to wait at the apartment. I need to tell him…” If Harris does return home first and sees police officers surrounding the place, he might get scared and run off again.

Hopper scratches at his beard. “We’ll let him know, all right? Don’t worry about that.” He radios the instructions to a colleague, who confirms them and signs off, before pulling into a grassy area and killing the engine. “Let’s go. If Harris is going to come out for anyone, it’ll be you two.” He slams his door and then helps you and Eddie out of the backseat.

Before you can even begin, you hear a group of people shouting Eddie’s name. You look over to see Jeff, Jess, and Robin waving and walking towards you.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Robin says, giving you and Eddie a hug. “We’re gonna help you, and we’re not leaving until we find him.”

Jeff offers a tight smile, one hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We’re here for you man,” he promises, sincerity in its purest form. “Viv is gonna stop by later and I’ll take care of Ettie.”

It’s a kind gesture, but Eddie’s stomach sours at the thought of still searching later. He needs to know that his son is safe now.

Harris’s name is echoed over and over, bouncing off of trees and shaking the leaves as you and your friends call out for him.

“Harris!” you cry out, throat raw from your constant shouting. “Harris, it’s Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Harris!” Eddie’s voice is even louder than yours; the power behind it is palpable. “Harris, it’s Daddy! Please come out! You’re not in trouble!” he adds, cognizant of the little boy’s fear of making people mad.

Every squirrel that darts across the forest floor has you whipping your head around, heart leaping at the prospect of Harris emerging from where he’s hiding.

He has to be hiding; your mind won’t let you imagine what could happen if the wrong person saw him walking by himself, determined to get to the zoo…

“Harris, Aunt Robin and I will buy you any toy you want!” Jess yells. “And all the ice cream you can eat!”

The five of you take turns making promises to nobody; they’re secrets shared with the wind. Each unanswered call leaves you feeling more defeated, especially with the sun hanging lower in the sky. It will be dark soon, leaving Harris even more vulnerable than he already is.

Will joins the group a few moments later, bringing granola bars, water, and flashlights. You can only stomach about a quarter of your snack, having completely lost your appetite. Eddie doesn’t even bother to eat, fueled by adrenaline rather than food.

“Principal Sinclair is also looking,” Will tells you and Eddie. “She’s with Lucas and Erica over at Merrill Wright’s farm. It’s closer than the zoo, but he’s got some animals, so they wanted to check there.” He pauses, casting his eyes down for a second before looking at Eddie. “Everyone’s helping out with this. They all want to find Harris.”

Tears well up along Eddie’s lash line; he blinks them away to keep his vision clear. “Thanks, man.” He coughs to clear his throat, emotions forcing their way through. “That means a lot.” For a moment, he sees Will as he was when they first met: an overwhelmed little freshman, unsure of his place in high school, let alone in the world.

What if Harris never gets the chance to find himself? What if he doesn’t get to grow up and learn new things, make his own mistakes, figure out who he is?

You put an arm around Eddie, unknowingly pulling him from his intrusive thoughts. “Can you try to drink some water? Please?” You know better than to nag him about eating right now, but the last thing he needs is to get dehydrated.

He cracks open the bottle and takes a few sips, not realizing how thirsty he was until the liquid covers his tongue. He downs it all without taking a breath, the plastic crinkling as he siphons out every last drop of water.

“Take mine,” you tell him, offering it with the best smile you can possibly muster, but he shakes his head.

“You need it, too.” He’s not wrong, but you have no issue letting him drink from your bottle if he’s still thirsty.

You take a sip and pass it to him. “We’ll share.”

Another hour passes, the pink and orange hues becoming deeper purples and reds as the sky darkens with night. Some people start to call it quits, returning home to their own children, breathing secret sighs of relief that they have children to return home to. Your group remains intact; no one is even considering leaving until they physically cannot move any longer.

With just overworked flashlight bulbs illuminating your path, you continue trudging through the woods. Hopper’s shift was over hours ago, but he’s steadfast in his pursuit to find Harris.

Eddie’s exhausted physically and emotionally, feeling like every part of him has been drained and can never be replenished. His son is missing; he might have been kidnapped, and he doesn’t know if or when he’ll see him again. All he wants is to hold him again, to hear his little laugh as he tells a cheesy joke he learned at school, to watch him sound out new words or draw a picture or just fall asleep in his own bed.

Hopper’s walkie crackles; he clutches it tight and holds it so he can hear it clearly.

“Chief, we may have a sighting.”

A light flickers behind Eddie’s eyes; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can’t help himself. He listens intently as the other officer relays the information.

“Doris Driscoll just went outside to let her cats in for the night, and when they didn’t go inside, she went looking. Found them behind a bush, eating crackers out of a little boy’s hands. He told her his name is Harris. Matches the descriptions the father provided.”

Eddie grabs your hand, gripping it with whatever strength he has left. You feel a surge course through your veins as Hopper motions for you to follow him to his car. He turns on his siren and guns it down the road, swerving in and out of traffic to get to the old woman’s house as fast as he can.

Please, please let him be here, you silently pray, subconsciously screwing your eyes shut and holding your breath. The only thing worse than not knowing where he is might just be a false alarm that he’s been found.

Hopper slams on the brakes behind an ambulance parked in front of the Driscoll residence, their open doors allowing the fluorescent lights to stream through. Eddie watches, wide-eyed, as an EMT wheels a stretcher over to it.

A stretcher carrying Harris.

“Harris!” Eddie cries in simultaneous relief, exuberance, and fear. He instinctively reaches for a door handle, quickly remembering that he’s in a cop car and had to wait for Hopper to let him out from the outside.

You’re already crying; everything you’d been holding back to maintain a solid resolve for Eddie is crumbling as soon as you’d seen his son. You scramble out of the car, right behind him, and run to where the emergency technicians are treating Harris.

He’s awake and alert, and he spots the two of you right away. “Daddy! Ms. Sweetheart!” He tries sitting up, but a technician gently guides him to lay down again. “No, that’s my daddy and my almost-mommy!” he protests. “I gotta see them!”

You and Eddie reach him at the same time. He’s covered in dirt; it’s smudge along his cheeks, his arms, and his legs. He’s even managed to get some on the tip of his nose. Some blood is smeared on his right knee where he’s seemed to have scraped it, and the EMTs spray some antiseptic on it and apply a bandage before he can even feel the sting.

“Oh, thank God.” The words rush out of Eddie’s mouth, and he puts his palms on his son’s cheeks and presses kisses all over his face. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” He turns to the technicians, worry pinching his brows together. “He’s okay, right? There’s nothing wrong?” He pushes some of Harris’s damp curls from his forehead. There aren’t any visible bumps or bruises on his face, which eases a bit of his nerves.

One technician nods. “Right now, it seems like he’s just got some minor lacerations, but we’ll run the gamut of tests to rule out more severe injuries.” She looks over at the police chief, who stands a few yards behind you. “We’ll take it from here.”

Hopper gives a small, sad smile; it’s then that you remember that his own child had passed away nearly twenty years ago. She was only a little older than Harris is now.

Eddie follows your gaze with red-rimmed eyes, the realization setting in for him, too. “Thanks, Chief,” he says, just loud enough so Hopper can hear him. Hopper nods, placing his hat atop his head before walking away.

The EMTs check for any broken or sprained bones, shine lights into Harris’s pupils, and ask him a few simple questions to assess for a concussion. “We’ll have to take him to the hospital, just to be sure,” they say to you and Eddie, “but barring any extenuating circumstances, you should be able to bring him back home tonight.”

“Okay, yeah, okay,” Eddie breathes, crouching down a bit so he’s eye-level with his son. “Har, can you tell us why you ran away from school? You’re not in trouble; I promise.”

Harris looks down at the blanket draped across his lap. “I had really big feelings, and I tried thinking about the zoo like you told me,” he glances at you, “but then the feelings didn’t go away, so I decided to go there.”

You take his small hand in yours. “What were the big feelings?” you ask gently, free of judgment and filled with concern.

He thinks for a second, then states matter-of-factly, “Mad and sad.”

“Mad and sad?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, wiping at his nose with his free hand. “‘Cause of Ms. Marion and Ms. Paula.”

You freeze, trying to regain your composure before Harris can pick up on your uncertainty. “What happened with your teachers, Har?”

“They were saying mean things about you and Daddy, and it made me mad and sad.”

At the sound of his title, Eddie speaks up. “Mean things about us?”

“Yeah, like, that Ms. Sweetheart is probably teaching you how to read, too,” Harris explains, “and I said that they’re lying, that you��re really smart and read to me all the time. And that Ms. Sweetheart isn’t your teacher; she’s my almost-mommy.”

Eddie clenches his fists, veins prominent as his body goes stiff. His anger isn’t at the insult, but at the way they could speak so brazenly about a child’s family, disregarding the hurt it causes. He doesn’t care what those women think of him, but he’s furious that they upset Harris.

“They keeped laughing and telled me to go play,” Harris continues, getting choked up at the memory. “I tried to do my breathing and my favorite place remembering with Charlie, but it didn’t work. And I got lost going to the zoo–the real zoo, not the one in my imagination–so I hided with the cats until the nice lady found me.”

You and Eddie share heartbroken looks, pushing aside your respective emotions as you tend to the little boy laying in front of you. “Get some rest, Har Bear,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head. “You had a long day.”

He falls asleep after a few minutes, constantly checking to make sure that the two of you are still by his side. As soon as his breathing steadies and his eyes remain closed, Eddie turns to you, exhausted and running on fumes. Wet brown doe eyes pleadingly gaze at you, lids heavy with sleep. You wrap your arms around him, unable to get close enough. He moves slowly, every action a delayed reaction, but he gradually embraces you, too.

“Stay. Please.” The words are muffled by the way his mouth is mashed into your scalp, but you hear them perfectly fine. “And if we get to go home tonight, come back with us. I need you both close to me.”

“Of course.” Your own lips press against his perspiration-soaked shirt collar. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.” You pull back ever-so-slightly, brushing tears from his cheeks. “He’s safe. He’s safe, and he’s here, and we get to keep spoiling and loving him.”

Eddie absorbs this as best as he can, mind still spinning as the adrenaline crash hits. There’s so much he wants to say, but for right now, he just carves out space in his body for yours. Your light whisper keeps him grounded, pulling hi away from the spiraling that usually overtakes him in times of crisis.

“I’ve got you.”

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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lesservillain · 3 months

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inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but, despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed.

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up.

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.”

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you.

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.”

Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

October 7th, 1994

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work.

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter.

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper.

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously.

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it.

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

“I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.”

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at.

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.”

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you.

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters.

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher.

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again.

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!”

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills.

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students.

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid?

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind.

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.”

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle.

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…”

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued.

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.”

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right?

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic.

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.”

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.”

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front.

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!”

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared.

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards.

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body.

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later.

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading.

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

Eddie.

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle.

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.”

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period.

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed.

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted.

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune.

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door.

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you.

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face.

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!”

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else.

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin.

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?”

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too.

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.”

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.”

“Holy shit,�� you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles.

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school.

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face.

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts.

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin.

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?”

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you.

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?”

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.”

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest.

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon.

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end.

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise.

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar.

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing.

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you.

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it.

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself.

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it.

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get.

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely.

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in.

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground.

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped.

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what.

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother.

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash.

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab.

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face.

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips.

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x teacher!reader #eddie munson x yn #inmate!eddie munson #inmate!eddie munson x reader #inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader #oto!eddie #eddie munson series #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson st

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pia-nor481 · 6 months

Text

New set

Oscar Piastri x reader smut 18+

3.6k words

Oscar had planned this date for weeks, he knew exactly where to go and what to wear, granted it was a suit and bow tie, he knew she liked it, even though he was slightly strangled from the collar of the shirt. He'd been so busy with racing that they had almost no time together , apart from phone calls and the occasional text, it made racing weeks insuferable for him. All Oscar wanted was his darling girlfriend next to him, he wanted her to kiss him, he wanted her touch, he just wanted to breathe the same air. He'd even spent hours picking out the perfect dress, making sure it was taloired to fit in all the right places. He bought matching shoes and the perfect necklace for the neckline of the dress. The metal sat perfectly on her collar bones, making her neck more attractive to him than it already was. He aided her in the zipping up of her dress, he helped brushing out her hair and styling it, although that only included sectioning it. Oscar would have done her make up, if he was capable. You'd think a formula one driver would have very steady hands and a lot of precision, but not Oscar; he could not get eyeliner wings the same length or width no matter how hard he tried. So he insisted on watching her in the bathroom, he was more than happy to pass each product to her and watched as she applied each one. He was hyper focused on this, until she began to put her things away. He reached for her perfume bottle and sprayed behind her ears, chest and elbows. She quickly followed suit, searching for his new colone, one he'd bought on her request. She sprayed his chest, shoulders and abdomen before reaching for his tie, she had done the bow so perfectly in his eyes, when in fact it was a tad bit crooked.

"You look gorgeous as ever, love" Oscar spoke softly, sliding his hand down her back to guide her towards the front door. Heat rose to her face as she almost shied away from him. He was always quick to give her complements, this made a few think that they were insincere, but no, he was completely obsessed with her. Everything she did was perfect in his eyes and there was good reason for him to think this. They had reached the front door, Oscar immediately dropping to his knees to put her shoes on. "Oscar, baby, you don't need to help me, you've already done so much tonight, plus you have had a very long few weeks with the racing and testing." Little did she know this is how he'd spend every waking moment , with her. "I love you too much to not help, especially when you deserve it. You've been very busy as well, but you insisted on staying up until stupid o'clock to speak to me." He was right, she spent most of her nights talking with him, about racing and her own job. Mostly about Oscar's distain for DRS. But there was the occational phone sex, which both very much enjoyed. Once the pair had reached the car, Oscar had opened her door and done her seatbelt up. "I would kiss you but I dont want to mess up that lip gloss." He breathed out, turning the corner towards the resturant. She slid her hand up his leg a touch before speaking, "I get the feeling it wont last all night anyway." They pulled into the car park quicky, as to not miss the reservation. "Don't tease me, not in these trousers"

Once they had reached the table, he pulled her chair out, always the gentleman. "Thank you." She barely got out once her gaze met his, he offered a sweet smile and sat down. They'd ordered some wine and began to discuss everything imaginable. "So I brought this new camera but I don't really know how to use it, like I understand how to take pictures but not how to make them good." He nodded along , making sure she knew that he was paying attention. "Unfortunately i also am not very good with a camera, but I'm sure you'll get there. You always manage to take good pictures of me." Oscar said, taking a sip of his drink, questioning why he would even ask for a glass; he didn't enjoy wine much, but he knew she did, so he swallowed the liquid with out a complaint. "Unless it's a 0.5" she giggled from behind her glass, knowing he'd shake his head. "Now those, I must admit, are absolutly horrific." He said with a smile, he was never afraid to be himself with her, she always understood him, always taking his jests as jokes; Many did not get his sense of humor, but she did. She always did. They finished up the meal rather quickly. "Did you want dessert before leaving, Love?" He asked, anticipating her to say yes, it was rare for her to deny a sweet treat. Oscar also used this as an excuse to further cheat on his diet. "No, not today. I think there's something at home you'd like more." She said, as a slightly devious look painted her face. "Don't flirt with me too much, Darling, I'm not sure we would make it home if you keep this up."

The walk to the car was fast, Oscar had picked up his pace, wanting to get home as quick as possible, it was becoming almost painful. The whole drive back was rather silent, Her hand rested on his knee as he practically sped home, there was no worry about the speed limits, not that 100mph would have affected him much anyway. His mind however was working overtime, so many thoughts passed through, each one he had to suppress; he could not act on any thought, though he wanted to, so desperately. Oscar wanted to tease her just as much as she'd been doing to him, he wanted to pull her underwear away and slide two fingers inside, and make her cum right then and there. He wanted her to try and keep quiet, stressing about getting caught, but inevitably she'd moan his name loud. "My underwear are so soaked right now Oscar." She whispered out, voice becoming slightly higher. She was edging him on, hoping to rile him up enough to stop the car then. But he didn't, Oscar didn't even reply; so focused on not crashing the car. He needed to fuck her so badly, but she need to wait. She needed to be patient, something she was never good at. Oscar could try and teach her, but it wouldn't last. Plus he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy her behaviour the way it was now.

"Get out." He was demanding, but somehow not aggressive or mean. But his chivrealry did fade slightly as he walked straight to the front door, opening it swiftly. She followed as fast as physically possible with her heels on. As soon as she passed the thresh hold of the door he pushed her against it. "How many times do I have to tell you not to tease me? You know I'll just do it back, make you wait longer for what you want." Oscars hands slowly ran up her sides, stopping at her waist to give it a harder than nessecary squeeze. He enjoyed working his way around her body, not that he minded, he loved to simply admire her. Oscar smirked, knowing she was getting angsty, she just wanted to feel good, but he wouldn't let her, not yet anyway. It was very obvious that he liked foreplay just as much as the sex. It wasn't just something he needed to do, but rather something he wanted, something he craved. One of his hands traveled up he neck and reached her jaw agonisingly slow; He grasped it softly and pulled her into a passionate kiss, his other hand groped her ass, pulling her body so her chest was flush with his. He could feel how aroused she was, how hard her nipples were. He briskly decided to toy with them, just to hear her whine, after all, he diserved it. Her mews were muffled into his mouth as the kiss deepened, her hands were quick to snake around his neck, pulling him back towards her. In the mean time he twisted and tugged on her nipples. "Please Oscar, it's not fair." He began to feel slightly guilty hearing her statement, so he slid one of his hands down her abdomen. His hand slipped under her dress, toying with her underwear before letting his fingers touch her clit, only lightly. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips. She was quickly becoming as desperate as him and that only made him smile more. His desires were quickly becoming selfish, even though he began to rub tight circles on her clit, all he wanted was to hear, and see, how good he was making her feel at that moment.

He continued to build her up while his other hand continued to venture over the rest of her body, their lips rejoined but he pushed his tongue into her mouth, Oscar needed to feel every part of her, every part of her that needed him. His hand returned from her underwear as he dropped to his knees once again, bringing his hands over her legs, He lightly kissed her thighs while pushing the dress further up her hips. He tore the lace of her underwear apart, not bothered by her gasps of shock as the cold air touched her skin. His mouth attached to her cunt as quick as she would allow. He sucked and licked without a regard for his breathing, he was using this as a distraction. While pulling her shoes off, Her hands got tangled in his hair rather quickly in an attempt to ride his face. His nose lightly brushed her clit as his tongue slowly darted in and out of her cunt. She craved pleasure, she craved him. He came up from her thighs, looking up at her face immediately, being met with a gaze of lust. Oscar kissed her lips as he picked her up bridal style to carry her up the stairs. In the mean time she insisted on sucking and biting on his neck, even though he had said a few times it was no wise as he would get teased by the other divers about his love life. He carried her up the steps and kicked the bedroom door open, then placed her on the desk opposite the bed. Making sure she was comfortable against the cold surface, he then stood between her legs and kept eye contact as he unzipped the dress leisurely, sliding the shoulders down at a slow place. He like the feel of the fabric on his hands, but he wanted to feel her skin so much more. She closed her eyes and whined again, practically begging him to take her there.

"Wait and you'll get what you want, baby. When have I ever left you unsatisfied?" She let her head fall into is chest lightly, she was defeated because he was right, there was never a time she wasn't pleased; Even over a call where she could only hear his voice, although that was something she found so attractive she could cum just from hearing it.

"That's what I thought." He laughed out, lightly of course, so she didn't feel too disheartened. His fingers slid down and over her slit, her next comment was caught in her throat at the feeling. One thought began to merge with another, soon she couldn't think about anything other than his fingers inside of her. Her vision began to fade as he slipped another inside, just to pull them out again, causing her spine to straighten. She gave him a pointed look at the loss of his fingers, she wanted it so bad, but he denied her pleasure, something he promised . "Oh don't be like that. You know it will feel even better later when you do cum. It always does." Oscar exclaimed with a beautiful smile, which contradicted his almost harsh words laced with a sweet tone.

He reached for his belt, letting her know that she also needed to be bare. Her dress quickly fell to the floor so she helped him undress, pulling the bow tie loose from around his neck and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands slowly reached out for the buttons of his shirt, she decided it was worth giving him a taste of his own medicine. As slow as physically possible, she undid the buttons, Oscar shook his head, trying to be patient. Once his shirt was discarded he began to feel her up again, reaching for her tits again, evidently the bra was in the way. But it looked so amazing on her, everything did. She always brought the most stunning lingerie, it was what she liked to spend her money one. To look and feel good. Wasting no time, he ripped it apart where the fabric met at her cleavage. "Oscar!" was all he heard, picking her up with ease; He gently threw her on the bed and crawled between her legs. She looked at him, almost completely fucked out, yet he barely even touched her. Oscar began to slowly stroke his cock at the sight of her. It was just so arousing, so much blood rushed through his body, making him impossibly harder. He dragged the tip of his cock over her cunt, teasing again, before slowly pushing the head in then pulling it out. He repeated this motion until she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to slide all the way in. It was hard to resist so he gave in to her desire. Oscar kept the pace slow, wanting to feel all of her.

One of his hands slid up and down her thigh, it was a comforting act he knew she liked. They had a long talk about what they had experienced and what they wanted from sex when they first got together. Oscar's main points was how he wanted to be in charge, but only when he really knew her and how her body worked. He aimed to learn every little thing that got her hot and bothered, what got her wet and what made her cum the fastest. She said that she was sick of how rough men could be, thinking automatically that's what she wanted. She loved the romantic aspect of sex, more than just the sensational joys. She wanted to be intimate and to feel loved. It seems as though it was all possible with him. She didn't want to feel used, and he always made sure of it.

Oscar's other hand grazed over her wrist before they interlocked their hands. He was trying not to put too much pressure on her. Ensuring that she only felt good. "That's it, yes, Oscar." She moaned out, mouth falling open. His hands left their current home in order give her a new sensation. They both loved to try new things, to see what could be felt. So Oscar began to rub her clit again, at varying speeds and pressures to find what felt most pleasurable today. Once he found the right pace he continued steadily wanting her to reach the peak like she deserved.

She moaned loud, gasping for air while reaching out for him. "You like that baby? Yea? Feels so good right?" He said, voice dropping an octave, even with the teasing tone. She could only nod, not trusting her voice to fully convey her feelings. She slowly began to pull him closer by his neck, they started to kiss again, though, this time it was a lot more rushed and a lot more needy. Oscar bathed in the feeling of her nails raking down his back as she almost squeezed him for support. Even if he was hovering over her. He grabbed behind her knee, lifting her leg to get a better angle, knowing it would fill them both with bliss. And was he right. "Uh, Oscar, Mh, feels, feels so good baby." With her words slurring together he knew she was getting closer. Her heart was beating loud and her lungs were burning. Something about the glint in his eyes pushed her further towards release, his groaning didn't help either. Her ability to resist was dimmed as Oscars hips started to move a tad bit faster. "There..there you go." He began to praise again, "Always so perfect for me," her face warmed as a response.

The feeling was becoming too much, her mind was too foggy and her body couldn't take anymore. The pleasure was blinding, her voice echoed around the room and her head shook side to side. Her hips came off of the bed as her spine curved. Oscar didn't let up, making sure to let her ride her orgasm out. He didn't want to ruin it after all the teasing. Once she had come down she'd pulled him into a kiss. Her cunt was still twitching, so Oscar pulled out, kissing her back. He moved her further up the bed, to rest her head against the pillows before continuing.

He slid his cock back in with ease, not starting as slow as he did before, he knew she could take it now. His hands rested on the headboard as a form of support, in the mean time, her hand found its way to the back of his head, she began tugging lightly again, a sensation he adored. Any composure they had quickly dissolved as Oscar began to drive in and out of her at a faster pace, chasing his high; his hips rolled rhythmically, she pushed towards him, wanting his cock deeper inside. Oscar's hand pressed down on her abdomen to feel himself, and to make her gasp. He wanted to hear how everything he did affected her, he wanted to see the impact on her, what his control did. It was all becoming too much for Oscar, "Fuck, baby, come with me, I can feel how close you are," He groaned out, pulling her impossibly closer, reaching down for her clit again, not concerned about overstimulating her anymore. The orgasm hit him hard, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hips stuttered slightly, reducing his speed with out even thinking, no preoccupied with the feeling of her cunt around him. Oscar pulled out just as slow as he first pushed in and reached for her hands, grasping them before pulling them above her head. With her hands pressed down, Oscar had full control, choosing to kiss her, as sloppy as he pleased. Her back arched so gracefully, forcing their chests together. Her orgasm was so powerful all she could think about was him, what he was doing to her. She gazed up at him with glossy eyes, one his hands left hers, travelling past her shoulder blades to aid in the support of her back, he needed her body pressed to him. Oscar pulled away from her lips, a playful smirk on his face; until she used all of her remaining strength to turn him over, pushing his body flush on the bed. As she straddled him, Oscar's hands went straight for her his, keeping her steady all while anticipating her next move. Still in her haze, she ran her hands up his toned abdomen and chests so slow he let out a strained huff, Once she reached his jaw, she grasped it, rather firm, a tad bit aggressive for her. He didn't bother to chastiser her, Oscar new she just wanted to feel him, any way she could. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and he just let her, he gave her everything she wanted and he'd give her everything she could ever ask for. She moaned into his mouth, felling him up, he'd let her do this for as long as she wanted. as long as she could. Simultaneously he squeezed the plump of her ass and rubbed one hand up and down her thigh, the ghosting touch didn't go unnoticed, she intern decided to bite his lip lightly. Oscar let out a breathy laugh as a response, he looked at her gorgeous eyes, wishing he could stare at them forever. "I love you" they said in unison.

She began to lie down next to him, not letting go of his hand in the processes. "You are perfect, you know that, right, baby?" Heat crept up her face again and she smiled, leaning further into him. "I think I might have an idea, my boyfriend tells me quite a lot, and I love him dearly, he's rarely wrong." Oscar kissed her cheek as her eyes began to close. They both quickly fell into a rather deep sleep.

A few days later, Oscar found himself walking through a shopping centre alone, He planned o buying a few things for her before he had to leave for another race across the world. He walked into a shop and all eyes were on him for a few seconds. Until he began to browsed for her size. Oscar quickly walked towards the till and almost kept his head down before the cashier spoke to him. "I'm sorry but I don't think this is your size." She said, clearly trying to ease his nerves. He smiled lightly before replying. "No? I think I might need to get some work done." The woman behind the till laughed dryly and continued to speak, "So what's the occasion? birthday? Anniversary?" Oscar paused before speaking again, "I broke the last set."

#f1 x reader #f1 x reader smut #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 smut #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar pastry #Oscar Piastri x reader smut #oscar piastri smut #f1 fic #OP:81 #Oscar pistachio

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love-toxin · 22 days

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just read your latest billy fic and am now obsessed with the idea of billy babytrapping you and/or having a massive, unhinged breeding kink. in his mind you won't ever leave him if he gets you pregnant.

(please bear with my ramblings below)

billy obsessively tracking your cycle and going at it like rabbits when you're ovulating. sex that goes on for HOURS because he wants to get multiple loads inside of you, just to be sure. plugging you up afterward so all his cum stays inside. constantly telling you what a good parent you would be, and how beautiful your children would be because he's pretty, and you're pretty, so it just makes sense, right?

I really think he'd get so delusional about it. burying his face in your arousal and insisting he can tell you're fertile just by the smell/taste. bending down to whisper in your ear only to tell you how full and achey his balls are getting. leaving you little gifts but they're all pregnancy tests or baby clothes. forget whatever stage of a relationship or situationship you guys are in, he's starting a family with you. he'd get such an ecstatic glint in his eye when you finally tell him you're pregnant. don't get me started on the pregnant belly worship.

tl;dr if billy fucks me and I'm not sitting in a puddle of his cum afterwards, I don't want it‼️🗣

PRRRRRR!!!! yes. im into it. now u have to bear with MY ramblings

(cws: babytrapping, fem pronouns)

Feels like babytrapper Billy is an untapped gold mine--it's less that he wants a baby at first and mostly just that he wants control over you, but that switches up real fast when you actually get knocked up. When you actually wanna be sweet about it. Fussing about cribs and a nursery and having enough baby clothes, making him take you to the ultrasound appointments and actually getting a 'tude with him because he did this to you and now he's gonna have to deal with just as much as you have to carrying his baby.

But Billy ends up loving the shit out of it. He loves your attitude. He loves your mood swings. He loves your hormonal cravings and your tears when you throw up morning after morning. He loves holding your hair back and stuffing your bed full of pillows so you're comfortable, and he loves laying his head on your belly and hearing those little gurgles and feeling those little kicks from his baby.

At the same time, however, it makes him emotional. If this is how he feels before his baby is even here, then why would...how could his father ever treat him the way he does, and did? How could anybody do that to a kid? It makes him angry at himself for the way he was treated and the way he took that out on Max, too. He's got lots of apologies to make. Those experiences don't take up all his attention, though--he has a pretty partner to care for now, and having that to fill his time over bouncing from party to party and girl to girl just to feel something makes him unbelievably satisfied.

It honestly makes him glad that he never knocked anyone up accidentally leading up to when he met you. It had to be you, he knows that now. It had to be you that he coerced, begged, and fucked into submission to make you his, it had to be your womb that he wanted so badly to break and your pussy he wanted to risk going raw into. Wouldn't you just be the cutest with a baby, anyways? You're such a catch and you're so pretty. You'd make such adorable babies. It's obvious he never wanted to be one of those guys with a handful of baby mamas and kids he rarely sees; he wants you and your kids and that's it. It's official--you've hooked Hawkins' resident playboy into a dedicated partner and father, whether you wanted to or not.

If there's one thing he loves most about your pregnancy though, it's that he loves your neediness. He loves that something seems to click in you that makes you pine for the man whose seed you've sown, like there's an invisible connection between you two that pulls you both closer. It's like you're instinctually drawn to him and he hopes, god he hopes that continues after you've had the baby. He's ready to make love to a woman after she's had a child (after you've healed sufficiently, of course, he can wait) it's like that next stage of maturity for him. He can't wait to see how far you've come and how much you've sacrificed just to have his baby, and he can't wait to look you in the eyes and tell you he wants another. No, he doesn't want you to work off the baby weight first or fuss with your hair or your clothes to try and get back to looking like you were before. He wants you now. As you are. Raw. He's sick of those prissy party-girl snobs and their perfect bodies and their permed hair that they can't let get messed up. He wants the woman who stays up all night feeding his daughter and rolls her eyes at his flirting attempts in the morning. He's totally whipped, and even with those bags under your eyes and that tension headache behind his from the crying of his precious baby girl, he still wants another. And he's got ways of making sure that you do, too...after all, he got you into it the first time, right?

#billy hargrove #billy x reader #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things #spicy writing #ellie writes #anons

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mayaree-darling · 5 months

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Hi i've been binging some of your fics recently and im in love! I saw that you had requests open so I was wondering if you could do scaramouche x fem reader but where reader dresses in jojifuku or other known as cutecore and scaramouche dresses in a baggy 'cool' way and reader gets made fun of for dressing differently?

of scary dog privileges & matcha lattes // scaramouche (modern au)

pairing: Scaramouche x Cutecore!Reader

synopsis: look, you may be a cute ball of pastels that can test scaramouche's patience, but you're HIS cute pastel lover. but if anyone messes with you, it's okay - his hands were made to be thrown.

from aree: for @amia-69: thanks for requesting and i hope this was satisfactory. i had too much fun with this so i hope you don't mind if it's a tad long with more scenes than you requested. i also made this a bit more feel-good by being a little silly but it’s still mostly serious, i hope you don't mind!

content: slight stalking and bullying scenario (be warned if triggering); very annoyed Scara means swearing; i'm in silly writer mode rn so this is a mix of crack and serious writing; slightly unhinged reader but hey so is scaramouche; praying this ain't OOC; fully accepted this is cringe; fem reader

fic length: 4k~ (unedited)

Scaramouche isn't dumb. He can tell anyone who sees him is asking it in their head.

How the fuck did you two end up together?

There was nothing soft looking about him besides the hair he inherited from his mother. He was his mother but with sharper lines, edges, and words. His eyes were almost a permanent glare if he didn't look bored or annoyed at everyone and everything. He always seemed to wear dark clothing, accompanied by the right amount of chains or belts here and there to complete the look, but they suited him nicely. If anything, he wore them best than most. If he wore anything less than clothes that didn't hang off his body he looked uncomfortable. Didn't mean he didn't hear enough older people talking about his choice of clothes though.

So when he first stood next to you on the fruits and vegetables aisle at the grocery store, he realized how you two stood at different ends of the fashion spectrum. He was there with his mother for their weekly food restock and ended up getting left behind when he went to check something on his phone (typical. How may times had this happened?) When he blinked, gone was his mom, and there beside him stood you, looking at a bunch of melons.

"This shit's overpriced, the hell." you grumble it under your breath, but Scaramouche heard it loud and clear. The snort he lets out isn't unnoticed by you and you turn to him, eyebrows raised. You look at him up and down before your eyes land back to his, and he frowns.

Goddamn it, here we go. He's heard his mom talk his ear off about the clothes this morning and he wasn't gonna hear it from anyone else. He opens his mouth, ready to cuss you to next Tuesday, but you beat him to it.

"I like the eyeliner," Scaramouche stares at you incredulously, and almost as a final nail into the coffin that he heard you right, you nod in approval. You tilt your head to the side. "I gotta say though. I think eyeshadow would look a lot better. Maybe... red? Just a bit at the corners. It would look a lot nice with your eye color and would make them pop considering you wear a lot of dark shades."

Scaramouche gapes at you. He's used to getting cussed out or getting the occasional talking to about his choices in life, but fashion advice was the last thing he expected to get from some stranger in the fruits aisle.

"Thanks..." he eventually lets out. He finally takes a moment to look you up and down and wonders how the hell did he not notice you sooner when you stood out from everything like a sore thumb.

Scaramouche didn't know there were so many shades of pink in the world. Or maybe he never noticed since he never wore clothes like that, and if he was honest, he spent time with people who didn't wear that color at all. Seeing it now was like a jumpscare, just a lot softer considering it's not like you posed any actual threat but slightly still as surprising considering people randomly approaching him first was so rare. If you weren't wearing a shade of pink, you were wearing some pastel shade of another color. Pastel blue, pastel purple, white lace here and there. The skirt you wore was so frilly you looked like you were walking around with a pink cloud. You looked... soft. That was the best summary Scaramouche could put together in the amount of time he gave you a once over.

You looked like everything he was not.

"I like... the frills," he inwardly cringed the moment he said it, but he ended up just frowning at you. It was your damn fault for putting him in this position in the first place so why the hell was he the one suffering. It's not his fault he wasn't good at giving other people compliments.

You laugh, and Scaramouche wasn't sure whether he should be glad you didn't take it to heart or be offended that he actually tried his best to give you a compliment only to be shot down. "It's okay. You don't have to force yourself."

Scaramouche just frowned deeper. Now it feels like you're saying he can't give out a compliment at all. He looks you up and down again and just says what comes to his head on the spot. "You look like the cotton candy sold at the fair across the street. Actually, I think you're a lot more pink than that stuff, but still lighter? Can't tell accurately with how many shades you got going on."

He must've said something good enough for you because you're grinning at him the next second. "That's one of the nicer ones people have said to me."

Scaramouche looks at you in disbelief. "How is that even remotely nice?"

"Well, for one, I know you mean that sincerely. Second, I'll have you know I worked hard to get pretty vibrant pinks that weren't too hard on the eyes, so thanks for confirming that!"

"You made that?" You nod, and Scaramouche nods back slowly in approval, actually impressed. "Not bad."

Your eyes land on his watch and you jolt, looking at the time on your phone. You pick a random melon even when he sees you scowl at the price tag and put it into your basket. Nodding once more to him, you turn around and leave. But as he watches you round the corner, you're running back to his side once more before he can even turn away. The sudden look of alarm on your face, so different from the grin and laughter you had on earlier, immediately has him on edge.

"Please help me," you whisper, but there was no one else in the aisle besides a mother and her baby at the far end. He frowns and looks to the side.

"Do I look like I help people." it came out harsher than he intended, but didn't he give you more than he was already willing to give any other stranger? Now you were just taking advantage of him.

"I need a scary dog right now," you said it so casually and seriously he wasn't sure he heard you right. But your voice echoed correctly in his head and he actually takes a step away from you, face incredulous.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" he scoffs, not sure if he was supposed to be offended or it was a compliment from you in some weird way. "The pet shop is right next door. Go get a dog there."

"Please. You know what I mean." you look at him pleadingly and he looks away. No, no, he was not gonna break first. This wasn't his business to deal with. He's done enough for people for the day. Nope.

"Again, go look for that somewhere else. Don't you have a boyfriend to help with this kinda thing?"

You roll your eyes and Scaramouche has half a mind to smack you silly. "If I did, you think I'd be going up to strangers for help?"

"So this is a regular thing, huh?" he takes a step back and you take a step towards him.

"Of course not, you expect this kinda thing to happen sometimes. But I don't want to hide away just ‘cause some people couldn't stay away and mind their own damn business," you shuffle from one foot to another. You cast a hesitant look behind you. His eyes follow.

"What are you even-" he stops. In the corner where he last saw you turn, a hooded man hovered over the bread aisle. For a shelf that only had five pieces of loaves left he was taking his time picking, so that only meant one thing. Scaramouche watched as the man glanced over once in your direction before seemingly turning back to the bread with fake focus.

"I thought I was imagining it. But he’s giving me the evil eyes," your voice is a whisper again.

That's unpleasant. Scaramouche straightened his posture and looked at you directly. If it's a scary dog you needed then so be it.

"What are you waiting for, then?" his voice was loud, not enough to be too distracting, but enough to carry over to the asshole who decided to be a creep for the day. Scaramouche kept his eyes on you. "You need anything else? I got the car running. Let's go if you're ready."

You look up at him like he was a fucking hero and Scaramouche all but does his best to not look as pompous as he felt. He sees the guy step back a little from his view, most likely thinking twice about following you when you're suddenly with company. He all but stares the fucker down until he leaves his line of sight.

Scaramouche breathes a short sigh of relief and he sees you do the same. He wanted to leave it at that, but if the guy was planning to follow you around the mall, he'd probably stick around a bit more. So fucking annoying. Not you, though. Although you were a bit annoying, you've probably been through more today than he had. He takes your wrist lightly.

"Where to next? I have family waiting outside."

You smile, relaxed and familiar. He holds your wrist, but you guide him around the store for a few other things before heading to the counter. When you leave the shop, plastic bags in hand, he motions for you to head to the parking lot and you follow albeit hesitantly, only visibly relaxing when you see a woman standing by a car who looks eerily similar to your rescuer.

"Oh? You have a friend." Scaramouche bites back the retort that almost slips past his lips. What did she mean by that? Of course he had friends. He'd never introduce them to her and her to them but he preferred keeping those two sides of his life away from each other.

"She had a bit of a problem and needed some help," she looks at you once and back to him. She gives him a knowing look but Scaramouche could swear on his grave that what she was thinking was vastly different from what was really going on.

"I see. Will your friend be joining us for dinner?" she looks at you with a soft smile and you return it. Scaramouche has half a mind to facepalm himself, he thanks what shred of patience he has left that he doesn't because you give him a glance.

"Thank you for the offer, but I should really be heading home," you turn to him fully and take the plastic bags from him. "Thanks for... helping me."

He opens his mouth but before he can say anything, you give him a knowing nod before quickly walking away. He watches you walk a few paces before he hears his mom clear her throat. He looks to her, already scowling.

"Don't tell me you're just gonna let her go like that?"

"What do you want me to do?"

Ei sighs. "At least make sure she gets a ride? If you walked her all the way over here, I can guess you wanted to give her a ride home. But that's out of the question now."

"Why are you so invested in this anyway? I just met her today."

"Oh, really? I thought you already knew each other." Ei hums as she rummages her purse for the keys. "You look like a pair. Not quite sure what kind, but definitely a pair of something. I think she’s rather cute."

He curses silently before jogging to catch up to you. He finds you standing by the bus stop. When you turn to him, you smile.

"Thanks for helping me again."

"You know I was planning on dropping you off at your place, right? Thought that was kinda clear with what I said at the grocery."

"Nah. I'd bothered you enough. Don't wanna bother your sister either." you grin at him, shuffling from foot to foot again, now with a pep in your step.

"First off, that was my mom, not my sister." you repeat the word 'mom' silently before looking at him with barely suppressed admiration, and Scaramouche barely holds himself back from groaning. "Second, it's fine. You're not scared that guy's gonna follow you home?"

"I'll be in a bus full of people. If he tries anything I'll scream my head off." you laugh. Scaramouche can hear a shred of doubt in your voice, but he doesn't say anything else. There's a pause of silence before you look at him from the corner of your eye and hum. "Y'know. I don't know how to properly thank you."

He waves you off. "Forget about it."

"How about I treat you?" you turn to him fully, like he just didn't brush you off. "I know a cafe by the train station that makes really good matcha lattes."

"What makes you think I even like matcha?" he sighs, but he thinks about it for a second. And then another second. Scaramouche blinks before he turns to you with a deadpan face. "You're just trying to take advantage of my scary dog privilege or whatever you call it."

"Maybe? Who knows?"you grin mischievously. "I'm serious about treating you to a meal, though. I owe you one. If you want you can just take the meal and forget about ever seeing me again."

Scaramouche sighs. Surely, it wouldn't hurt...?

"Alright then. When's our date?" You blink at him in surprise before laughing.

When people ask him how you two got together, he says you treated him to matcha for saving your life and you just hit it off. When they ask you to confirm, you excitedly show a picture of the two of you in the cafe of your first date. Should anyone try to mention the foam of milk from the matcha latte gathered around the top of his lips or the cat ears you had graciously edited onto the top of his head, Scaramouche is quick to silence them with a murderous look, almost the very same one he has on in the picture.

Some might think why doesn’t he just ask you to stop showing the photo to people? It’s enough for you to confirm that you got together over drinks, end of story. But as he watches and listens to you recount how you met again, the smile on your lips and the laughter that slips past and the grin as you show all the pictures - he can’t imagine saying no.

Why would he make you stop when you’re so happy?

That’s what he thinks now, as he sees the frown on your face.

He thought people already understood. He let you tell the story over and over even though it got on his nerves time and time again because it made you happy, yes, but also so people saw who they were messing with if they ever even thought of messing with you. This city was a small one - if people didn’t know him from his mother, they surely have heard of him and his friends. This city was the kind where word travelled fast if you were even in any social circle. If not for that, they would have surely seen him walking around with you with all the places you wanted to see.

He underestimated how dumb people could be.

Scaramouche rolled his eyes before frowning. He pocketed his phone and all but jogged to the park. From a distance, he could see two guys in front of the bench he was sure was where you were supposed to meet. It was the bench he and you stopped at to exchange numbers, so it became a place that meant a lot to you. When he was close, the group of guys looked at his direction, snickering, before heading to the next bench over. Finally, he has a perfect view of you, your head down, holding on to your drink and phone like a lifeline. His drink almost lay forgotten beside you.

He quickly grabbed the drink from your side and sat beside you. From the corner of his eye, he can see the group of guys stealing glances at the both of you, not even trying to hide their laughter and sneers. He’s gripping his drink almost as hard as you were.

“You’re here,” you smile at him, but as quickly as it’s on your face it drops back to a wobbly frown and you look away. “Sorry if I made you hurry, I-”

“What happened? Did they do anything to you?” his voice comes out in a rush but it’s soft, as comforting as he can muster with the situation at hand. He can feel his blood boiling, his senses on high alert.

“No, no, they were just being mean and annoying and I-” you shakily pocket your phone and hold on to his hand. He can feel you shaking and he grit his teeth.

“What did they do? What the fuck did they say?” he was gripping onto the cup so tight he would’ve been surprised that it hadn’t broken yet if he wasn’t so focused on you.

“Nothing important.” he squeezes your hand, not enough to hurt, but to make sure you know that he’s here now. You didn’t need to hide anything from him. You just need to tell him. You look up at him and purse your lips. “They just said-”

He hears laughter and immediately whips his head towards the two guys, feeling absolutely feral. The closest one sitting on the edge of the bench flinches for a second, before he meets his glare with a sneer.

“I was wondering what kind of parents would leave their little princess walking around alone like that,” the guy smirks and Scaramouche can feel you flinch under his touch. “But another kid just showed up to pick them up. Where are your parents, kiddies?”

The two guys laugh and Scaramouche can feel his teeth crack with how hard he was biting down. He stands up but you hold on to his hand.

“Just let it go. Let’s just get out of here.” you mumble to him, but the guys heard perfectly.

“Let’s just get out of here~” the other guy copies your voice, all high pitched and mocking and everything that Scaramouche knew you were very much not. “She dresses like a little princess and sounds like one. Aren’t you too old for that?”

They howl with laughter and slowly, Scaramouche feels you let go of him. He looks to you, concerned, but you meet his eyes, your face blank but he knows that look.

Go for it.

With quick strides he’s right beside their bench. They stop for a moment to look at him.

He looks at the matcha latte in his hand and sighs.

What a waste of a drink. You got it for him, too.

“What are you- ARGH!” Scaramouche shakes the cup empty of all it’s content, making sure that each of the guys’ heads had at least a bit of the matcha drink. But Scaramouche was sure he got them both - it was a large drink, after all.

“Pick on someone your own size, you lil’-” the man closest to him goes to stand, but just as he does, Scaramouche raises his own leg and drives a kick right on his knees.

*CRACK*

The man screams in pain, forced to his knees and tending to his newly acquired wound. The other guy stands to try and help, but his form quickly falters as Scaramouche takes one step towards him, eyes blazing. The man doesn’t move, too frightened, as Scaramouche leans down to the man on the ground.

“There you go. Now we’re the same height.”

Scaramouche feels a pull on the back of his shirt and he’s ready to throw his arm back to punch when he sees you. He lets you pull him and you make a break for it as he hears the man crying in pain behind him.

Trees turn to buildings around you both as you leave the park and head to the city center, stopping only when you’re sure the coast is clear. You both take in large breaths of air after running for so long, but even the silence does nothing to make him realize the gravity of what just happened. That’s not the case for you, though.

“Oh, God, I didn’t think you’d do that. The drink, yeah, but...” you say between breaths. You take a shaky laugh and rub the back of your neck. “Was the kick really necessary, though?”

Was that necessary? Scaramouche knew the answer for himself. He walks closer to you.

Why would he let anyone destroy whatever you two had going on? You came as a pair.

"Scara, what are you-" he stops in his tracks and looks you in the eyes. There's a pause before he lifts his hand and flicks your forehead.

"Talk smack, get whacked."

"I didn't even say anything! And why are you hitting me?!"

There’s a pause as he runs his teeth over his lower lip.

“Hey… you.”

“Wow, I thought by now you knew my name,” you sneer at him. “You telling me you still don’t know it?”

He inhales before he says your name softly. You gape at him, suddenly aware of how serious he’s gotten. “You’re happy with… yourself, right…?”

“Of course I am. That’s not even worth asking about,” there’s a doubtful look on your face, but not because of your answer. Your apprehension stems from where this conversation was going.

“Keep being happy, then.” Scaramouche rubs the knuckles of your hand with his thumb before pressing a kiss to your palm. He smirks at you. “If anyone else says otherwise, a drink over their head and broken kneecaps are the least of their concerns.”

“Now, come on,” he doesn’t let go of your hand and you make no mention of it. “We still gotta stop by Nahida’s, right?”

＝＝✿＝＝｜✧••❀••✧｜＝＝✿＝＝

❀BONUS❀

“Your mom’s gonna kill us when she finds out what you did.”

“Nah. She’d be fine with it.” Scaramouche scoffs.

“Find out what?” Ei appears by the kitchen doorway and looks at you both expectantly. You turn to Scaramouche, eyes wide with fear, but he doesn’t flinch or even stop chopping the melon.

“I poured a drink over some guy who said Matcha was acting too much like a kid,” Scaramouche answers easily, passing you a melon slice. “Also might have broken their knee, but we didn’t get to see.”

“I’m really sorry, Ms. Ei-”

“That’s it?” Ei leans on the kitchen counter and to your surprise, looks at Scaramouche with disappointment. “You should’ve broken a bone or two more.”

You blink as they continue talking about how best to have handled the situation; all their solutions involved hurting someone.

Well, you guess Scaramouche must have had to got it from someone in the family.

✨ Masterlist ✨

Taglist: 💛@wonpielle 💜@shikanosn

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine and belong to their respective creators. Their portrayal is merely my own interpretation of them and may not be accurate to their intended characterization. I stake no claim to the original works, only to the ideas and plot of the fictitious stories I’ve written them into.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin impact modern au #scaramouche modern au #genshin impact reader insert #scaramouche x reader fluff #scaramouche fluff #genshin impact x reader fluff

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jobean12-blog · 1 month

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Asking for Trouble

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 971

Summary: You and Joel are attending the monthly 'town meeting' that Tommy runs and as hard as you try you can't help your boredom but mostly you can't help how badly you want Joel.

Author's Note: Well, this is nothing but my horniness over this man. I can't help it. Also my lovely friend @lizette50 shared the picture below with me and I nearly died. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the sweet @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: it's fun and flirty and tense, ora-l (m rec), a curse or two, and always some softness bc it's me

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

You can see this meeting is boring Joel and even though it seems like Tommy might be finishing up you can’t resist lifting your arms above your head with a stretch.

Joel’s eyes immediately shift to you, sweeping along the exposed skin of your stomach as your shirt rides up.

“Think it’s almost over?” you ask in a whisper.

He only grunts in response but keeps his eyes fixed on you.

“You look bored,” you muse as you slide your hand into his.

His fingers close around yours and he rubs his thumb across your knuckles.

“I’m tryin’ to listen,” he says quietly and you see the corner of his lips twitch with a smirk.

You turn your body into his, pressing against his side and softly kissing his neck.

“What are you doin’ darlin’?”

“Just saying hi.”

You press another kiss to his skin with a deep inhale.

He grinds his jaw and leans in close to your ear, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“Not a smart move sweetheart. I’m always cravin’ a taste of you. Don’t make me haul you out of here over my shoulder.”

Your breath hitches and warmth slides over your skin. Tommy’s voice startles you and you fall back onto your toes with a frustrated huff.

Joel’s fingers, still holding yours, continue to lightly caress your skin and your senses build to an overwhelming state. His callouses scrap against your softness and his warmth permeates your skin. You can’t hold back the low moan that slips past your lips at the anticipation he creates.

His jaw ticks and you know he heard you. Turning, you see that his eyes have narrowed on your face as if sensing your thoughts, before dropping to your lips.

“Say the words, angel.”

“I’m ready to leave.”

His fingers tighten around your hand and he pulls you away from the wall, walking out the double doors with a brisk stride that leaves you practically jogging behind him.

Nothing registers as you pass by the other town members seated around the hall, their faces of surprise blurring together as you keep your sole focus on Joel.

You can see his shoulders tight with tension, his muscular back shifting underneath his button-down shirt with every movement, and you imagine raking your nails over all that strength.

You squeeze his hand tighter and he picks up the pace even more.

Once you reach the small house you share on the edge of the town he hauls you inside the door and slams it shut, pressing you against it and bracing his hands on either side of your head.

“They’re all going to know why we left,” he grits out.

“Like I care. And I know you don’t…maybe they’ll think it’s just because you’re so grumpy.”

He smirks and his eyes light up.

You press yourself flush against him, kissing along his jaw as your fingers slide down his chest and dance over the bulge in his jeans.

He groans and digs his fingers into the door, clearly trying to let you keep control of the situation.

After undoing his belt and working on the button of his jeans, you slowly start to unzip them but stop when his eyes snap to yours and he growls, “you’re testing my patience here, angel.”

His hips press into your palm and you can feel his thick arousal.

Your hand leaves his pants and you smooth your fingers along his chest then around his neck before weaving them through his hair and tugging hard to bring his lips to yours.

He rubs against your belly and you both break away on a groan.

“I know you need it right now, angel. You’re just dying for me to fuck you.”

Before you can respond he claims your mouth again, his arms falling from the door and circling around your waist to bring you closer. His lips move over yours, rough and demanding, the scrape of his beard leaving a lingering reminder with every pass.

You make a sound of protest against his mouth when you can’t get his lower body close enough, the ache building to the point of desperation.

With a moan you break the kiss, letting the corners of your lips edge into a sensual smile.

You drop to your knees and let your hands wander up his muscular thighs.

Above you, his breathing deepens, kicking up to a faster pace.

When you free him from his jeans he tilts his hips toward your mouth and pushes the head of his cock against your lips.

You hover just above the tip before dipping your head slowly and savoring every hard inch of him. Your eyes close in enjoyment and when your mouth wraps tightly around him a growl erupts from his throat and his brow starts to glisten with sweat.

He wants to stay still and take whatever you’ll give him, but he can’t stop his hips from undulating every so slightly toward the suction of your mouth.

“Fuck darlin’ you look so beautiful on your knees for me.”

In response to his words, you hum in the back of your throat, sending vibrations over his hard flesh. He grits his teeth at the sensation and hisses out your name, watching as you squeeze your thighs together from your position at his feet.

He feels the familiar tightening of his stomach, the muscles clenching and his breathing becoming harsher and slips from your mouth.

“I wasn’t done,” you whine as he lifts you.

You bury your face in his neck and kiss and nip along his skin. His long, thick fingers trail down the curve of your waist and tease the waistband of your pants. “I need to be inside you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how wet you are for me angel.”

@hiddles-rose @littleseasiren @lorilane33 @kmc1989

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller smut

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genshin-impact-unofficial · 5 months

Text

🌦Confessions gone wrong...

Genshin men and how they fuck up their confessions to you.

Ft. Bennett, Venti, Xingqiu, Xiao, Itto, and Wanderer

Tags: Fem!Reader, Long-Hair!Reader(Xingqiu), crushes, pining, fluff, pg, bad things happen to good people. Note: This thread is mostly humor. I just really wanted to bully some characters. No beta. Pay no mind to me trying to edit my mistakes after this has been posted. (Repost!)

Bennett

Fatal Flaw: Honestly does nothing wrong, is just an unlucky dude.

There’s too many instances to count. The poor boy has really been trying to tell you his feelings for MONTHS.

In his excitement he wanted to be flashy and ask you out somewhere cool, like by the big tree in Windrise. The weather thankfully allowed it, but right as he was about to take your hand and confess, a swarm of crystal flies began swarming him. You didn’t know they could be so aggressive.

A restaurant! He could treat you to a meal and tell you there! When the two of you arrived at Good Hunter, it was unfortunately closed early for the day. Apparently all of the meat had suddenly gone bad…

You get the gist.... he’s been in this constant confession limbo for a while now. The more he wants it the worse it goes.

Bennett finally decided he didn’t need the bells and whistles. He cared about you a lot and he was going to confess to you if it was the last thing he did. And it damn well might be. With a new found determination, he ran out to do just that.

“Y/N!” Bennett called out when he spotted you by the Adventure’s Guild. He rushed to you, paying special attention to every stair step to keep from tripping. You turned around and smiled too sweetly when you caught sight of him. It made the boy’s heart thump in his chest. Were it not for his sudden tunnel vision, he may have noticed that cat running past him and not trip down the remaining flight of stairs.

The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself being carried up the familiar route to the cathedral. The adventurer’s face flushed bright red when he realized you were the one carrying him piggyback. It was embarrassing..... but it shamefully wasn’t the first time. Bennett sighed in defeat and simply leaned into your back. When felt his shift in weight, you glanced back to smile at him. You giggled at his clumsiness and it was like music to the boy’s ears. You told him how glad you were that he already regained consciousness this time.

The two of you began joke around like usual and talked the rest of the way there. Bennett took the small victories.

Venti

Fatal Flaw: Tries to impress you too hard.

He knew exactly where he was going to sing his love ballad about you. The sound of the wind as it blew off the hills of starsnatch cliff would be the perfect accompaniment. Maybe it would need some encouragement, but it was nothing he couldn’t accomplish.

Venti wanted the wine to be just right for the occasion too. You deserved nothing but the best. And how else would he be able to judge the quality.... if not just a teeny tiny taste test? He had to be thorough about this choice after all.

The bard usually had enough self control to limit himself to a glass or two, but he felt his nerves get to him a tad. Venti had the confidence that he could show you a beautiful night, but in the end it was your choice whether to accept his heartfelt gesture. The archon respected your freedom above all else.

They sure don’t call it liquid courage for nothing! Venti was brimming with confidence when he brought you to a picnic under a tree, overlooking the cecilias in full bloom. You were visibly in awe, and your reactions quickly inflated the bard’s ego to dangerous heights. “If you think that’s beautiful, watch this.”

A gust of wind flowed over the field, sweeping up all the fallen petals to dance in the air. It was unreal, magical, magnificent, splendid, it was…… buzzing? A thud fell between the two of you and effectively ended the romantic moment. It was a wasps nest.

“ABANDON SHIP!” Venti cried out, grabbing your hand and booking it downhill.

Xingqiu

Fatal Flaw: Hubris.

He really doesn’t like to toot his own horn. Maybe once in a while when it’s warranted. But he really out did himself. Xingqiu read plenty of books regarding the art of courting, and they guided the way to what was sure to be the most romantic confession possible.

The brilliance was in the simplicity of the plan. First he would begin with a gift. The two of you always met at the book store on your off-days. When he sees you wear your long hair in your usual up-do, he would offer the beautiful hair ornament he acquired. Maybe in your excitement, you would even allow him to affix it for you.

The boy’s stomach dropped when he saw you enter the bookstore. He stared while you looked around for him, turning your head left and right in an adorable manner. The movement accentuated your newest feature... a hair cut. “Y/N, over here.” Xingqiu called to you, his confidence was already wavering a little. You excitedly walked to meet up with him and offered a big grin.

Well all is not lost! This leads into his next step; Flattery! “Dear Y/N, you cut your hair. It looks-” “Ugh, don’t remind me.” You quickly cut him off, mood souring just a tad. You explain the tragic story of how you stupidly got a chunk of your hair caught in a lever. The only solution was to cut it clean off, the dramatic change was definitely still a sore topic.

Now the boy was breaking a sweat. He changed to a new tactic, to cheer you up. Xingqiu dropped the subject and prompted that you both look at the newest releases. It would help to take your mind off things and he was banking on the last step of his plan to pan out. It was his last hope.

The two of you settled on the docks and were eager to discuss the books you had just picked. Xingqiu had hidden a love poem into the latest book from your favorite author. He knew you couldn’t resist picking it up, so he stealthily slipped the note into the book you held. Xingqiu spend all night pouring his heart out just right onto the page, as if trying to convey every reason he should be by your side. He expressed his desperate want to be the one to protect and cherish you. Watching you now, talking about your day, left his brain dazed in admiration. It made him realize that all those little things before didn’t matter, as long as you knew how much he adored you in the end.

Finally, you pulled out your newest book to show Xingqiu. The distressed boy nearly fell off the dock. “T-the cover-” He stammered, quickly righting himself. You looked back at him concerned, and slowly explained that it was a limited edition cover. It was only available for the first hundred copies sold. When you saw there was still some in stock, you just had to snag one.

Why do novels make romance it sound so easy....

Xiao

Fatal Flaw: One track mind.

Xiao had been hyping himself up for this one moment for weeks! He nearly talks himself out of confessing every other minute. You may not even reciprocate, but for his sanity he couldn’t keep hiding how deeply he cares for you. The whole situation was so uncertain but the hammering in his chest was proof that he had to do this.

Its like a band-aid he just had to rip it off. To get it over with. Xiao had no idea how to approach it and resorted to redeeming a favor owed to him. He needed to know what he was getting into and have a battle plan. When he approached Ganyu for advice he concealed most of the details. If she was any the wiser who he was asking romantic advice for, she was kind enough to not to mention it and let him keep his pride.

Xiao glanced down at the single glaze lily in his hand. The irony was not lost on him. It was almost humorous, an adeptus making an offering to a mortal and asking for their blessing.

It was almost the time and he prepared as if going into war. You greeted him and sat casually on the balcony railing of Wangshu Inn. Xiao wasted no time with pleasantries and held out the glaze lily to you. “Please accept this.” He stated. The flower was rigidly extended to the full length of his arm. The fiery determination on his face was quite off-putting while offering such a delicate plant.

“Ah... I appreciate it Xiao, I really do, but I can’t.” You began to say, confusion steeping into your tone.

“I insist and I ask that you hear me out.” Xiao’s arm did moving an inch. It was the first thing Ganyu told him to do. He couldn’t abandon his path already.

“What is going on Xiao? I really can’t accept-” You try to explain.

“Please.” His eyes were downcast and the yaksha’s tone was the closest thing to a plea that you’ve ever heard it. You were a tad bewildered and felt as though there was no use trying to talk him down right now. Left with no other choice, you reluctantly took the glaze lily in your hand.

“Y/N I must tell you that I-” Thats as far as Xiao got before the coughing fit began. Your wracking coughs brought you to your knees. A wheeze is the only thing you could manage as you point to your bag. Xiao was alert and scrambling to make sense of what was happening. Your bag is brought to you in an instant and an arm wrapped around your waist to gently guide you to a chair.

It took twenty minutes to fully get your breathing under control. You declined is offer to go grab you help. You just knew Xiao would disappear as soon as it arrived. It was a small allergy attack and nothing too threatening, but you could tell the boy next to you was profusely beating himself up for it.

You never did find out why he was so insistent on you taking that flower. What a strange guy.

Itto

Fatal Flaw: All of the above.

The whole situation was more or less doomed from the start. Once his oblivious ass realized he was in love with you, it was over. The oni was going to confess to you so hard that people were going to be talking about it for YEARS!

It was an all hands on deck operation. Itto gathered the whole gang and then some. He was able to recruit the neighborhood kids to gather as many sakura pedals as they could carry. The boys were on staging duty, making sure the location was so romantic it could even make onikabuto stop fighting long enough fall in love. Itto even managed win a few fireworks off Yoimiya. (She brutally crushed him in a game of Genius Invokation TCG, and mercifully tossed a couple firecrackers his way as a consolation prize.) SCORE!

It was all coming together! All that was left was to distract you for just a little bit longer. That was a job so important that he could only entrust it to his competent second in command. Shinobu tried to convince Itto again and again that he didn’t need all this extra stuff. Pulling off something this complicated was only setting his expectations to an impossible height. Overall wouldn't it be better to be up front and earnest with you about how he felt? Her genuine, good advice promptly fell on deaf ears. Itto was far too busy trying to find which color would make his horns look even cooler in the light of all the fireflies they captured to release right when he said he loved you. Shinobu left this trainweck to to its thing and went to go find you.

She usually would’ve press the subject more, but she did genuinely enjoy your company. The Arataki Gang Deputy considered you a good influence on the boss and anything that could keep him out of trouble, the better.

At last, the time arrived to set all the gears into motion. Now Itto just had to wait for.... The realization hit him. He hadn't told you or Shinobu a time or place too meet today.

The bumbling oni spent a great deal of the afternoon searching for you like a lost puppy. “Yo! Y/N! Hey Hi! I gotta talk to you!” Itto yelled out across the road. He had finally managed to catch up to you two. The guy was ecstatic that things were looking up, plan was back on track! If he hurried now he could get you to the location the gang set up before sunset.

Itto excitedly told you that you HAD to see something. You were always amused by his antics, so of course you agreed. Without hesitation the oni all but dragged you out the door and towards the beach.

When you arrived.... oh crap.

Apparently, you need to get a “warrant” or something to set up the most romantic love confession of all time. Are they trying to say they own the beach or something? That's crazy now! The gang members were trying to explain themselves to the Tenryou Commission guards when you both walked in on the scene. Itto may have made things only a little tiny bit worse when he called the annoyed guard a “block head without a romantic bone in his body”, but no one was keeping score were they? Nonetheless, the whole altercation placed everyone on the scene in a Tenryo Commission cell... including you.

Shinobu was gonna be so pissed.

Wanderer

Fatal Flaw: Forgets he’s supposed to be confessing.

The whole situation was incredibly annoying anyway. You were the one who wouldn’t take the hint, why should he have to spell it out for you. It’s not like he even wanted these feelings. It was all happening without his permission. On top of that, you were dense enough to miss the point every single time he tried to explain it to you.

“Is something on my face?” You asked your newly reformed friend while putting down your book. He'd been boring holes into your skull for several minutes now.

“No? Why are you asking dumb questions?” He snapped. You noticed Wanderer had been doing that quite frequently recently. You sighed in defeat and began gathering your things.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, I’m heading out.” You told him casually.

You were usually pretty patient with Wanderer, but he’d been in some sort of sour mood lately. Typically it took a few more irksome things before he would start his attitude, but you just couldn’t figure out whats been setting him off recently. You decided it was best to just let him calm down and try again later.

“Don’t.” Wanderer said snatched your hand roughly before you could get too far. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t calling you dumb.” He spoke without looking directly at you. You made no movement towards returning and his grip on your hand did not let up.

“And?” You prompted gently.

“Sorry. I’m sorry I said it.” He spat out, clearly annoyed.

You settled back down and asked him what's been bothering him. It’s clear that he was on edge and when you pointed it out his posture became rigid. He was a former Harbinger for fuck sake. Why was this so terrifying. He had been through hell and back without flinching, yet here you were just a person with a goofy laugh and weird interests. It shouldn’t be that hard.

“It’s your fault.” The boy accused, shooting you an annoyed glare. “These emotions aren’t exactly something that come with a manual.”

You blinked back at him in confusion and damn it now you looked cute.

“Stop looking at me! It’s weird.” Wanderer sneered, and immediately scolded himself for harsh it came out. You narrowed your eyes and pointed out that he was just staring at you just a few moments ago. Doesn't that make him weird too? “What? No! That was different. Fuck, you’re already missing the point. That’s why this is impossible with you!”

You were loosing your patience and told him he was being just as impossible. “Me? At least I'm trying to talk here. You make things so much harder. If you just didn’t look at me like I asked, this wouldn’t have been an issue.” The boy jabbed back at you.

The bickering went on for a while and concluded with both of you storming off in opposite directions. It wasn’t until Wanderer entered the second room over that he remembered what he was trying to say...... “Ugh, smooth.” He scowls.

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drmaddict · 2 months

Text

Free by Choice

Summary: Simon and (Y/n) don't want children. After his vasectomy, (Y/n) realizes how much the fear of becoming a father has inhibited him.

Wordcount: 1.010

She had never experienced Simon like this before.

"The tests look good. If you want to, you have green light."

As neither of them wanted children, Simon had decided to have a vasectomy.

As he had never had a relationship before and sex wasn't really a big issue, he had never given it much thought, but that had changed.

(Y/n) didn't want children either. They're cute as long as you can give them back. She was more than willing to be 'just' the cool aunt.

The decision was final for both of them. The pill worked, but this way (Y/n) could finally stop taking it and no one had to worry anymore.

"Good means absolutely safe?"

"Yes, Mr. Riley. Your last semen sample was positive... or rather negative."

Simon just nodded and held out his hand. The doctor tried to grab it, but Simon slapped it away and pointed to the papers.

The doctor handed them to him with a slight blush on his cheeks.

Simon skimmed the pages and nodded with satisfaction.

"Thanks, doc.", he mumbled.

The doctor nodded. "If there's anything, just let me know."

It wasn't until the evening, when they were both lying on the sofa, that it started. Simon began to gently kiss her jaw, letting his hands wander under her shirt.

If only she had known then, what was in store for her.

Three hours later she wasn't really sure, whether she still had a functioning brain cell. She was lying on her stomach, exhausted and drooling on the bed. She hadn't really come down from her last high when she felt Simon's lips on her back again. Her breath caught. Simon moaned with pleasure and a little laugh underneath. "Just one more little mouse. Seven is a lucky number.", he whispered in her ear and bit tenderly into the shell of her ear.

The next morning, everything hurt. Her thighs were covered in bite marks. Her back was a mess. Her neck felt like her thighs looked and all in all, she was mostly sore. No matter how gently Simon had rubbed her with ointment.

Surprisingly, he was still sleeping next to her. Usually he would have been up and away by the time she got up. He had already trained and made breakfast, but today he was lying on his pillow, slumbering, with a cute little pout on his lips.

She turned to him with a smile. What had gotten into him? They'd had good sex, but this? Despite being on the pill, he always insisted on using a condom. He usually never came more than once inside her. Despite everything, he often pulled out and came on her. She had just assumed he was into it, but after last night?

Had he been so afraid of having a child? Had this procedure taken such a weight off his shoulders?

He moves slightly.

His eyes opened slowly.

"Morning," he mumbled.

"Morning," she simply replied.

He rubbed his face and stretched. "Fuck. My back." he grumbled.

She laughed. "Serves you right."

He didn't answer that.

She snuggled against his shoulder. He buried his nose in her hair.

"You realize, you have to carry me everywhere today, right?"

"Hm. Anywhere you want."

"Why didn't you do this before, if it was weighing you down so much?"

He closed his eyes again. "I have a therapist for that kind of talk.", he mumbled.

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm serious."

He sighed. "I've never had a relationship and the one night stands were rare and sporadic." He shrugged. "Wasn't necessary up to this point. Sorry, if it was too much."

She kissed his shoulder. "It's okay. Just remember that, when I get ugly, after I get off the pill."

"Why would you get ugly?"

"Hormonal acne and hair loss are definitely coming."

He grinned. "I've been through the meat grinder once and you're worried about a few pimples?"

She pouted. "That's a sensitive subject."

He tousled her hair, "I'll help you squeeze them out, too."

She smacked him on the chest with a grin and no emphasis. He laughed.

Five months later

Simon looked at the nutritional supplement packs that had been piling up in her kitchen for the last few months.

(Y/n's) skin had rebelled briefly, but the worst of it seemed to have subsided. For two weeks, she had been in so much pain because of the inflammation under her skin that she had sometimes stood in the shower crying.

Simon had given her every bath that could even help in the least.

But now, two months later, it had subsided. Things seemed to be settling down, even if they weren't perfect yet. She had an appointment with her beautician today and Simon had thankfully stayed at home.

He was reading the newspaper, when he heard the front door open and close again.

(Y/n) came into the small kitchen. Her skin was still shiny from some cream, but she seemed to be glowing somehow.

Unimpressed, she threw her bag onto a chair and sat astride his lap. She immediately pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms around his neck. Taken by surprise, he tried to figure out what was going on when she pulled at his shirt. He had no idea what was about to happen.

Hours later, he lay wrung out on the bed, breathing heavily.

"I want another round. When can you manage that?"

"Today?" He looked at her in shock. She nodded.

He looked up at the ceiling, shocked. "Nothing happens here for the next three to five business days."

She looked at him, pouting.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked, pulling her hand towards him, which was already exploring again.

"Not only is my skin fourteen again, but it looks like my libido is too."

"But I'm no longer fourteen mouse... My jaw hurts... And my back."

She grinned. "Will you at least take a bath with me?"

"At least? That was eight rounds!"

"Nine is a lucky number."

"Oh Fuck."

#cod fanfic #cod men #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley #fluff #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod men x reader

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venuslore · 3 months

Text

𖥔 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𖥔

summary ; your valentine’s day takes a turn when what you think is just a surprise from peter turns out to be a lot more than you bargained for.

pairing ; mcu!peter parker x fem!reader

notes ; fluff, some mentions of anxiety, but mostly just peter being an oblivious lil himbo baby! this is a repost from my old acc x

do not transfer, translate or share my work to any other sites.

with valentine’s day just around the corner, it was easy to find yourself paranoid about the entire holiday and what exactly it meant for you and peter.

while for most people, it was a celebration of love and being able to embrace that, for you, it had become an anxiety-induced menace of a day that had you second-guessing everything.

the worst part of all was that you and peter technically weren’t together.

yet, as the days grew closer and you continued to get your hopes up, it was hard not to feel disheartened when he hadn’t uttered a single word about it. leading you to wonder if he had even given it any thought or if you were simply just getting in over your head about the whole thing.

to any stranger passing you by on the street and witnessing just how affectionate you were with each other, you looked like a couple. heck, you had even shared the occasional kiss, sometimes a little more, and on days when you would go to his apartment to study, it was never long before you’d find yourself snuggling in his bed while he tried to do homework over the top of you.

you never really cared to put a label on your situationship until now, and mostly because you didn’t think you had to.

but when the day finally arrives and peter was yet to exhibit any efforts in the name of romance, you were devastated.

“so, he really hasn’t said anything?” mj asks as you head to your locker, having just finished your last class of the day.

“nope. not a word,” you shake your head.

with her brows furrowing into a scowl, mj exhales, “man, i really thought he would have. i mean… it’s peter. the dude is literally the biggest softie i have ever met.”

despite the sadness you were feeling, you couldn’t help but crack a smile at your best friend’s words. she was the only one that knew how strongly you felt for peter.

after all, she was the one to point it out.

“i don’t know, maybe i’m just looking too much into it?” you lift your shoulders into a shrug at the same time you reach your locker.

“well, speak of the devil,” mj gestures towards the end of the hallway where peter and ned had just rounded the corner.

it only takes them a moment to catch sight of you, and when they do, peter beams with a smile and waves before heading in your direction. even as they passed by multiple girls carrying flowers and the various heart-shaped decorations scattered all over the halls, peter still hadn’t noticed.

“hey! ned and i were talking about going back to mine to study for that test we have coming up, and maybe watch a movie. you guys in?” he asks, tugging on the straps of his bag, completely ignorant to his surroundings.

it was like he had forgotten about the holiday’s existence altogether, or he was actively trying to avoid it. but why?

“i can’t. i, uh, i actually have a date tonight,” mj says, tucking her hair behind her ear as all eyes turn in her direction.

“wait, what? with who?” you ask, this being the first you were hearing about it. honestly, you were surprised she had even told you at all.

shaking her head, she looks down at her feet and shrugs, “just this guy. it doesn’t matter. but, uh, y/n is free tonight so… there’s that.”

the second the words leave her lips, peter’s attention returns to you. and you weren’t entirely sure, but it almost looked like he was relieved that you had no plans.

a small smile dangled on the corner of his mouth, and his deep brown eyes softened as they met yours. “oh, okay. well, uh, do you want to join us?” he sort of fumbles over his words.

while it wasn’t exactly what you had imagined spending the most romantic day of the year with peter would be like, it beat having to sit at home alone wallowing in your own self-pity. even if it was with the person causing it… and ned.

you open your mouth to speak when you’re interrupted by ned’s phone.

“actually, change of plans,” he says. “it’s betty… and she wants to see a movie tonight.”

“i thought you two broke up?” mj narrows her eyes with confusion.

“we did… but maybe she wants to get back together?” he turns to peter with hopeful eyes, and after a moment, the other boy gives him a nudge.

“dude, go!” he laughs. and just like that, ned rushes down the hall in search of betty, leaving the three of you dumbfounded as you let out a chorus of chuckles.

“on that note, i better get going too,” mj says once the laughter faded into sighs and points the same way ned had gone. “i’ll see you losers monday. have fun, studying.”

rolling your eyes, you wave goodbye to the girl, as the thought of being alone with peter all night creeps into your mind.

the idea alone causes your heart to fasten, thrumming loudly in your ears as your mouth becomes dry with nerves. it wasn’t like you at all to be so anxious around peter, and so much so that you almost couldn’t think straight. he was typically the one person you went to when you needed things to slow down, not make them difficult.

you try to play off the effect he was having on you as you close your locker and swing your bag over your shoulder, but the second your gaze meets his again, it only seems to amplify.

“so, it looks like it’s just you and me,” he shuffles awkwardly on his feet, tightening his grip on his bag straps once more.

“uh, yeah. looks like it.” you smile, swallowing the ball that had formed in your throat, and the two of you slowly head towards the exit.

the walk back to his apartment is quiet at first, but the second peter starts talking about the chemistry assignment he had coming up, there was no stopping him. though, you couldn’t shake the feeling like he was purposely trying to prolong the walk.

he insisted that you take the longer route, which you never do, and he even slowed down his pace through the park. and as you were passing the deli-grocery, he stopped off to buy you both a sandwich, which wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, but it did add another fifteen minutes to your time.

it was like he didn’t want to get back to the apartment, like the thought of being fully alone with you was something he didn’t want to partake in.

when you do finally reach the apartment, however, he fumbles to unlock the door and almost drops the keys in the process, but the second it’s open, you’re hesitant to even step inside. you had been there a million times before but this time, for whatever reason, felt different.

you wondered if it really were such a good idea for you to be there, to be alone with him when he was clearly opposed to the idea. which was odd considering he had been the one to initiate you going over there in the first place.

“do you want a drink or anything?” he asks as he passes the kitchen to put his bag in his room.

most days, you would follow him straight to his room, sometimes even beating him there, but with how he had been acting, it just didn’t feel right. so you lingered in the living room instead.

at least, until he pops his head out of the door, and with a reassuring smile surfacing on his lips, he gestures for you to follow.

“we’ve got water, juice or soda?” he asks as you enter the room, dropping his bag at the foot of his bed.

“water is fine,” you nod.

“okay, give me a sec,” he nods back, and having to cram past you to get out of the door, his hand runs down your arm so to not squish you. the touch immediately sends a pulse throughout your body, causing you to let out a small gasp.

you were just grateful peter was far enough away that he hadn’t heard it, or if he did, he didn’t show it.

with peter leaving you alone in his room, you take the chance to take it all in like you hadn’t been there before. you drop your bag beside his and slip out of your jacket before falling into a stupor on his bed.

peter’s room had always been comforting to you, though, since the blip, it didn’t quite feel like it was his anymore.

like everyone else that tragically disappeared, peter lost the majority of his belongings, as did you, but he no longer had any of his action figures or comic books. even the nerdy science posters that you would pick on him for, or his lego models - all the things that made peter’s room… his… was all gone.

shaking away the thoughts, you bury yourself in the comfort of his sheets, letting your fingers dance across the cotton as you wait for him to return. but when you move to grab your phone from your jacket pocket, something in the corner of your eye catches your attention.

it was the smallest glimmer of something red inside his closet, and the door was only open a crack, but it was enough to make your thoughts go wild.

was it possible that peter had bought you something for valentine’s day and this whole thing was just a ruse to get you alone with him? were ned and mj in on it? or had he decided against it, thinking that maybe it was too much, and that’s why it was hidden away in his closet?

perhaps that was why he had been acting so strange and why he had been pretending like today was nothing but any other regular day?

however, before you get the chance to relieve your suspicions, peter walks back in with two glasses of water, and when he sees that you had already made yourself comfortable, he draws in his bottom lip as a nervous smile takes hold of his features.

“something tells me you have absolutely no intention of studying,” he shakes his head.

“something tells me you’re right.” you pat the spot beside you, and he obliges, pulling his laptop from the desk beside the bed and finding a movie for you both to watch.

while you enjoyed laying with peter in comfortable silence, watching the film he had chosen, you couldn’t stop thinking about what was in his closet. the tiny sliver of red teasing you from between the slats, begging for you to confront it.

nevertheless, it takes two hours for peter to finally leave the room again, and within that time, he hadn’t mentioned it at all. which only made you all the more curious.

so the second he stepped out of the room, you set into motion to find out what it was he was hiding. and you knew you shouldn’t have, but not knowing was killing you, and you simply couldn’t help yourself.

you tip-toe across the floor, avoiding the creaky spot in the middle, and after a deep breath, you slowly open the door. though, what you were expecting to be a heart-shaped balloon or a cute stuffed animal that said something like ‘be my valentine?’ on the front, was far from what you had imagined.

instead, hanging on the metal rod was a suit. a suit that you would recognise absolutely anywhere with it’s distinct red and black colours, and who could forget the unmistakable mask with its intricate detailing.

then it hits you, and a shiver of realisation rolls down your spine.

setting out a gasp, you drop the suit to the floor and stumble back into the bed, knocking over a book in the process. you couldn’t believe what you had just discovered, and you barely get a moment to collect yourself before peter comes running to the door.

“hey, are you-” he stops the second he sees the suit, his smile falling as he takes in your bewildered state and it transforms into a look of horror.

“peter, i-”

“shit,” he exhales, cutting you off as he reaches for the material and throws it back into his closet as fast as he can, despite knowing that the damage was already done. “don’t look at that. that’s nothing. completely and totally nothing.”

“peter, was that - are you?” you try to get the words out, but you’re still in so much shock that it seems near impossible to do so.

“no. nope. It’s not…” he shakes his head rapidly, leaning against the closet now. “it was, uh, it was a gift from may. she knows i like superheroes, so, y'know?”

“peter…”

“it’s nothing, really. i promise. it was just a-”

“peter…”

“i was thinking of maybe even wearing it for halloween this year, what do you think? you could go as black widow, or umm, captain marvel?”

“peter!” this time when you say his name, he stops talking, realising that there was no way he was going to get out of this. and if he did, it would be a miracle. but you were smart, smart enough not to believe the nonsense that was pouring out of his mouth, and know that this was for real.

his head falls with defeat, and he drags himself to sit beside you. the air was heavy now, filled with worry as he tried to choose his words carefully. there were only so many ways you could tell someone you had a secret identity being a superhero and he had wanted to do it perfectly - but most importantly, not like this.

“look, i - i hated not being able to tell you but if everyone knew who i was then my life wouldn’t be the same anymore."

"but, this is me we’re talking about peter. i’m the same person that knows you still wear star wars underwear, and that you secretly love it when i choose to watch twilight on movie night.” you sigh, shoulders slumping slightly. “you can tell me anything.”

his eyes soften at your remark, and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “i know, but i wanted… i wanted to keep you safe. there are bad guys out there that would like to come after spider-man and you knowing who i am, only puts you in danger."

"who else knows?"

"may, ned and… mj.”

“mj?” you retort.

“to be fair, i didn’t tell her. she worked it out herself and i swore her to secrecy so don’t be angry at her for not telling you.” he raises a finger to further prove his point. “i was actually planning on telling you about it tonight, but every time i thought about it, i got nervous and i couldn’t do it.”

“so that’s why you’ve been acting so weird?” you ask, nudging the boy’s shoulder playfully as relief washes over you. “and here i am thinking that it was me. the only reason i looked in your closet was because i… i thought… never mind it’s stupid.”

he chuckles, “no. you have to tell me now!”

you let your head fall back for a moment, and after letting out a deep breath, you sway your head back down. “okay. i saw the red through the cracks and i thought that maybe… it was a valentine’s day present. i know we never really put a label on… us… but i just, i don’t know, i thought that maybe that’s where we were and-”

your words turn into muffles as peter presses his lips to yours in a swift movement, and you’re taken back by his actions but you don’t push him off. your body feels electric and you kiss him back with a smile, sinking into it more before he pulls away.

he doesn’t pull back much, and instead, rests his forehead against yours as you both try to catch your breath. your heart thumps in your chest and you’re still so close that you were sharing the same air.

peter had kissed you many of times before, some of them turning into heated make-out sessions but this was different to any of those. this had purpose.

“sorry, you were rambling and i couldn’t help myself.” a coy smile flashes across his face for a moment, before being replaced with a look of uncertainty. “was that enough for you to see how i feel about you? or would you rather i change my relationship status too? or i could just post to the entire world about how much i love you?”

upon hearing the words, you pull away and a shallow gasp escapes you. you weren’t sure if peter had meant to say it, but whether he did or not, it was out there now and your heart pangs inside your chest as your stomach fills with butterflies.

“you love me?” you say between breaths and disbelief in your eyes.

he lets out a nervous laugh as his cheeks redden, and his fingers play with the folds of his shirt. “i mean, yeah… you’re kinda my favourite person in existence. it’d be hard not to.”

“really?”

he nods and walks back over to the closet. “yeah. also if you had of looked in the other side of my closet you would’ve seen this…"

you watch as he opens the closet door to reveal a beautiful bouquet of white and red flowers all wrapped up in bright red paper.

"i was going to give it to you when i told you about… y'know…” he widens his eyes. “but you sort of did that for me… plus, there was also this.”

this time he pulls out a small bag, something that you’d find at a jewellery store, and hands it to you. you look to him as though to be asking permission to open it, and he nods, gesturing for you to do so before leaning against his desk.

“it’s not a lot, and i’ve been saving for a while now to get it for you, but if you don’t like it then we can exchange it or get something else…”

opening the bag, you find a small box with gold detailing around the sides. and when you open it, inside sits a bracelet decorated with charms, but the one in the middle, that you can’t really see unless you’re looking close enough is a 'p’.

after a moment of basking in the sentiment of it all, you lean back and give him a warm smile.

“i love it,” you say, tears slowly starting to brim your eyes as your mouth involuntarily starts to crease. “and i love you.”

“yeah?” peter’s brows twitch, his eyes never leaving yours, and he lifts your palm to his lips for a feather-light kiss. he barely touches you, but it sets your skin alight.

then all of your focus is on him as you stand to meet him, enveloping him in another kiss. hands moving along his chest to fall behind his neck as he wraps his own around your waist and holds you tight. pulling you as close to him as humanly possible.

when you do finally pull apart, he clasps the bracelet around your wrist before you slide your fingers through his, savouring the warmth of his skin against yours.

“so, since you have two identities does that mean i get double the love?” you let out a small chuckle and peter matches it.

“i think i could manage that.” he says and places one more kiss on the tip of your nose.

#— ꒰ ‧ ₊˚ vee daydreams ˖꙳‧ ꒱#peter parker ᰔ #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker oneshot #peter parker one shot #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker fluff

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