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marriedtobigfoot · 9 months

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Steve ends up heartbroken, lonely and depressed after season 2. Nancy called him bullshit, even after he ditched all his old friends for her. Billy Hargrove took his spot at the top of the food chain. He can have it, Steve doesn't really want it anymore. But Steve does want to find some sort of connection. Someone to have in his life who isn't an 11 year old kid he barely knows. He tries to go on a date one night, take a nice-seeming girl to a party. He wants to find connection, to kill the loneliness that's been building for months, but just as he's feeling kind of good about things, his date ditches him.

So. He decides to drink his feelings. He gets majorly fucked up, and ends up laying on the ground in the backyard, contemplating how much life seems to hate him.

Only to literally get tripped over by Eddie Munson, who was at this party selling pot and is very confused as to why Steve Harrington is alone on the ground with a bottle of vodka clenched in one hand.

Eddie ends up chatting a little with Steve, nothing substantial, but enough to know that Steve is very very drunk, and also very very sad.

He asks if Steve wants to go back to the party, and Steve staunchly refuses. He doesn't want to be around a bunch of annoyingly happy people.

He asks if Steve needs a ride home, and Steve just kind of shrugs. His parents just left for another trip, so home is kind of depressing right now too. But he doesn't exactly have any other friends he can stay with so. Home it'll have to be.

Only Eddie can *tell* he doesn't really want to go home, though he has no idea why Steve wouldn't want to return to his veritable mansion after a shitty night. The reason doesn't matter much. He offers to let Steve crash at his place. Steve can take the couch, or hell he can stay in Eddie's room if he doesn't mind sharing, that way he wouldn't risk being woken up when Wayne comes home that morning.

And well, Steve agrees. Can't think of any reason not too. Munson has been nice so far, he's got a good easy-going energy that Steve likes. Why not stay the night.

By the time they get to Eddie's, Steve is *slightly* more sober. Not much, but he's slurring his words a little less, and he can walk with only a little help.

Eddie grabs them each a little plate of leftovers, because he has no idea if Steve's eaten at all. It's quiet while they eat, Eddie doesn't push Steve to talk, and Steve isn't sure what to say. Eventually Eddie sets the plates aside and give Steve an easy grin.

"So, do you want the couch, or are you crashing with me?"

Steve thinks about it for a while. He hasn't shared a bed with a guy-friend since he was a kid, and he's heard rumors about Eddie, whispers in the hall about the way he looks at other guys. But...Steve can't really bring himself to care. He's tired, and he really doesn't want to be alone.

"I don't mind sharing."

Eddie sets them both up in his room, letting Steve choose which side of the bed he wants, and they both settle in. There's a respectable distance between the two of them, and Eddie says a quick goodnight to Steve, figures they won't talk and just go right to bed.

Except Steve isn't sober, and he really isn't in a good headspace, so he can't stop himself from blurting things out into the quiet of the dark room.

"Are you really gay?"

Eddie stiffens next to him, he can feel it, he can hear the way that the other boys breath cuts off and he seems to stop breathing all-together.

"It's okay if you are, I'm not going to be an asshole about it, I'm trying not to be that guy anymore. I guess I was just curious."

It's quiet for another beat before Eddie seems to loosen just a little. He starts breathing again at least.

"Yeah I uh- I am. Gay. And if that's weird the couch is still open, I can-"

"It's not weird."

"Okay."

Steve let's himself mull over this confirmation, and then his mouth starts moving again, without his permission.

"Is it lonely? Cause I mean, it's got to be hard to date in Hawkins. People here are shitty. Unless you've got like, a secret boyfriend or something."

"No...no secret boyfriend. It does get a little lonely sometimes. I'm lucky though, I've got my uncle, and my friends are pretty great. That's enough most days."

"What do you do when it's not enough?"

"Hmmm?"

"When your uncle and friends aren't enough, what do you do? To try and...make it better?"

Eddie is quiet again for a long stretch before he shrugs.

"I try to focus on something else. I'll play my guitar or work on a new campaign, read a book. Something to take my mind off it."

"Oh."

Now Steve is the one who seems tense, his jaw is tight and he's got his arms wrapped around himself. His next words come out as a whisper, but Eddie manages to catch them.

"I don't know how to do any of that."

He sounds almost choked, and Eddie is caught off guard. He's never seen Steve Harrington as anything other than solid, as happy. He's the king, after all. He's supposed to be all smiles and great hair. Only...Eddie's noticed that he hasn't hung out with his old friends lately, that he's eaten alone at lunch too many times to be anything other than strange.

"Steve...are you lonely?"

Eddie expects a denial, for Steve to laugh it off and tell Eddie that he's perfectly fine and fulfilled. Or maybe he expects a shrug, a non-answer. What he doesn't expect is the gut-wrenching sob that seems to tear past the other boys lips.

He doesn't expect to turn and see Steve Harrington's face, a scant foot from his, shining with tears.

He panics a little at the sight.

"Fuck- I'm so sorry-"

"Don't be." Steve tries to wipe his eyes, to hide the tremble in his voice. "Not your fault there's something wrong with me."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like I'm broken man, like nobody can stand to be around me. Tommy and Carol hate me now, Nancy- hell even my own parents hate being at home with me for more than a week. It's like I'm repellent or something. Couldn't even get a date to stick around for a whole night."

And Eddie's pretty sure *he* might start crying now. He'd never have expected this much from Steve, all that sadness to come pouring out. It wouldn't have happened if Steve was completely sober. Without thinking, he reaches out.

Eddie puts a hand on Steve's shoulder and waits to see if the touch gets rejected, but Steve seems to lean into him, so he lets his hand linger.

"This probably won't help, but I don't think you're repellent. And that's coming from somebody who your whole group used to torture. I don't know much about you, but I kind of liked having you around tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve gives him a tiny smile. His eyes are still wet with tears, and the smile doesn't come close to reaching them. He seems impossibly small here in Eddie's bed.

"I don't know man. I just wish-"

He cuts himself off, apparently deciding his words are too far, but Eddie urges him to keep talking.

"What do you wish Steve?"

"I just wish that... there was somebody out there I could have a future with. Somebody who actually loved me, you know?"

It might be the saddest thing Eddie's ever heard, and he blames that fact for what he does next.

He takes his hand off Steve's shoulders and instead hauls Steve closer to him, fitting the other boy against his chest and wrapping his arms around him. It's a move that might get him decked, but he doesn't think it will. And he'll be damned if he doesn't hug Steve right that second.

He doesn't get hit. Steve tenses for a second, but it's just that one instant before he's melting into the embrace.

Eddie feels more tears falling against his shirt, and he couldn't care less. He keeps Steve close, let's him cry into his chest, runs a hand through that famous mop of hair.

He isn't sure how long it takes for Steve to calm down, but eventually he does. His breathing evens out, and he shivers a little before speaking.

"Thanks man."

And Eddie takes another leap of faith.

"I could be that person, you know."

"What?"

"I mean. You know Im... not straight. It may not be exactly what you're wanting but. I think I could picture a future with you. If you want to, just for tonight...I could be that someone who loves you."

Steve looks at Eddie, like he's a puzzle that he needs to solve, before a other shiver seems to wrack his body.

"Just for tonight?"

It comes out as a whisper, but Eddie hears it all the same.

"Yeah. For tonight Steve."

"I think...I think I'd like that."

Eddie gives him the sweetest smile he can muster, and nods.

"Alright sweetheart."

Eddie isn't exactly sure what it means, to love Steve for the night. After all, Steve is straight. He figures it doesn't matter much though, it's only for a night.

He keeps a hold on Steve, let's him get comfortable tucked against Eddie, and he does what feels natural. He runs a hand up and down Steve's spine, traces shapes into the soft fabric of his shirt. He tangles their legs together, and in a moment of insane bravery he presses a kiss to the top of Steve's head.

He's met with a sigh, full of relief, and figures he's on the right track.

"Just close your eyes Stevie, I've got you."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Hmmm?"

"The future. You said you could see one. Can you tell me?"

And he asks so carefully, he sounds almost afraid, Eddie can't say no to that.

"Do you want the fantasy future, or the realistic future?"

"The real one."

"Alright then. Well, if I'm not going to be a rich and famous rockstar...I'll probably graduate and get a job somewhere in town. A real job, maybe working on cars or something. I'm good with cars. You'd come over all the time, have dinners with me and with Wayne. You'd have to meet Wayne. And we'd have more nights like this, sleeping close."

Steve let's out a pleased sounding hum, and shifts his face so it's buried even closer in Eddie's neck. He can feel Steve's breath on him.

"We could save up money and get a little place together, somewhere outside Hawkins. I have to stay kind of close, for my uncle, but maybe Indy?"

Steve nods, mutters something about staying close 'just in case'. He sounds like he might fall asleep, so Eddie keeps going.

"We could get an apartment, nothing too fancy. We would get two rooms, so nobody gets suspicious, but we would share a bed most nights. I'd play with my band on weekends, just for fun, and you'd join some little local sports team. I'd make sure to schedule DND nights so that I never miss a single game, even though I don't understand a damn thing about sports. We would come home for holidays, but most of the time it would just be us. I'd take good care of you, make sure you never go more than a few hours without me telling you I love you. I'll show up wherever you're working just to give you a hug and a kiss, and make sure you don't forget it. And I'll annoy the hell out of, but you won't mind too much, because I'll make you happy too."

Eddie can think of more. He can think about so many things. How he could give Steve one of his rings, even if they couldn't legally get married, even if Steve would never want that. Just as another reminder that he's loved. They could take trips together and go out to parties where Steve will never have to worry about getting ditched. Eddie doesn't do things halfway, and he has a hell of an imagination. He could picture them growing old together, if he tried, if he let himself. But this is just for tonight, so he doesn't. Instead he runs a hand through Steve's hair again, and listens to his quiet breathing. He thinks he may have fallen asleep, but he's wrong.

"That sounds nice."

It comes out muffled, spoken into Eddie's neck, but he manages to make it out, and he let's the vibration of it sink into his skin.

*It's only for tonight.*

He has to remind himself, because Steve is just feeling lonely. He doesn't want that future with Eddie, he just wants to feel loved.

But even if it's just pretend, just to help Steve for a few hours, he's okay with that.

Steve may think he's broken, but Eddie thinks he would be easy to love for a long time. Loving him for one night is nothing. He doesn't even have to try.

Tomorrow Steve will wake up sober, and he'll thank Eddie for letting him stay over, and they won't talk about it. Eddie will drive Steve back to his car in silence, and they'll say their goodbyes. They may not talk ever again, they never had before.

But for tonight? Eddie Munson will love Steve Harrington, and Steve? He'll let himself be loved, let himself beleive it. And he'll love Eddie right back.

Just for one night.

And if Steve ever needs it again? Eddie will love him for another night. And Steve will give that love right back. He's got plenty to spare, after all. And there's far worse people he could share it with.

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington whump #steve is sad #eddie helps #pre-season 4 #this takes place between seasons 2 and 3 #I wrote this in a fit of insanity while I was supposed to be working #hope yall like it

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bet-on-me-13 · 8 months

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Unknown, the Wandering Hero

So! We all know the typical Vivisection AU, right? Danny is revealed to his parents and they take it in all the wrong ways. They capture him, Vivisect him, and eventually he manages to escape with the help of his friends.

But what about his Rouges?

Sure, we all like to think of some of the more friendly ones like Ember, or Sydney, or Johnny 13 and Kitty, but he has WAY more Evil Rouges than good ones.

Without Danny there to reign them in, the Rouges spread out across the world to fulfill their obsessions, unhampered by the Heroes and Villains of the world that have no means to fight them.

And Danny? He feels responsible. He was the one to open the Gate, he was the Sacrifice, the one to let them through. And when the going got tough he just up and left? No, that won't do.

His Obsession is Protection for a reason, and nothing has changed. All he needs to do is expand his area of focus a little.

Danny, after healing up, starts wandering the world in search of the Ghosts who have escaped into the Mortal Realm. He battles all of his old foes, as well as many new ones who he hadn't met before.

His travels take him far and wide.

He defeats Skulker in Metropolis, as he is trying to hunt down the Super Family for their pelts. They are the last of their race after all, so he is inclined to try and hunt them. Honestly dealing with Skulker was easy, dealing with the Rich Asshole who was funding him was a nightmare.

He chases down Spectra in Gotham as she tries to feed on the misery of an entire City. (Thanks to @impyssadobsessions for the idea, this Prompt specifically). She is actually a very tough fight, especially powered by both the Misery of an Entire City as well as his Own Misery, but he manages.

He defeats Technus is Central City, as he tries to Raid Star Labs for their advanced Tech. It actually took a while to beat him after he amped himself with all that Power, and he did need help from the Local Hero to deal with him. He's just thankful Technus is one of the more "Harmless" ones.

After every Victory, he sends them back to the Realms using the Banishing Spell that Sam taught him a while back (the only bit of magic he ever really managed to master).

He knows they'll eventually find their way back out, but it's all he can do anymore. It's his eternal Punishment for unleashing them out into the World in the first place. He was the Catalyst for this Situation, now he was tasked with Fixing it, no matter how long it took.

...

The Justice League is caught in a tricky situation a the moment.

In the past few months, they have been encountering more and more of these Extra Dimensional Beings known as Realms Ghosts across the World.

Justice League Dark has had some success in battling them, but even they are getting tired of having to deal with every single incident alone.

They did get approached by a Government Agency known as the Ghostly Investigation Ward that seemed to want to help, but it didn't take long to realize that their main Aim was to Genocide the entire Race. The JLA had quickly cut ties after realizing that, and took what little Tech and Information they had been able to gather.

Still, it wasn't easy to deal with these Entities.

Thankfully, they have had some outside help. An Unknown Being has been routinely showing up whenever a Realms Ghost appears and defeating them, before using a (as described by Constantine) "Rudimentary Banishing Spell held together by willpower and luck" to send them back to their home Dimension. There's honestly no way it should be functional, but he did make it work either way.

They don't know much about this Unknown, aside from the fact that he seems to be the only one able to consistently damage the Realms Ghosts. His Powerset leads them to belive he may be from the same Dimension, or at least drawing his power from the same Source, but as he actively avoids the League and takes every opportunity to not talk to them, they know they aren't getting any answers any time soon.

Over the past few months, they had affectionately started referring to him as Unknown, creative they know, because they could never get his Real Name. Sure, some of the Realms Ghosts seemed to recognize him, but they always called him stuff like "Whelp" and "Punk" and "Usurper", which were not very good names to use when referring to him. Although the last one was a bit concerning.

They had only managed to trade a few quick words with Unknown in the past few months, but it was enough to get the Gist of it. He was just doing his job, sending the Realms Ghosts back where they belonged. There was apparently a Tear in Reality letting them through, but he seemed hesitant to reveal what he knew about it.

After a few months of sparse interactions, they eventually managed to convince him to at least take an Emergency Communicator. Just in case. They even let him take it apart to look for any Tracking Devices, which earned them a small bit of trust. They took whatever wins they could.

Fortunately, it seemed he never did need it. In fact he was getting more and more efficient with every battle, defeating his foes in half the time it would have taken before.

Unfortunately, it didn't last forever. One day, the Communicator went off, a distorted voice quickly saying, "Need backup, some of them decide to Team Up" before cutting out.

They quickly rushed to his location, finding an active battlefield with no less that a dozen Ghosts battling Unknown. And he seemed to be on the ropes.

With their arrival, the combined force of the Justice League and Unknown eventually managed to defeat the Group of Ghosts. Justice League Dark volunteered to work on the Banishing Spells while the others cleaned up the damage from the Battle.

One of them approached Unknown to make sure he was ok, and froze.

During the battle, Unknown's Mask had been Torn off, and they could finally see the face of the Hero they had been working with for the past few months.

And he was a Child.

#Dp x dc #Dpxdc #Dc x dp #Dcxdp #Danny Phantom #Dc #Dcu #Vivisection AU #Wandering Hero AU #Danny's Hero name is Unknown #Danny isn't in a good place right now #He has an unhealthy mix of a Savior Complex and Survivors Guilt #He believes that this is all his fault and none of this would have ever happened if he hadn't been stupid enough to step in the Portal #Danny is of course Wrong since he parents would have eventually made the Portal work whether he stepped in it or not #And in that scenario there would have been nobody who could stop the Ghosts at all and they would have run rampant #The JLA is horrified that they let a child fight their battles for this long #Of course they understand him since they are the exact same but they still feel bad for not supporting him more #(As if Danny would have let them)#Whether Danny let's himself be taken in by the League or runs away from his problems again is up to whoever picks up this post #I leave it humbly in your hands

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run.

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you.

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst.

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth:

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?"

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven.

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks.

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music.

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart.

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

#wooah smut #nana smut #kwon nayeon smut #el7z up smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember #woo ah smut #woo ah nana smut

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 1 month

Text

Kiss Me Softly: Leon Kennedy x Pregnant!Reader (NSFW)

someone sent this to the old blog and I forgot to move it over here when I killed off the ask box but I do remember what you want the premise to be anon, I got you.

Contains: Pregnant sex, breast worship and good ol' dirty talk

The sensation was almost burning in your core. Slowly, heating up more and more somewhere deep in your gut to the point you had started to even wonder if you’ve ever felt normal since you had gotten pregnant; Especially since you’ve hit your third trimester. The sensation only got worse when he would leave, off to some little corner of the world for God knows how long before he would always find his way back home to you. Days like those were always exciting.

Even now, as you were alone and lying on the couch, you couldn’t help but feel giddy as you stared at the clock on your phone. He would be home any minute after spending all day in some office, and any minute, he’d walk right through that door.

The feeling inside of you was blazing at this point. It wasn’t heartburn or trapped gas, but a lustrous heat that only your loving husband could stomp out. It clawed up at your ribcage, spiking right through your heart, clawing right at your mind. The heat inside of you was heavy and warm, especially where it sat nice and pretty right in between your legs.

You could feel it pooling right at your cervix, you could feel your own heartbeat through the delicate skin. You could feel the warm honey dripping from your petals. Your own attempts of getting off didn’t work out well. Not only was it hard to do being so far along, it also didn’t feel right. You needed to feel the stretch only his fingers and especially his cock could give you.

Fuck, you wanted him- no, you needed him. You needed Leon to take you so badly that it started to hurt. You needed his touch, you needed his sweet words in your ear, you needed his lips on your body. Just the thought of him taking you like this had the heat blooming hotter.

And then you heard it, the soft clicking at the door of Leon inserting his key and turning. You sat up as quickly as you could but didn’t stand, eyes alert and staring at the door as you watched intently at it swing open to reveal your husband.

His face lit up upon seeing you, his normally cold eyes shined like oceans at just one look at you. And that smile, shit, how it made your spine tingle in all of the right places.

“You waited up for me?”

His words were sweet and dark, like a fine wine you craved to drink.

“I wanted to,” you purred.

You tried to stand up, barely able to lift yourself at an awkward angle before Leon had helped you out. His strong hands on either hip gently lifting you up from the couch, making sure you were steady on your feet, both of you facing each other now.

His hands drifted to your swollen belly, pressing his palms flat against the delicate skin as he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“How have my girls been?” he glanced up into your eyes before falling back to your belly.

“Your daughter’s been using me as a punching bag all day since you let,” you huffed. “And I’ve been missing you.”

“I’m sorry,” he pressed a kissed to your lips as he rubbed soothing circles against you. “But just think; One more month and she’ll be here.” And he’ll be given a very generous paternity leave too. “Can I get you anything? You have to be so tired by now, sweetheart.”

Oh, how the lightbulb went off in your head.

You brought your arms up and trailed them along his forearms up to his strong biceps to his broad shoulders. Your massaged at his shoulders and traced at the strong columns of his neck with a soft hum.

“There is one thing you can do,” you purred.

You know for a fact that Leon did not miss that little mischievous look in your eyes.

“And what might that be?”

You knew he knew just from his tone, all heavy and dark. His lips pulled back into a knowing smirk as he brought himself as close to you as your pregnant belly would allow. Just being under his gaze had your knees feeling weak.

“I need you,” you whispered to your husband. “Please, Leon, I need you.”

He could listen to your begging all day long and never get tired of it.

Before you could process it, Leon had wrapped his arms around and scooped you up, holding you bridal style as he stepped lively towards the bedroom. You gasped softly and clung to his shoulders, earning you a deep chuckle from him as pressed a kiss to your neck. The scratch of his stubble felt so fucking good that it pulled a soft moan from your lips, one of your hands came up to his hair and carded your fingers through his thick dirty blond locks. Were you this touch starved for him that just the scratch of his facial hair would do you in?

Leon barely stumbled through the hall before he gently kicked open the bedroom door with his boot. His long legs strode right across the bedroom as he gently set you down at the foot of the bed. He didn’t get up though, and only pushed you down until your back was flush with the sheets and he was hovering over you. He leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss once more, one of his large hands embedded itself in the sheets right next to your head while the other grabbed onto your body, gently kneading your soft hip causing you to purr into the kiss.

Leon pulled back with a smirk, your noses brushing against one another, his eyes cloudy with hazy lust.

“I’m barely touching you and you’re already a mess,” he chuckled darkly. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me, Leon,” you spurred him on. “Please?”

Leon pressed a kiss to your lips as his hand on your waist slid down to your thigh. He squeezed the soft flesh before inching your legs apart. He pressed his knee between the part he had created, you knew he could feel just how wet you were. He hummed against your lips as he stood up fully. He moved his knee away to make room for his other hand, agile fingers rubbing your pussy through the fabric of your pants and underwear. His eyes lit up with a devious glint at just the feeling of how horny you were for him.

“Already this wet for me, dove? All I did was just kiss you.” His eyes briefly looked down at your clothed pussy and then back at you. “Or did you already get started without me?”

“I-I’m sorry Leon. Please, I need you,” you whimpered.

His hand that had parted your thighs traced mindless shapes on the side of your belly.

“I can’t blame you. You’ve been insatiable since I knocked you up, always needing me, always begging for more.” God, just the way his hair fell into his eyes, how he was standing over you, how he just looked at you - it was all perfect. He slid his hand past the waistband of the loose yoga pants that sat around your waist and curled his fingers around your panties. You lifted your ass just a bit like a good wife so he could slide the damned things off your legs and let them pool to the floor. His eyes immediately locked onto your perfect pussy all wet and dripping just for him. “Look at this; All for me.”

“Leon-”

He snatched at your waist and hoisted you more onto the bed until your head hit the pillows, propping you up just a bit. Leon climbed onto the bed and spread your legs apart as far as they would go. The cool air of the room sparked at your exposed womanhood, the poor thing throbbed with a carnal need for your husband as he bent over. He grasped at both of your ankles and drew them over his shoulders as he finally buried his tongue into your pussy.

You found yourself crying out of pleasure instantly. Your back arched a bit off the bed as your eyes screwed shut, the pillows cradled at your neck while your mind went completely blank. Leon growled a bit into your pussy as he tongue fucked you, he held your ankles loosely, encouraging you to wrap them around and squeeze his head. You mewled and moaned, hands snatching at the blankets as you panted and cried. Your throat seized, your heart fluttered, your core was dripping with hot honey for him to lap up with that tongue of his.

One of his hands let go of your ankle to finger your poor womanhood, his finger rubbing with vigor as his tongue lapped up your sweet taste. He never left you empty, when his tongue would roll out he would immediately replace it with his finger only to repeat the process.

You squeezed your eyes closed and sank your head back into the pillows even more only for Leon to abruptly pull away. Your eyes flew open and your head shot up to look at him with those desperate eyes.

“Look at me,” he ordered, “and don’t stop looking.”

You shivered at his voice, all dark and bossy, just like how he would order you around in bed before you were pregnant. A part of you missed that side of Leon, the part that always pushed you past your limits, forcing you over the edge multiple times, dragging on your agony before he would let you climax. You missed how rough he could be. He never did that to you while you were pregnant, though.

You maintained eye contact to the best of your ability despite your fluttering eyelids threatening to squeeze shut as your orgasm started to clench at your core. He had propped you up so you both could look at each other over your pregnant belly, his stormy blue eyes were truly something to get lost in as you came against his mouth.

You cried aloud as he continued to tongue fuck you, adamant on lapping up your sweet taste and not missing a single drop until you had run clean. He gently placed your legs back down on the bed before he stood up. He wiped his lower lip with his thumb, gathering what little of your orgasm that had been left before he licked it off. His cheeks were blushed with a soft pink and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“It’s almost like you got sweeter when I got you pregnant,” he purred.

He shucked off his jacket and threw it aside before he swiftly pulled off his shirt with a single motion. You couldn’t help but flush at the sight of him. Sure, you’ve seen him naked, and especially shirtless, plenty of times but you couldn’t help it. You had him all to yourself. He snatched at his belt and undid his pants, letting them fall to the floor and leaving him only his boxers. His erection was obvious, the poor thing straining against the thin and dark material. You could a little wet spot forming as his head leaked his salty precum.

God, you wanted to taste it so badly.

He noticed you watching intently and decided to give you a little show. He slowly peeled away at the waistband of his boxers despite your soft groans of protest. His stupid smirk really only showed how much of a little shit he really was.

“Please, don’t tease me,” you begged, still out of breath from getting fucked with his tongue.

Leon dropped his boxers, letting his poor dick spring free. He groaned a little bit when it sprung free, one of his hands squeezed at the base of his cock and pumped himself a few times. He ran his thumb over the precum that had beaded out, smearing it across his head as he continued to eye you.

“I love how you look,” he said near-breathless, “all soft with my child. You look so fucking gorgeous. I should get you pregnant more often.”

Your face lit aflame at his words. He really did have a pregnancy kink, huh? Leon once again climbed on top of you, caging you in his arms. His hands planted themselves on either side of your head, fingers curling against the wooden headboard. You spread your legs as you felt the head of Leon’s cock rutting against your swollen pussy, barely splitting your petals apart, teasing you unjustly.

He slowly thrust into you, your mouth fell open into an airy cry of pleasure that had drifted into a content sigh when he buried himself up to the root in you. Your chest seized and your back arched into him as much as you could. Your hands came up to grab at Leon’s brawny shoulders, desperately needing something to ground you as your nails sank into his skin. Leon moaned as your pussy squeezed around him, panting like a dog from just one thrust inside of you.

Leon unscrewed his eyes as he started to thrust at a slow pace, his hips rocking back and forth to ease open your clenching walls. His eyes landed on your breasts, his throat bobbed, his hands snatched at the headboard so hard that it started to groan and creak under his grip.

“God, just look at you. I love how you look like this, dove,” he said breathlessly.

He unlatched one of his hands to grab at your breast, pawing and kneading it as you bounced in his grip from his thrusts. It was heavy and warm in his hand, full of developing milk. He brought his head down and latched his mouth on your other breast, biting and kissing the plump flesh until he latched onto your nipple. You moaned aloud, the crown of your skull burying deeper into the pillow as Leon sucked at your breast like a man starved. His other hand had started to knead slower, his fingers coming up to pinch at your nipple. You hissed and sighed over and over as he drank from your breast, your nails driving in deeper.

When Leon had had his fill, he unlatched himself from your nipple but not without rolling his teeth gently over the poor abused thing to illicit a shrill moan from you. He buried his lips in your neck as his quickened his pace, his stomach flexing and his back arching in with his thrusts. His stubble scratched at your skin deliciously as his teeth ghosted over the crook of your neck.

“I could drink from you all day,” he growled in your ear. You moaned, you couldn’t form words right with your mouth, your mind was too fuzzy as you chased your second orgasm. Leon chuckled darkly in your ear, biting gently at your throat. “I can’t wait until I’m home on leave. I’m gonna pamper you, you’re not gonna lift a finger. I’ll take care of you. Do you want that?” You nodded your head, unable to form words, only moans and cries. “I can’t wait until I can knock you up again,” he growled right into your ear. “I’ll knock you up like the slut you are.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, your eyes started to flutter shut when Leon snatched at your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me when I’m fucking you.” Fuck, his words really drove it home for you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum right on my dick.”

#resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader

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abiiors · 2 months

Text

persephone - matty x reader ˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧💌˚.⋆🌿

a/n: this is kinda loosely based on the myth of persephone and also this is just one interpretation of it, obv several exists in the media :) and like matty's barely hades lmao, this is mostly just the connection of persephone, demeter and spring ♡ cw: this contains themes of parental neglect, dysfunctional families, emotional abuse/neglect and alcoholism, and they're very much PRESENT and DETAILED. this isn't angst but it's def bittersweet (emphasis on the bitter whoops) wc: 5.1k

the first word she learns is “mama”.

she has a faint memory of this—a woman with shining brown hair, smiling and cheering at her. everything is blurred around the edges and filtered in through a haze. everything has a foggy white quality to it but the woman’s eyes are crystal clear and looking at her, focused solely on her. she has a memory of others laughing and clapping along, encouraging her to say the word again and again.

mama.

the brown haired woman looks tired—she’s young and, looking back, barely even an adult. but the woman smiles at her and coos along. “mama,” the woman says in an exaggerated baby voice and points to herself.

“mama,” she babbles again at the woman she now recognises as her mother. the woman gives her a bland smile, playing with her almost absently. the woman even lets her grab onto her fingers and bite on them—not that it counts much as biting, she barely has teeth at this point.

the next memory she has is of an older man with a freckled happy face and salt-n-pepper hair. he throws her up in the air and catches her until she’s giggling and breathless and light as air. he's often at their dining table, peeling pomegranates.

mama says she can't eat them yet—they're of course a choking hazard for a baby her age. but the old man peals it for mama, because mama looks happy when she sits next to him and pops the seeds into her mouth, sighing at the sweetness.

“these are delicious, daddy,” mama says to him and he smiles at mama with all the tenderness in the world.

when mama needs a break from her, he takes her to the nearby pond, and lets her touch leaves and rocks. he points at the tiny things in the water and says a word she barely recognises.

fishies.

he clicks his tongue and waits for her to imitate the word, but she only claps her hands and says “mama” again.

the man laughs. “let’s get you home to mama then.”

the younger woman gets mad at him when they get home though. mama grabs all the treasure—their entire day’s hard work—and puts it away somewhere where she can never reach it again.

the man grumbles about it too but she’s far too young yet to understand words and tone, much less full blown fights. all she knows is a distinct sharp feeling of fear when mama snatches her away from the old man’s hands and puts her away in a room alone.

there are white bars around her that she can’t climb, even though she cries and cries and screams for mama. even when a pungent smell fills the room and she feels uncomfortable wetness in her onesie.

but mama doesn’t come. and the old man’s voice can’t reach her anymore. there’s only the sound of her cries and an eerie music box lullaby that plays on repeat as if it would ever be enough to pacify her.

mama doesn’t come for hours.

years later, she’d know why mama can’t be bothered.

the last time she calls her mother “mama” is when she’s seven years old.

it’s rained all night and the backyard is wet and muddy. mama grimaces the moment she looks out the window but for a seven year old girl, it’s the most fun thing to ever exist. mama makes a sound of disgust when she runs outside, whooping with joy and slipping and sliding in the mud.

all she wishes for is a companion now—a sibling or a dog or a cat, she’s not picky. a friend works too, but she’s not entirely sure where someone gets those.

“if you get mud on my carpets, i swear!” mama shakes her fist from the back door but she can’t care less.

she’s drenched in mud and having way more fun than she’s had in days. so much so that she doesn’t even realise when mama shakes her head and goes back inside.

the winter chill is almost gone, there’s even a few little saplings sprouting from the ground and she can’t wait for the whole backyard to be filled with weird little weeds and wallflowers. she can’t wait until it’s warm enough to sit outside in the afternoons and make her little witchy potions from mud and weeds and flowers and see if any butterflies would be curious enough to land near her. (or maybe even on her like they do in the movies she’s seen!)

she forgets the movies for a moment, though. today is the best day a girl could have.

her grampy—her grandpa—is supposed to visit too, and she knows he’s going to bring treats; sweet honey from the hive on their farm or tiny red strawberries that dribble juice down her chin. she knows he’ll sit in their kitchen and peel her a pomegranate (she can eat those now!) and tell her about the new calf on the farm. (she’s asked this story twice now but it only gets better each time) it’s all so exciting that she even forgets about her aversion to the kitchen for a bit, forgets how a pit opens in her stomach every time she has to be in the kitchen with mama.

she can’t wait for the after, but right now she runs through her backyard again, whooping and cheering and smiling.

she’s slipping and slipping, just like before. the fence comes closer, her little mind tries to calculate the distance, her feet try to slow down but the mud’s grown too slippery and she just can’t stop, can’t put her arms up in time.

her jaw collides with the fence with a sickening crunch. pain flares in her mouth along with the sharp coppery taste of blood. it almost makes her gag and she tries to spit it out. something white falls on the ground, covered in blood—her first tooth, the one that’s been loosening for days.

she stays curled on the ground, covered in mud, sobbing and spitting out more blood until her saliva runs clear, then she somehow shuffles inside, hoping mama would have a magic fix.

mama’s eyes widen the moment she walks in, dried mud crusted around her feet, blood on her chin.

“what the fuck?!” mama yells, the glass in her hand jostles dangerously and the dark liquid inside almost splashes out. mama’s words also have an unnerving, slurred quality to them but she’s too much in pain to care.

“what’s wrong with you?!” mama screeches again and gets up. through tears, she manages to splutter out what happened. she shows mama the tooth, (girls in school have told her about the tooth fairy) but mama only smacks her hand away.

“i told you not to get mud on my carpets. who’s going to clean them huh? not you, you’re useless. you’re all useless.”

more tears fall on her cheeks and she looks at mama, horrified. but mama slams the glass hard enough on the table that a crack goes through it. she’s worried mama’s going to yell at her more, but mama only yanks the mop from the corner and waits for her to move out the way.

she takes the hint, grateful it didn’t get worse. she tries not to get the mud onto anything else but a little gets on the bathroom tiles anyway.

under the hot water, she finally lets her sobs free and scrubs her little body until the skin is all red and raw and stings from the temperature of the water. until each stream of the showerhead feels like a bb bullet.

then she gets on her hands and knees and scrubs the bathroom floor clean, occasionally flicking her tongue over the now-empty spot where the tooth used to be. it tastes vaguely salty, and it still aches but not as much, definitely nothing in comparison to her jaw which is turning a nasty shade of purple. her tooth’s still safe on the counter, though—free of blood and mud now. gleaming white.

at least that’s the saving grace of the day. at least she’ll get a visit from the tooth fairy.

grampy cancels his visit—his knees hurt, mama says—but she tries not to be miffed about it. she’ll make sure to get grampy something nice with the money from the tooth fairy.

that night she gingerly places the tooth on the bed, carefully places the pillow on top so that the tooth is protected from all sides. nice and snug.

then she closes her eyes, dreaming of tiny fluttering wings and shiny pennies. but the tooth fairy never visits at all.

her mum ages rapidly in a decade. by the time she’s seventeen, her mum’s already gone grey—unravelling at the seams, fraying with each passing day. not that anyone’s seen her mum in days. or months even. her mum’s not coherent enough to hang out with people most of the time.

she’s started spending less and less time at home. it helps to have a part time job on top of school—a place that delivers chinese food. a couple guys from her school work there too, not that she really knows a lot of them. except one.

matty.

he’s the one person she’s ever considered a friend.

the one person who’s been worthy of that title.

matty’s all casual smiles and laughs—he flirts shamelessly and kisses people on the cheeks when he gets drunk. he offers her fags and spliffs even though she always denies them. he nicks leftover chinese so they can eat it in his car, giggling and laughing, way prouder of their heist than they should be.

the food tastes better when she’s with him. everything’s better when she’s with him—even the shitty, off-brand beer he keeps buying. with him it tastes like expensive champagne. not that she knows what champagne tastes like to begin with, but she imagines the bubbles settling on her tongue feel like his laugh spilling from his lips. she imagines it tastes like the sparkle in his eyes.

matty looks at her differently too—she’s not stupid, she knows what interest looks like.

she’s been the object of fascination since she turned thirteen and developed boobs seemingly overnight. she shies away from attention most of the time—wears t-shirts twice her size, keeps her hair a bland brown. she barely even looks at boys or men who tell her she looks mature for her age. but when matty looks at her, it’s different.

when matty looks at her, she wants to be seen.

“you sure it’s okay for us to be out so late?” he asks one night when they’re sat in his car. the world around them has already gone quiet—it is a school night after all, she should be in bed too. but she sees the cigarette dangling loosely between his lips and for a second she forgets to respond. matty quirks and eyebrow and she realises she’s been staring at his mouth.

“my mum won’t mind.” her response is a bit curt, but she leaves it at that. there’s no need to mention that her mum’s probably drowning in wine by now, tripping and spilling the liquid onto floors and sofas and carpet.

“she must be chill,” matty hums to himself and takes a drag of his cigarette. she watches him hold it into his lungs, some of it escapes through his nose and curls around his face.

she keeps quiet, unwilling to get into that topic of conversation.

“i’m thinking of dropping out,” matty says quietly once the cigarette turns into a tiny stub. his voice is carefully neutral, monotonous. she whirls to look at him, jaw practically dropping to the (dirty) floor of his car. matty stares straight ahead, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away.

images flash in front of her—walking the school corridors alone, eating lunch alone, doing her homework alone. working at her job alone.

alone, alone, alone. no one but her mum around her again. that wretched fucking woman occupying every atom of her existence.

“did you h—”

“i heard you.” her voice has gone quiet now but there’s an edge to it that doesn’t go unnoticed by matty.

“and?”

“and what? if i said no, would that convince you to stay?”

she doesn’t mean to sound so sharp, so bitter. certainly not so selfish. but an ugly feeling bubbles up so deep inside her that all the excitement from before just dies—all the butterflies from just a moment ago, now dead and rotten, making her feel nauseous.

“no but—”

“i don’t want to tell you why it’s irresponsible, matty. frankly, i don’t know if i believe that myself but… it’s… it’s big.”

his face falls further and further the more she speaks. with each word she wants to press a hand to her mouth, wrap it around her throat so it would strangle everything else that’s about to come out. with every word she wants him to tell her to just shut the fuck up, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. but matty only looks at her and a different sort of quiet spreads around the car.

“you think this… this thing you’ve got going on. music. you think that’s enough?! you play for fucking retirement homes, matty! you play for old people who probably won’t even remember what they heard twenty minutes later. and you want to–what? you want to leave your education incomplete? you want to leave a-levels and school and your job? you just want to…leave?”

which is the real problem.

he gets the luxury of leaving.

she gets the misery of staying.

“thanks,” he says dryly, trying to roll his eyes. she catches the extra shine they now have, she catches the way his throat bobs. and suddenly the car is so stifling she can’t stand it anymore—can’t stand the taste of the nasty, cheap beer and the too-salty, too-greasy chinese they’re eating and she can’t stand the cliche, indie rock music playing at low volume.

she can’t stand him anymore.

“i need to go,” she says curtly, wiping her hands on her jeans and already halfway out the door when matty grabs her wrist.

“wait—”

“what.”

“n-nothing.” it’s the first time she’s heard him stutter, first time he’s ever said something without sounding completely sure of himself. “let me just drop you home.”

it’s also the first time he’s offered to do that.

“i have my bike.” besides there’s no need for you to see the state of the house right now, no need to come across that belligerent woman in case she’s still conscious.

“it’s late.”

she can’t really argue with that logic. it is almost 11 at night and she might not live in a very shady neighbourhood but it’s still not the safest at this time of the night. still, she doesn’t want matty driving her around and dropping her home. that feels too vulnerable. besides, she just wants to be away from him.

he’s leaving anyway, she might as well start practising that from now on.

“i’ll text you when you get home,” she mumbles and forces her wrist out of his hand.

she’s out of the car and slamming the door shut before he can even protest. she’s marching across the empty road and to her bike before the absence of his warmth registers, before her body realises that she can no longer feel his skin against hers.

before she really has a chance to let anything sink in.

matty honks and she hisses.

“what!”

“i’m following you home.” and then the little shit rolls up the window.

she has half a mind to stubbornly wait him out, see how long he stays if she just refused to move but that’s a stupid plan. like it or not, it’s happening. he’s following her home.

like it or not, she’s going to have to let him.

“i’ll only accept your apology on one condition.”

it’s two days later that they’re back in his car—her with a guilty conscience, matty with a smug smile.

“ugh, if you’re about to be a boy about it!”

“you haven’t even heard me out yet!”

the pit in her stomach shifts, the hollow cavity catching in her throat until she has to forcefully clear her throat and blink rapidly. it’s not that she’s completely forgiven him for wanting to leave, she hasn’t completely given up on that yet either. but she realises the way she went about it was perhaps…a bit shitty (okay it was definitely a lot shitty)

“spring dance”

“what?!”

the words jerk her out of her thoughts so violently that she almost forget about everything else for a second. the spring fucking dance.

matty healy, the boy who nicks chinese food and drinks cheap beer and wears ripped, skinny jeans wants to go to the spring dance.

“right don’t look at me like i’ve asked you out to a strip club—”

“that’d be more in character—”

“oi! just… let me speak!”

and so she shuts up, puts her hands under her thighs so she won’t impulsively chew on her nails while her crush is…trying to ask her out.

matty rolls his eyes at her and the fond smile on his face takes her breath away.

“i want to do it. i want one last cheesy school experience before i…” he trails off, maybe not wanting to finish that sentence for her sake. or maybe because it affects him more than she thinks. “and i want to do it with you.”

“me? ooh like i’m special or something.” she tries for it to be teasing and playful, but the words come out sounding so hopeful that it knocks the breath out of her.

“don’t pretend,” matty’s voice goes all quiet then. serious too, and suddenly he can’t meet her eyes. “don’t pretend like you don’t see it.”

“see what…”

there’s a lot in her life that she pretends not to see—half the things at home, sometimes her failing marks, sometimes the way other people look at her and whisper. but he is the one person she can’t pretend with. can’t pretend to not see the way he looks at her and acts around her. can’t pretend to not notice the way his touches linger and his smiles last longer.

even now, she can’t pretend like he’s not looking right at her lips, leaning in a smidge at a time. wishing she’d close the gap.

involuntarily, her eyes flutter shut. anticipating.

she wants to feel it so fucking bad—his hands on her waist, his fingers on her skin. she wants to feel his faint stubble against the palm of her hand, his lips on hers. most of all she just wants to feel him close, to feel his breath on her skin.

matty jerks away and a loud horn of a car breaks the spell.

“fucking dicks!” matty rolls the window down and yells at the retreating figure of teenagers in a car, one of them even flips him off and next to him she seethes.

fuck this, fuck everything. why can’t she just have nice things.

why must someone come and ruin it every time.

it takes them both a minute to breathe and settle down and meet each other’s eyes again. even then there’s a slight pink tinge on his face that makes him look adorable.

“sorry about that…” matty mumbles and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “so…spring dance?”

“i’d love that.”

she hopes the smile she gives him is genuine. she hopes he sees it plain and simple all over her face—all the words she hasn’t said and cannot say.

matty smiles wide. “then i forgive you.”

and it’s like a weight gets lifted off her chest.

“you look pretty,” her mum’s eyes roam over her body, eyeing her from head to toe, flicking over certain places again and again until she almost feels naked—like the blush pink fabric doesn’t even exist. like her mum sees right through her.

years of this has taught her that it’s not a compliment. if anything, it’s just another trap, so she focuses on her reflection in the mirror and smiles with as much warmth as she can muster. “thanks!”

her mum reeks of wine already, maybe even a little weed but it’s nearly not enough today which is surprising. she would have expected her mum to be at some bar by now.

“i’ll be a bit late. don’t worry i have my keys though.”

then she scoffs to herself. when has her mum ever worried?

“who’s taking you? to the dance.”

“wha–? oh. uh, just a few friends. only met them recently.” she winces, trying to get the last of the curls in place, trying not to be too cagey in front of her mum. she doesn’t want her mum to think she’s hiding something—mostly because it never ends well, and she can’t be arsed to deal with another screaming match right now. not when there’s a ball of anxiety and anticipation in her chest, wound so tightly that it’s slowly choking the air out of her lungs.

she just wants to be outside. she just wants matty to see her, to call her pretty and maybe even kiss her.

she just wants this one night with him.

just one.

her mum huffs and stumbles into the room. everything about this woman wants to make her shrink away—the days old stink of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes, the grime under her fingernails, her beady stare…

even when her mum’s fingers twirl around her curl, she fights not to shrink back, to slap her mum’s hand away.

“you look pretty,” her mum repeats. “prettier than i did when i was your age.”

her stomach churns at the cruel edge to those words but her mum isn’t done yet. “huh–not so easy to be pretty with a seven month pregnant belly. like a fucking whale…”

and there it is.

her fault that her mum was robbed off having normal teenage experiences.

“right, mum,” she smiles shakily, “need to get going.”

it’s almost a miracle that her mum doesn’t say anything else. mum just backs away and lets her gather her things. she quickens her pace, heart beating in her throat, hands trembling when she picks up her small purse.

it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay

“don’t spread your legs for that boy.”

she freezes in place, almost out the door.

“wha—”

“act dumb again and i’ll make sure you never see that boy again.”

“mum…” she swallows harshly, prays that the tears pricking her eyes don’t spill down her cheeks. then she nods and books it out of there. better to go before her mum changes her mind.

better to go before leaving becomes impossible.

matty makes her forget all of it.

the moment she sees him, the shakiness in her limbs disappears, her heart thuds in her chest for all the right reasons. he’s in a suit. a fucking suit that makes him look all grown up and handsome but then his unruly curls go all over the place and suddenly she’s laughing with the boy she’s had a crush on.

no matter what he wears and what he looks like, he will always be that boy.

the school auditorium is full of flowers—some fake, some real. all the girls around her look stunning, dressed in colourful pretty gowns. it’s all spring incarnate.

all night he dances effortlessly, twirls so many people around him like he’s friends with everyone. and maybe he is—he’s certainly always been so much more popular than she has. she should be the one leaving.

but she also can’t help but stare. she wonders if he is a daydream, something her lonely mind conjured up during hours filled with boredom or after long, exhausting fights with her mum. and suddenly, he is looking right at her. sweat makes his white shirt stick to his body in the most flattering way possible, makes his sweaty curls fall into his eyes until he can barely see straight.

stop ogling!

“staring is rude, you know?” he walks—no, saunters—over to her. suddenly, there’s not enough air left in the giant school auditorium.

“you’ve been staring too,” she counters. and she’s right. all night she’s caught his long lingering glances that make her feel like she’s coming alive.

like a flower blooming in spring.

“you kinda make it hard not to stare.” so does he, she thinks. but everything, from his half smile to his relaxed posture, tells her not to inflate his ego further. she stifles the faint blush creeping up her face and shakes her head bashfully.

“come on,” he says.

at first, she doesn’t realise what’s happening. then he whisks her away to the dance floor and her shriek of surprise turns into one of delight. she has never danced like this before but that night they dance till her heart pounds in her ears, till she can’t stand straight anymore. then they sway softly, in spite of the rock and roll playing in the background.

“you’re beautiful,” matty smiles at her, sincere and real.

if she discovers anything about herself that early spring night, it would be her love for dancing. it’s a feeling she’s never felt before—something that almost feels like…freedom. it’s foreign at first, all the blood coursing through her body at the speed of lightning. she tries to keep track of how many times she shrieks and laughs and jumps in excitement. all of it until matty picks her up and twirls her around.

round and round until she’s breathless and light as air and fucking free.

somewhere after that, she loses count. at the end of the night, her dress clings to her and matty can’t stop staring. can’t stop letting his eyes roam all over her until he’s grinning himself. his smile is boyish. perfect. and just as she’s getting self-conscious, he pulls her closer.

“you’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

next thing she knows, matty is holding her softly against the wall and kissing her bare neck. he softly caresses her waist through her dress and she shivers against the warm spring breeze. she can feel him shaking too, almost like he’s…nervous to do anything more. to actually kiss her and shatter the moment. she can’t have that, can’t let this moment slip through her fingers.

“kiss me,” she pleads and matty moves in an instant, his warm mouth capturing hers. like he was only waiting for her permission.

his lips are a little chapped. far from perfect and yet electricity zings through her all at once. if it weren’t for the wall, her legs might have given out from under her. she might just be a heap on the floor, surrounded by all the spring flowers.

matty kisses with such reckless abandon that it steals her breath away. kisses her until her heart swells in her chest, ready to burst. her fingers tangle themselves into his hair and she kisses him back with everything in her. she can’t care less about how public this is, there’s only him in this moment.

only the two of them on a warm spring night suspended in this one moment.

she almost whines when matty pulls back. annoyed beyond belief that he’d pull away now.

“mat—”

“it’s late.”

“it’s not!”

“it is, love.” suddenly his voice has gone gentle, almost quiet. matty pulls his old phone out of his pocket (with the screen cracked and all) and holds it in front of her. the screen flashes with 11:17

shit where did all the time go?

matty makes no move to untangle himself from her arms, still pressed against her. in her ead she forms a childlike grudge against his phone. if it weren’t for it, they would have never known what time it was…

“i hate this.” her voice comes out thick with tears and something wet hits her nose. “i don’t want to go, i don’t want you to go. please.” but even then she knows how unfair it is to put him in this situation.

matty’s caresses her cheek, wiping away her tears, smiling at her like she’s the most gentle precious thing in the whole world.

and maybe she is. in his world.

“you’ll finish school too,” he says, voice a low murmur, “and then you have a uni to attend. so much shit to do. god, you’re brilliant enough to get everything you want.”

but it’s you i want. still she doesn’t say it. not just yet.

she nuzzles his palm instead, placing a soft kiss on it. “i hate spring. i wish it was autumn instead. i’d be starting uni at least.”

“and you will,” matty reassures again. “you’re going to do so many things.”

“you won’t be here to see them…”

and there it is, all the things she’s been holding deep inside laid bare. matty looks at her for a long time and smiles sadly. “who said that? i’d find you, we will keep in touch. isn’t spring meant to be about new beginnings and all that? so why don’t we start a pact?”

“that’s a silly idea,” she teases but even then she’s eager to know what he means.

matty ignores it. “stay here for spring and summer, finish school. i’ll find you when autumn comes.”

“you’d really do that?”

“who’s gonna help you move into uni halls huh?”

through tears she laughs. only matty could make it sound so exciting. only matty could make her hate it so much less.

she doesn’t trust herself to speak anymore so she kisses him instead. he tastes like peaches, mint and something sweet. the very first boy she’s ever loved. the boy she will always love.

he’s leaving soon, she knows it. who knows maybe she will wake up tomorrow and he will be gone. she feels all that passes between them and she tries to send all her longing and all her yearning down that bond. for a brief second she is determined to make matty stay through sheer willpower.

but that would be the most selfish thing she’s ever done. and so she smiles and lets him go.

matty might be leaving but she’ll always have this one warm spring night. even as the clock inches towards midnight and a new day threatens to arrive.

for a brief moment she wonders if she can make time stand still. this one moment stretched into eternity.

but the minutes tick by anyway. and tomorrow comes anyway.

taglist: @scooby-doodoo, @partoftheairforce, @justgoatsbreakinghearts0855@beachesgetpeaches, @you-muppet, @mcabister, @alexmarie29, @at-her-very-foreign, @hfkait, @squishysoupy @sierraeslaprincesa @harrie-fic-center @alien-girl-violet @thereisaplaceintheheart @kennedy-brooke @lolidontknowanymore @theoriginalwhatsername@celestcies @sugarkane1001 @ari-turner @thewaywewereinsaigon @daphnesutton @beliefandsayingsomething @ros3chu @nothingrevealedeverythingdenied @zzzhealy @mattymybeloved @fck-off @indiaamars @sofaritsalrightt @k4tie75 @wondersecret @humptyhoran @indierockgirrl @hanbiior @moreyoulove-moreyouknow @rossgirly @if-my-heart-bleeds @little-lovely-darling @abriefnirvana @renitypoem @sinarainbows @lady-may-targaryen @love4agesss @angrylittlebaldman @oneluckygirl @sinarainbows @starvchaser @noacfapologyst @abouttofillhisshoes @tbhnotthatfunny

add yourself to the taglist

#spring fics #seasons #the 1975 #matty healy #matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #matty x reader #matty x you

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toastandjamie · 2 months

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Thinking about Mat’s first meeting with Olver. Just this twenty year old who’s so frustrated with responsibility that despite hating fighting goes into this situation looking for an excuse to hit someone. Then he sees that a kids involved, and he tries to diffuse the situation, he’s tired and just wants to solve this quickly so he can go back to the inn and get some sleep- then this full grown man threatens to kill a child, for the crime of roughing his horse. And Mat, Mat KNOWS what it’s like to be that kid, too curious for his own good and getting into trouble, but never NEVER has anyone threatened to hurt him over it. And Mat without any thought for potential repercussions breaks a dudes wrist and hits the other right between the legs. And then he threatens to have the lot of them run out of town by the Band because they had the audacity to say that Olver was “just a peasant child” as of that changed the situation for Mat, a horse traders son in fancy clothes. Because to Mat that’s all he is, a peasant in nice clothes. Then he’s trying to figure out what to do with Olver, since his parents are no where to he found, and Olver tells him not to talk about him like he isn’t there. And Mat ACKNOWLEDGES that, he apologizes and kneels down so they can be eye level. He doesn’t talk down to Olver, because he knows what it’s like to have other people make decisions for him. He is so keenly aware of his Olver feels, the frustration and rebelliousness that comes from being a child because he isn’t that far removed from it. Just three years ago he was still just a kid, older and a bit more mature than Olver perhaps, but still just a kid and one who hadn’t seen the horrors that ten year old Olver had seen. He acknowledges Olver’s feelings and talks to him like he’s anyone else, and redirects Olver’s stubbornness so skillfully. He’s just so good with kids in a way that not even just having two younger sisters can account for. He Gets It, the parts of him that others consider immature are what make him so good at communicating with Olver.

Then think about this from Olver’s perspective. He’s been alone for who knows how long, forced to flee his home, to bury his mother, and now all alone in some strange place. He was likely sleeping in the stables, and that was how he ended up trying to make friends with the Hunter of the Horns horse. Then this Hunter drags him out to the middle of the street, threatening to Jill him. Olver was brave about it but it must’ve been terrifying. Especially upon realizing that none of the other refugees would help. Then suddenly a man in nobles clothes, a strange hat and the coolest looking spear he’s probably ever seen intercedes on his behalf. A man Olver has never seen before, a foreigner no less, but here he is coming to rescue Olver like some gleemans hero. Then Olver sees Mat fight, while to Mat this was hardly even a struggle, a few cracks with the blunt of his spear and the ‘fight’ is over, but to Olver, Mat probably looked like a warder with how easily he handled two armed men presumably trained in using those swords they carry. We as an audience see Mat mainly through the eyes of people who don’t take him seriously, Mat himself included, so it’s easy to overlook just how badass Mat must seem to anyone else looking from the outside, especially a young angry boy who wants to fight the aiel who killed his father. We don’t know how Olver found out, or when, but imagine being Olver and hearing the most certainly exaggerated story of Mat “dueling” Couladin. Is it any wonder that Olver hero worships Mat? That inspite of what Olver perceived as Mat being hypocritical and foolish(or as Mat sees it trying to properly care for a child and be a good influence) he still considers Mat to be someone to emulate. Whether Olver sees Mat as more a mentor, brother or father figure he very clearly idolizes him. He wants to be like Mat, he wants Mat’s attention and praise because despite Mat being “no bloody hero” to this little boy he IS a hero, one worthy of any gleemans story

#wheel of time #mat cauthon #olver wot #wheel of time spoilers #wot rambles #i’m having feelings

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peachesofteal · 1 year

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Alone / Chapter 3

Part of the Sassy series. Chapter 3/3.

Simon Riley/female reader 9.1k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Praise kink. Size difference/kink. Blood and violence. PTSD. Trauma. Panic attacks, night terrors, catatonia, relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort. Medical stuff. Angst. Mentions of having a uterus/children. Soft dad Simon Riley. Simon is a great dad, that's all. Soap is a good uncle. John Price. Simon is living in a nightmare.

If you’re living in a nightmare, then Simon is living in hell.

It plagues his every waking second, invades his consciousness when he’s finally able to get to sleep, envelopes his reality at work, at home, everywhere. Anywhere. The sun has permanently set and there is only darkness now, only the bad, only the evil left, his existence devoid of your golden rays, his life bereft of your warmth on his face.

It is easy to feel like a ghost. On the days he doesn't have Theo, or he's not on an op, he struggles to keep himself functioning, struggles to make sense of his day to day. The violence helps, when he's with the 141, the familiar feeling of executing, of hunting grounding him in a reality that doesn't seem so far fetched, doesn't seem so outlandish. When he's home, Soap helps by calling and texting incessantly, and Price consistently drops by, inviting him for dinner or asking him to look something over. Everyone makes an effort, to make sure he's not forgotten, to make sure he knows they care.

This hell, this nightmare, feels oddly similar to being buried alive. It feels comparable to being trapped beneath the ground, dying, slowly, the air around him casually evaporating with every breath he dares to draw. It feels like when the earth tried to pulled him back under, when the clay tried to trap itself inside his lungs, clogging the passages of his alveoli, dirt mixing with blood mixing with saliva, caking itself in his throat and into his very conscious.

It only feels different, feels less like hell and more like his old life, when he’s with Theo.

Sometimes, he pretends that it is still his old life. That he’s just out with Theo at the park, and when they get home, you’re going to be there. Or, he and Theo are out for “guy’s night”, as you used to call it, at the restaurant down the street, and you’re out somewhere else with Price’s wife, for a monthly happy hour that will undoubtedly bleed into dinner, and end with the two of you on the couch watching some god awful tv show until Price comes to collect her. He pretends when he’s grocery shopping that he’s checking off your list, each section sequenced to reflect the supermarket’s organization, something you always did to help make it easier for him, to get him in and out as quickly as possible, because you knew how he felt about large places with lots of bodies and too many obstacles. He pretends that the house that he rented is actually his home, pretends it the house down the street, the one that you live in, the one that you two of you bought together. He pretends that the bed is empty because you’re just working late again, up with tired eyes in front of your laptop, your brain computing and processing lines upon lines of numbers and formulas of things he doesn’t understand.

All of these things, they happened before.

Before you were plucked from a springtime walk, Theo left crying in the pram on a sidewalk while you were injected with something that rendered you unconscious until you woke in a concrete room halfway across the world.

Before the phone call. Before the video.

Before the rescue. Before the massacre. Before he snapped. Before his rage, the path of bodies left in his wake, before Soap had to pull him off a corpse that he had pummeled to death. Before he cut off the hands of every single person who had touched you. Before the sound of the men begging for their lives lived in his head, before the intensive, four times a week therapy sessions that had to last hours long just to get him back to baseline. Just to get him back to a point where he could take care of Theo, take care of you.

Before the hospital and the damage from the infection and the complications from the injury to your lung.

Before the catatonia and the night terrors and the panic attacks that left you confused and alone inside your own head.

Before the rot invaded his home. Before its sticky, tentacled ropes of poison spread across the walls. Before it cast its sickly shadow across your face.

Before, when you still called yourself his wife. When still wore your ring. When you still told him you loved him.

Before he failed.

Before you left him.

Before.

“I hate them.” Your sullen voice crackles through the phone, muffled and distorted. It’s the best reception he’s gotten in eight days, and you still sound like you’re a million miles away and underwater at the same time. He swallows the disappointment.

“They can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, they’re bad, Si. They’re all helicopter moms. Prissy and obnoxious. One of them won’t even let their kid use the slide because she’s scared about some kind of toxic lining on it. I don’t know. Why did you bring your kid to a playgroup if they’re not allowed to play?” You huff, and he’s glad you’re not on a video call right now, because he’s smiling, his eyes are closed and he’s imagining you pacing in the kitchen, waving something around in your hand for added effect, tops of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of a too big t shirt. He knows if you caught him grinning when you’re all cross, there’d be hell to pay.

“Is Theo havin’ fun?”

“Eh. Yeah. He’s bigger than all the other ones his age so he kind of gets to do what he wants.” He chuckles at that, foolish pride blooming across his cheeks, and he can practically hear you rolling your eyes through the phone. “Still struggling with the concept of sharing.” You add, and he nods to himself. It's not a surprise to either of you, and sharing has been a work in progress at home.

“He’d learn how to share a lot faster if he had a sibling.” He offers, and you laugh on the other end before abruptly going silent, like you’re holding onto to a secret. “Sass?”

“I did it.” You breathe.

“You did what?”

“I did, what we discussed. Last month, just before you left. I went to the doctor and… she took it out.” He sits straight up, boots scuffing along the dirty safehouse floor.

“You got your IUD out?” His bones rattle in his body, eyes wide while he waits for you to confirm it.

“Yeah, Si. I… I’m ready. I want to start trying when you get home.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said-“

“I am. And I know… what I said. But I talked to my doctor, and she helped lessen some of my anxiety about it. I had an ultrasound to look at my uterus and she thinks the chances are good. I… feel good about it.” He pads the silicone ring with his thumb while he takes long, deep breaths to steady himself. “So, I guess, you better hurry and get home so we can start trying because it takes two, ya know?” You laugh again, but he hears the wet sound in the back of your throat, the thick, syrupy sound of your tears, and his heart clenches in his chest.

“I-“

The timer on his watch goes off. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, and you sigh.

“Gotta cut the line?” you volunteer, and he grunts out a yes even though he wants to stay on it for hours more, telling you how much he loves you, how excited he is, how he can’t wait to give you another baby. “Be safe, okay?”

“Always. I love you. I’ll see you real soon.”

“I love you too.” He presses the end call button and tucks the phone away in his pocket, leaning his head against the wood paneling of the door. Another baby, you wanted to have another baby.

He’s still grinning like a complete fool when he comes down the stairs to where Johnny and Kyle are hunched over a tiny aluminum table, shoving some sort of MRE down their throats. When Gaz spots him, his brow furrows, and he half hollers with a mouth full of food to Johnny.

“What’s got ‘im in such a good mood?”

The hallways in the medical office building are beige, a shade lighter than the darker beige carpet, which complements the brown chairs of the waiting room. It used the bother him, the blandness, but now he supposes he’s grateful for it. It’s less distracting. Less obtrusive. It lets him think, which is exactly what he’s doing, thinking, about you, about Theo, when he pulls the big walnut colored door open and spots you curled in on yourself in a waiting room chair.

He’s surprised to see you here before him. He’s surprised you even showed up if he’s being honest. He knows how you feel about therapy in general, and with the way the last couple’s session went, he’s shocked you’re willing to give it another go.

It burns just the smallest amount of joy in his gut.

Don’t. Don’t get your hopes up.

“Hi.” You croak.

“Hey, Sass.” Your face is guarded as you nod up at him, everything in your expression haunted and hesitant, the emptiness he knows you’re carrying around inside of you spilling out through your features as plain as day. He can’t stand it. “Sleep okay? Have a good late-night chat with Soap?” He probes and you scowl back at him, fire sparking behind your eyes while he fights the urge to smile. There’s my girl. He doesn’t mean to goad you, doesn’t want to anger or upset you, but he’ll take what he can get.

Besides, he already knows you must have in fact, slept better than usual, because you didn’t call Johnny. And he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to the half a ring-hang up that you’ve started doing in these past few weeks, something that’s developed since the day the two of you watched Moana with Theo, and you fell asleep next to him on the couch after your panic attack. The day that felt like a dream, when Theo asked to go for a walk to the playground, and you shyly asked if he wanted to come along. The day that he’s been replaying over and over in his mind, the day that felt like progress, that felt like something more than this nightmare he’s been living inside.

He’s about to ask how Theo was for you this morning when the office door opens, and Dr. C is smiling at the two of you from the other side.

“Hi guys, come on in. I just need to grab a tea.” He motions for you to go first, and you falter in your steps before you’re brushing past him, your fingertips grazing the hand that lays lax at his side.

This time, he doesn’t hide his smile.

“How is she?” His pacing comes to an abrupt halt when his therapist, Dr. C comes out through the door, a tablet in her hand, lines of her face nearly impossible to read. She motions to a set of chairs, the uncomfortable ones that line the hall, and then takes a seat opposite of him.

“The staff psychologist here wants to release her to an assisted living facility until she shows improvement.”

“No.”

“Mr. Riley, I-“

“No. She can’t go to one of those places. She can’t.”

“They have places that specialize in care for cases like your wife. It’s not like sending her to a nursing home.”

“I don’t care. She needs to come home, with us. Theo needs her. I need her. Once… once she gets home, she’ll do better.” Dr. C sighs.

“She’s catatonic, Simon. She’ll need her PICC line for nutrition and medications, another IV for fluids. She’ll need someone to bathe her, turn her, do her wound care, things you’re not prepared to do.”

“The fuck ‘m not.” He doesn’t know how to do an IV, sure. But he can do everything else. And he knows he can hire a nurse or someone to do the other things, the medications, the tubes, the wound cleanings. “I’m not sending her away.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“It’s not happening. She’s coming home. With me.”

“Johnny took Theo to the park today. Bug tripped comin’ off the slide and nearly cut his chin open. He’s okay, just a deep scratch but it scared him. Johnny said he cried for you the whole way home.” He strokes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, watching your eyes for movement from where they stare, straight ahead, out the master bedroom window. You’re curled on your side, knees tucked up to protect your abdomen, hands clenched under the mountain of pillows.

It's been so, so long since he’s heard your voice. So long since he’s seen you smile, or laugh, or even engaged in a single word that’s being spoken to you.

He feels like he’s losing you. Like you’re slipping away from him, drowning right in front of him.

It feels like Theo is losing his mom.

It feels like he’s losing his mind.

Sometimes, he wants to scream at you. Wants to grip you by your jaw and turn your face towards his and force a reaction from you. Wants to pull the tube that’s feeding you free from your chest and force you to eat on your own. Wants to beg and plead and cry at your feet, wants to shake you until you have no choice but to tell him to stop.

Dr C. has told him again and again that it will take time. That you’re healing, your mind and your body is processing an unfathomable trauma, and that what’s happening to you, this catatonia, is the way your brain is helping protect itself.

So, he tries to remember you, like before. He clings to his memories. The videos on his phone. The live photos that feel like stolen snippets from someone else’s life. He carries it all with him, every day. He shows you the photo and videos on a slideshow every night in hopes something will bright light to your lifeless eyes. He rubs your back and holds your hand, tries to comb through your hair as gently as he can, waters the plant that sits on the windowsill. He does Theo's bedtime routine in here now, reads his stories aloud to the two of you, Theo always curled up against him while you lay unmoving beside him. He reads from the stack of books that you have sitting next to your side of the bed, the collection of them that you were working through before you were taken. He massages ointment into your scars, press the pads of his thumbs into the arch of your feet like he did when you were pregnant, lays awake beside you and speaks aimlessly about nothing. He presses his lips gently to your cheek, your forehead, your mouth. Anything, everything he can do to try to bring you back.

Nothing works. The bed feels like a grave. The house feels like a mausoleum. The only life left inside of either of you is your son.

He sits there next to you until he hears the front door, the sound of Johnny bringing Theo back after their adventure out for takeaway forcing him to pull your blanket up under your chin, tucking you in gently until he’s satisfied it’s to your liking.

“I’ll be back up, after dinner, okay? I’ll bring Theo in to say goodnight.”

“So, how have things been?” Simon likes Dr C, a revelation that he’s grown comfortable with in the past year or so. She is easy to talk to. She does not flinch away from the gruesome details of either of your lives. It helps that she specializes in PTSD and war related trauma therapy as well, of course, but she offers him warmth, and understanding in his sessions. He feels comfortable with her. He feels so comfortable with her, that when you were in desperate need of help, he thought of her first. He feels comfortable knowing that you’re seeing her for therapy and that you’re receiving the same kind of care and patience that he has. He knows Dr C is good at her job, and it brings him comfort, in a strange way, to know that someone who has helped him, is helping you, and the two of you now, together.

“Mrs. Riley?” she tries to encourage you, and you meet her with a half hearted nod and a shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” She looks at him next, the same question bouncing around the room.

“We spent some time together, three weeks ago. Watched a bit of a movie with Theo, and then we all took a walk. Went to the park, even.” Your hands flex and tighten where they sit in your lap, shoulders high and tight.

“That’s great, I’m sure Theo was very excited. How do you feel it went?” He stays quiet, giving you time to talk if you decide that’s what you want. You don’t, and it doesn’t surprise him. Start slow. Nice and easy.

“It went better than the last time we uh, tried a family activity.” He provides when you stay tight lipped, and you immediately cringe, guilt snapping across his skin. Could’ve phrased that better. He wants to grab your hand, stroke his thumb across your knuckles and press his lips to your pulse point all while telling you it wasn’t your fault. Wants to tell you he loves you, that nothing that has happened, has been your fault, even though he knows your own mind is eating you alive with the idea. He can see it all now, the stuff in your head. The awful, hellish landscape that has become your mind. He wants to take it away. Wishes he could scoop it out of your brain, pull away every piece of dark and infectious rot that plagues you, separate it from your nervous system like he's a surgeon. He can't. He's tried.

Dr C. allows the room to fall silent for a moment, as is her custom, before moving on. She does it for you, more than anyone. Gives you time to prepare, to switch gears. It also gives you an opportunity to speak, if you choose to.

You don’t, usually.

“We’re at the six-month mark this week.” His heart stops in his chest. No. “We did agree, that after six months, we would evaluate where we are and potentially discuss how you’re both feeling about the separation. Do you think that’s something you might be open to exploring, Mrs. Riley?” He watches your throat bob with a swallow, your gaze shifting from its absent state to something hopeless, something worried.

“It’s not the right time.” He rushes out to ease whatever it is that’s causing you turmoil. The therapist nods at him, acknowledging his words, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Mrs. Riley?” He holds his breath while you look down at your lap, eyes searching for something on your skin, some kind of an answer he hopes you won’t find. The room is dead silent while you slowly lift your neck, head turning so your eyes find his. Just like a hundred times before.

Your voice is soft, angelic when you finally speak.

“Yes. I would open to talking about it.”

The scream is hard to distinguish. In the dark, it could just be a part of his ever-present nightmares, just another piece of his mind twisting his memories and his reality together to form a special kind of hell. It’s hard to tell at three in the morning, but he’s sure he’s awake in his own bed, your body twisting and turning beside him, terror pouring from your lips while you sweat against the sheets. His pulse thunders in his ears, the broken cries coming from you echoing throughout the room and stopping his heart.

He rolls onto you immediately, trapping your kicking legs beneath his, a hand coming up to cradle your face and tapping your cheekbone with the pad of his index finger, a gentler way of trying to pull you out, a method that has had varied success in the past.

“Come on, sweet girl. Wake up for me.” Your mouth presses into the pillow and you scream, your body shaking in his hold, face wet with tears. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright, you’re safe.” You’re terrified, and he can’t soothe you, can’t wake you to bring you into reality, the desperation he feels compounding when your wet cheek presses into his palm. You thrash, arms swinging, and he tries to hold you steady while your voice crests with a sob that shifts in a shriek next to his ear. “Sass! Please. I’m here, I’m right here.” His voice breaks, raspy and raw, but nothing reaches you, nothing matters. You’re not here, you’re still there. In that room with the concrete floor that’s stained with your blood. Your hand moves again, this time making contact and digging into his face, his flesh parting beneath the fine edge of your nails, blood pooling underneath them when he pushes your arm away, pinning it down by your side while you cry. He’s helpless, trapped in this hell alongside of you, drowning beneath the current of your nightmare while you free fall through your terror, unconscious and unable to be woken. He can’t even feel the sting of his cheek, can’t feel the small wounds that are leaking blood down his skin, none of it registers. All he can do is hold you, talk to you as calmly as he can while you sob, your voice eventually falling into soft whimpers as you slowly settle.

“Daddy?” Theo’s little voice calls from the door, where he’s standing wide eyed and terrified and Simon curses while you shiver in his arms.

“It’s okay, bug. Go back to your bed.” Theo shakes his head no, unable to look away. He looks so scared and Simon’s heart shatters inside his chest, something he thought wasn’t even possible anymore.

“Mum?” Theo cries, face scrunched up, hands clutching his blanket to his chest. Your cries are muffled now, and although you’re still shaking, he can’t leave Theo in the doorway, watching you like this.

Simon pulls the blankets back up over your body, tucking you in as tightly as he can manage and then scoops Theo up, carrying him down the hall while he shushes him, running his fingers through his hair while he cries.

“Shhh. She’s alright, Mum’s alright. She’s just havin’ a bad dream. Just like we do sometimes, yeah?” Simon coos while Theo sniffles, his face resting on Simon’s shoulder, blanket tucked between their bodies. “C’mere, let’s lay down.” He lays Theo on his kid’s sized bed, curling his own body around him, most of Simon’s legs hanging off the end. Theo holds onto to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to burrow himself in Simon’s body, to hide there from his own fears and nightmares, and he rubs his back soothingly until Theo is blissfully asleep, safe in the arms of his dad.

He clips your nails short the next morning. You stare out the window and say nothing.

There’s a lot of noise in Simon’s head.

He can see your mouth moving, can see Dr. C’s mouth moving, but he can hardly hear either of you, your voices drowned out by the white noise-static sound that’s cutting through his brain, slicing down into his flesh, past his sternum to where his heart beats slowly.

“I don’t want a divorce.” The words ricochet between his ears, and he feels like he’s been doused with cold water, the shock of your words startling him from his stupor as he blinks stupidly at you. You don’t want a divorce. Joy, pure, unaltered, endless joy fills him until he’s nearly smiling, his cautionary behavior going out the window with your admission. You don’t want a divorce. Your voice is heavy with the weight of everything you’re feeling, and it feels sick to feel how he does right now when there are tears spilling over your waterline and down your face. “B-but I don’t know if I can be… how we were. I don’t know if I know how. Or… if I deserve…” you trail off, and he closes his eyes against the sinking feeling in his stomach. You don’t say anything else after that, lip tucked between your teeth, brow creased like you’re concentrating. The therapist says your name, twice, to try to bring you back, and then when you finally make eye contact, she continues on.

“Do you see a path, in your mind? A path forward, for your marriage?”

“I do-don’t know… I don’t know what it would look like.” Dr C. let’s the room go quiet again, and he’s surprised when you lift your gaze to his once more, your eyes seeking something in his. He’s not sure what it is, doesn’t know what to give you in this moment, which is a foreign concept, considering he used to be able to anticipate your moods and moves, your decisions and your ideas. The two of you used to know each other like the back of your hands and now… sometimes it feels like he’s in love with a stranger.

“I have an idea.” Dr C. says and you straight a little, looking at her with a somewhat grim expression. “Have you considered going on a date?”

“A date?” you blurt, and he tenses.

“Without Theo. Just the two of you, somewhere you both feel comfortable. Leave your expectations at home and take the time to talk to one another, one on one. Reconnect.” You’re going to say no. There’s no way you’ll go for this. You gnaw on your lip for a minute while your fingers play idly in your lap. He braces himself for the rejection, for you to say it’s too much, too soon, that you’re not ready, you can’t do it. All of these things, he would not blame you for.

All of these things, make him grateful he doesn’t have Theo tonight, and that he’s got a fresh bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table.

“Okay, well. I guess we can call Price and see if they want to babysit?” He turns to look at you, dumbfounded, mouth slack with shock while you give him the most nervous, the most hesitant smile. It blinds him, momentarily confusing him, like it’s a trick. Like it’s all wrong, and you’re going to change your mind, or something else is going to happen and derail this. It’s also, all right. You, smiling at him, looking like you actually might want to… spend time with him, see him without it having to be the usual Theo pass off. Like you might still want this, want him.

Dr C. clears her throat expectantly, and he stumbles to get his words out, to catch up.

“Yeah, Sass. Let’s… set it up.”

“Mum better?” Theo’s little fingers fold over his board book, eager smile on his face as he tips his head back to squint at Simon. He’s heard you, in the bedroom earlier, arguing with the nurse that comes every morning. It was quite a surprise for her when she got here, to see you sitting up in bed, eyes blinking and brow furrowed, Simon helping you rotate your wrists that have grown stiff and sore. “Pa’cakes fa Mum?” Simon smiles. Sweet lad.

“Yes, we can make Mum pancakes. She can’t really eat a lot but I’m sure she’d love to have breakfast with you.” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, stroking over a particular raised bump of skin, a scar from an op years ago. You had been running your fingers over it, this morning when he woke up, shocked to feel you turned into him, tucked up against his chest, your hand tracing light touches over his skin. Your voice had been rough, scratchy from lack of use, and you complained that every muscle in your neck and back ached, along with you joints.

He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You told him you loved him.

And then Theo woke up.

It’s a messy process, making pancakes with his son. Theo likes to do everything himself, including pouring the milk and cracking the eggs into the bowl. You usually handle it with such grace, such patience, giving Theo the time he needs to explore the mechanisms of it, feel out what interests him and explain every step to him. Simon tries to embody that part of you, he does, but it’s not as easy as you make it look. Especially when Theo cracks three eggs on the floor.

“Uh oh!” he yells, and Simon closes his eyes, breathing through his nose until his chest is thoroughly expanded. He wants to be upstairs, with you. Wants more than the two hours he got at dawn before Theo woke up and then nurse came over, wants to hurry it up so they both can be up there, sitting with you, him and Theo. “Sorry, Daddy.” Theo’s sad voice brings him back to the now, and he snaps his eyes open to see his disappointed little face, eyes worried as he looks at the batter bowl.

“It’s alright, bug. Accidents happen. Let’s try again, yeah?”

Forty minutes later, Simon’s finally got a stack of pancakes on a plate, him and Theo sitting on the bed next to you, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s cutting them one by one into little pieces, and then handing you the fork so you can help Theo.

“Don’ need ‘elp mum!” Theo exclaims, wrapping a paw around your fingers and pushing the fork into his mouth, chewing with a smile. You laugh and lean over to kiss his head.

“Where did my baby go? I swear just last week you were saying your first word.” It’s meant to be sweet, to be a throw back to when Theo was actually a baby, but it settles like lead in the bottom of Simon’s stomach, and when he glances up at you, you’re wearing a faraway look, thinking about something he cannot name.

Five days after the joint therapy session, Simon is standing in your living room trying not to feel completely dumbfounded. Or terrified. Or elated.

Or anything. He’s trying not to feel anything at all, because if he does, then it will mean something, it will matter, and it will possess the ability to ruin him. If he lets himself feel it, the hope, the happiness, it will make it all that much worse at the end, when this doesn’t work. When it’s too much for you.

He had even called you later that night, after the session, to make sure that this was something you actually wanted to do, that you hadn’t felt pressured into it by being in a room with him and the therapist. When you had doubled down, he hid his surprise as best he could, and reassured you that he also wanted to go when you asked him in a small, hesitant voice if he thought maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Can I have a kiss?” you ask Theo as you bend down, the curve of your ass displayed in the black cocktail dress you chose to wear. The dress, that had him gaping like a fish when you came down the stairs, the dress that highlighted the ins and outs of your body that he used to be so bloody familiar with. Theo wraps his arms around your neck as tight as he can, little face happy and excited with the prospect of spending all night with Price and his wife, who will assuredly allow him to eat all the cotton candy flavored ice cream he wants and put him to bed late. They’re taking him to theirs, something they’ve done in the past (albeit for far less joyous reasons) which works better for everyone. That way, they can sleep in their own bed instead of your guest bed or his couch, and Theo doesn’t have to be woken in the middle of the night to be carried home.

Price’s wife ruffles Theo’s hair as you hand her his little backpack. Simon pretends not to notice the way John tracks her movements, the way he catalogues everything she does with Theo. He pretends not to the see the brief flicker of something across his face, the flicker of wanting that shadows his blue eyes before they clear again. It’s not Simon’s place, to know these things. To notice them.

Instead, Simon bends to scoop Theo into his arms, giving him a big hug and breathing in the smell of his baby shampoo before placing back on his feet gently, his little boy grinning up at him with a face full of love that twists his heart sharply.

“Thanks again.” You smile at her, and she nods while John takes the backpack, and she takes Theo’s hand in hers. “You know the drill.” You shrug and she laughs softly before agreeing.

“We do! We’re going to have a lot of fun, huh Theo?” Theo nods excitedly and you manage to give him another kiss on the cheek before straightening.

“Alright, well. One of us will grab him, in the morning. I’ll text you.” You’re looking at her funny, something different in your eyes, something he’s not sure how to interpret. It’s odd, but it passes in a blink, and then she pulls you into her arms, whispering something in your ear that he cannot hear. You answer her softly, a quieted hum of words, before stepping away and giving the final nod to Price.

“Alright, honey. You two ready?” John’s hand presses to the small of her back, a reassuring and guiding touch, and then they’re all out the door, Theo holding both of their hands while they make the trek two blocks away to their own house. You watch them until they’ve faded from sight, and then turn around with your hands on your hips, a nervous expression that probably mirrors his, on your face. The hardwood beneath his feet feels like fucking sand.

“Well… should we?”

“You don’t get it! You’re not listening to me!”

“There is no one in your life, on this planet, who understands the way you’re feeling more than I do.” He tries to explain it, tries to reason with you. Tries to make you see that he gets it, that he knows how it feels. You won’t listen, you don’t budge. You only take a step backwards, hand outstretched against his chest as a warning.

“No you don’t! You didn’t die, Simon. You came back.”

“So did you.”

“No, I didn’t. I… I was fucked up before and you know it. Whatever was left was taken. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t survive. It wasn’t enough.” Your voice is high, reedy, and a warning bell goes off in the back of his mind, the memory of your panic attack from last week fresh in his memory. You still have the stitches in your hand from the bathroom mirror glass, and he winces when you make a fist and thump it against your thigh.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. You’re getting-“

“Stop!” you cry out. The haunted expression on your face looks all wrong, and he knows you’re sinking farther and farther into your own head, going somewhere he cannot reach you. “You fought and won, you survived. I was too weak. I c-couldn’t… I tried. But I failed.” You let out a gut-wrenching sob, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “I wanted to die! I gave up. You had to fucking save me, Simon.”

“Sass-“ He tries to reach for you, tries to pull you into his arms, into his body where he can protect you, but you jerk away.

“Don’t touch me. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes are glassy, chest heaving while you struggle to breathe, fingers dug into your own scalp for dear life. “I don’t… I can’t do this.” You’re gasping now, trembling, eyes wide and panicked, and he steps closer, brushing his fingers along your forearm back and forth until you’re softening to him, slumping forward into his chest.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here, Theo’s here, I’m here. You’re not alone. There’s nothing to fear.” He says it over and over into your hair, lips just above your ear while he eases you to the floor, your fingers tight in his shirt, tears wetting the fabric. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, and your body folds up into his easily, his arm going around your back to hold you firm while he rocks the two of you in the dark of the bedroom until your gasping breaths turn to quiet sobs, and you fall asleep against his chest.

He takes you to the Italian restaurant. It’s the one he took you to after the two of you bought the house, when you first moved over here. It’s dark, and secluded, and only has two entrances/exits, both of which he can see from the table in the back. Most people consider the candlelit, barely lit atmosphere romantic, and it is, but for the two of you, it serves a different purpose. It allows you to relax. It allows him to remove his mask.

Tonight, it allows you to feel comfortable in a dress that clearly displays more skin than he’s seen you show in eight months. The darkness swallows your scars, drifts around you in an inky black cloud, envelopes your shoulders like a blanket. The candlelight flickers across your face, and he watches you sip your wine, putting the glass down and picking it back up again and again, before either of you have even ordered dinner.

“You look beautiful.” He offers it gently, tentatively, unsure of where to start, where to take this. A gift has been dumped in his lap, a priceless, perfect, beautiful gift and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart wants to rip the band-aid off, tear the wrapping paper free, uncaring if he makes a mess or crinkles the paper, but his mind knows better. His mind knows he has to take it crease by crease, ribbon by ribbon, ensuring each fold unfurls correctly, ensuring each edge comes easily.

“Thank you… you look pretty good yourself.” Your lips curl into a little half smile over the rim of your glass and he can’t help but return it, indulgently sinking into every word you say, every glance you give him. He feels intoxicated, drunk on you, flying high from the way you’re looking at him, like you still know him, like you still love him.

“So.” You play with the fork on the table, turning it from back to front repeatedly and he beats back the urge to reach for your hand and still you, to try to calm your nerves. It's me, Sass. It's just me. I'm right here.

“So.” He parrots back, and your fingers wave in the air like you’re trying to conjure something. A safe topic of conversation maybe, or another glass of wine, since yours is now nearly empty. The candle sputters and then steadies, illuminating the expression of worry that’s etched into your face, and it spurs him forward, pushes him into momentum until he’s laying his forearm across the table, palm up, waiting, hoping.

He holds his breath.

You stare at him without saying a word for a long time, the restaurant and its patrons moving around you, the world continuing to turn while his oxygen depletes, and he holds himself as still as a statue. You stare, and you stare until-

Your hand lands in his, perfectly curled along the inside of his fingers, thumb pressed to the curve of his wrist, and you blink furiously at your lap.

When you lift your head, there are tears in your eyes, fat, wet tears that fall down your cheeks when you open your mouth.

“I miss you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“THEN TELL ME!” your mouth drops open in shock and shame licks up his spine, horror icing through his body inch by inch as he stumbles to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to yell, I.." The words trail off when he comes up empty. He has no excuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s raised his voice when speaking with you. The memory of the last time, the aftermath of the op where you intentionally disobeyed him and put yourself at risk feels a million miles away right now, and just like yesterday all at once.

Except now, it’s not him running away from you.

It’s you that’s running away from him.

Dinner flies. It feels like a dream, a soft, fragrant dream that he can smell and taste, something tangible, touchable. Something real. You order another glass of wine, and he orders a pour of bourbon, and then another. It lubricates the two of you, easing your tongues and pushing you into conversations that feel safe. You talk about Theo, and Johnny, and Price and his wife. The two of you go back and forth about the finer details of an op you’ve always been fond of arguing about.

His eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He tries to decode your expressions, your posture, your body language, all through the meal and then after the check is paid. He watches you as he leads you out of the restaurant onto the street, clocks your steps as you turn in a circle on the sidewalk, a sly, hopeful look reflecting on your face when you step closer and say,

“Walk with me?”

It’s a long walk from the restaurant to the street where your respective houses sit, but he doesn’t mind. By the time the two of you are crawling to a stop in front of his door, you’ve got your hand in his, your arm pressed to his side, and he can feel the heat of your skin through his jacket. You’re quiet until you’re turning towards him on the front step, his sanity being held together in this moment with some tape and glue, and you step closer into his orbit, fingers lightly holding the front zipper of his jacket, head tilted back, face turned up towards his. You're the sun, you're the sun, you're the fucking sun and you’re not wearing your armor, there’s no vacant expression on your face, no layer of fear or sadness or anger. You look… like his wife in this moment. You look like Theo’s mom, his partner, his bomb tech, his sweet girl.

You look like you’re still his. You’re looking at him like he’s still yours.

Your lips part, and he leans into you, mouth hovering above yours, just out of reach for so many reasons. He shouldn’t do this. It’s too fast. You’ll pull back. You’ll slip away. This is too risky, it’s too much, it’s too fast, you’re not thinking clear-

“Si.” You pull at him. “Kiss me.” He’s powerless to the command, or request, or whatever the bloody hell it is. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing his mouth to yours in less than a second, the searing heat of your tongue pushing into his mouth sending a cool shock down his spine and lighting every muscle in his body on fire.

Home. He’s home.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t hear anything. No kid’s television shows, no sounds of you or Theo. No happy little boy running to greet him. No sign of you on the couch, no sound of you in the back or in the kitchen.

He finds you in the bedroom, alone.

“Where is Theo?”

“He’s at the Price’s.” your voice is hollow. Empty, like your facial expression. Haunted, like your eyes. The quiet of the house makes him wary. Something prickles along his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk and I… didn’t think he should be here.”

“Talk about what?” It’s a grunt, a gruff question that he levels nonchalantly while he waits for you to speak as he strips off his boots and sits down on the bed. He doesn't ask you anything further, doesn't push for elaboration. He doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to hurry whatever it is along, uneasiness snaking up his spine while he observes your uncomfortable posture.

“What do you see? When you look at me?” you ask, and he frowns.

“I see… you, sweet girl. Theo’s mom. My person, my wife.” You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at your feet, so he says your name, your real name, as softly as he can manage, hoping to pull your attention.

“Your person is broken.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She’s a nightmare.”

“Stop.” His tone cuts through the air and you jerk, your eyes finding his, the despondence behind them enough to make his head spin.

“I should have died there.” You croak. “I should have died, Si. It would have been better than this. You could have buried me, moved on.” Nausea sweeps him. He feels ill, like he did when he found you in that room, like he did when he loaded you onto the heli barely alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again.

“This… this will get better, Sass. You’re still healing, physically, mentally… it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.” He tries to pull your hand into his lap, but you wrench it away, standing up from the bed.

“It’s not that easy.” You pace back and forth, and he wants so badly to stop you, to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. That he understands how you feel, and he promises you’ll feel better, one day. Even if it feels like it might never be true. His skin itches beneath his clothes.

“I know it’s not. I know that it feels impossible right now and-“

“No.” You cut him off.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know. You’re not hearing me! You haven’t been listening to me at all.” You whirl on him. “I’m not like you Simon! I’m not… I don’t deserve you, or Theo, or anything. I don’t-“

“That’s enough. I can’t listen to this anymore.” He snaps, rising to full height. His temper breaks, his own sadness and anxiety burning together to form something else, something desperate, something afraid. It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant at all. He wants to tell you again, that it's not true. That you do deserve him, and your son, and good things. That you aren't weak, or pathetic, or dirty. He meant to tell you that he doesn't want you to say these things, these awful things about yourself anymore because speaking them out loud just makes them feel all the more true to you. It comes out wrong, all wrong and too sharp, too harsh and you step backwards, pulling the bedroom door wide before he can stop you.

Your voice is a shattered chime when you whisper to him over your shoulder.

“Your wife is broken, Simon. She’s gone.”

You’re tangled in one another. He barely gets the door locked before he’s lifting you by the thighs and pressing you against the wall as gently as he can manage, his cock hard for you beneath the thin cotton of his briefs, your hips rocking forward against him while your head leans back to expose your throat.

“Sass.” I love you. It almost spills from his lips, but he holds it back at the last moment, groaning into your skin instead, and you whine his name back to him, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt, your hands pressing to his stomach while he rucks the bottom of your dress up past your hips. It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet. It’s frenzied, and frantic, and spurred on by the way your hands push and pull at him, your mouth desperately seeking his, your nails digging into his scalp as you press yourself against his cock.

“Please.” You whimper, and how can he possibly deny you anything? He cannot. He would never. You reach beneath the waistband of his pants and grip him, hand stroking up and down his length, thumb pressing across where he’s dripping with pre-come.

“Bloody hell.” You’re squirming where he holds you up on the wall, his fingers pulling your thong to the side and stroking through where you’re soaked for him, circling your clit with quick touches until your thigh muscles are tensing around his waist. His size compared to yours is glaringly obvious in this position, your legs spread so wide before him, the mass of his body overtop yours like you're pinned beneath a mountain. He loves it. Always has.

“Fuck, Simon. Please.” You beg again, your hips flexing, seeking friction, his hand spread across your rib cage to hold you steady while he unzips his pants and lowers you down the wall a fraction, just to the right height, just so he can-

Your breath hitches when he pushes inside of you, head tipped back, eyes clenched shut with your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Christ." he hisses between clenched teeth. You whimper, the noise something off key and he stills, cradling your face with his palms and lowering his mouth to yours again. "I know." He soothes you. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl." You’re so tight, so warm and wet and perfect for him it makes his head spin, makes his knees feel like they might collapse. You relax around him, softening and he praises you, nipping your bottom lip while he grinds his body against yours. "There you go. Good girl." He fucks you deeper, harder and harder until he's sure he could be hurting you, burning to bury himself as far as he can, burrow himself beneath your skin so you're never without him again.

His. His girl. His wife. His love. His home.

You’re home. You’re home. You’re home.

He feels the swell of emotion rise inside of him, the sum of all his feelings, all his pain, all his hope coming together until he’s fucking crying, pressing his face into your neck to hide his tears.

“I love you.” he chokes, lips grazing along salt dotted skin, and you whimper something in response, something that sounds like I love you too, except slurred together, mushed between moans while he thrusts up into your cunt over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He pulls you along with him towards your orgasm, his fingers working your clit expertly, the muscle memory searing the two of you together until you’re both gasping, shaking messes, bodies spent from explosive endings that were too much, too soon, when all he wanted was to be notched inside of you forever, fit within you perfectly, like it always was before.

You go languid in his arms, the sheen of your sweat glossing across your chest and up your neck, the corners of your lips upturned while you pant. He says nothing, just holds you there, stares down at you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone gently, like you’re a thing made of glass, fragile and precious, the most valuable thing his arms have ever held.

As the seconds tick by, your smile shifts, fades like the setting sun, and your eyes change from half lidded to alert while your mouth tilts, the smile slipping away into a frown and then… into an o of surprise.

“Oh my god.” You clasp your hand over your lips and unwrap yourself from around him, standing on your own two feet. “Oh.” You whisper it now, an adject expression of dismay on your face, and he holds his hands up, palms out, to try to contain you where you stand against the wall, like you’re a frightened animal he’s trying to catch.

“Sass.” He levels, keeping his voice even and steady, but you ignore him, stumbling to the couch where his black hoodie is sitting. You pull it over your head with trembling hands, your head shaking back and forth while it falls to your mid-thigh.

“This… I’m… I didn’t mean… I wasn’t-“ You cringe, your hand going to side of your face to cover your ear, like you’re hearing something that’s too loud, and horror washes through him.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” He tries to calm you but it’s fruitless, your eyes are wide and frantic, and they’re darting between where he stands and the front door.

“This… I d-don’t… this was wrong.” The word smarts across his face like he’s been slapped. Wrong? “I… I meant t-to go slow to… not…” He gets within arm’s reach of you before you’re moving away, stepping backwards on hesitant feet, hands clenched together like you’re holding onto yourself for dear life.

“Sass, listen to me. I-“

“I ca-can’t.” You’re panicked now, breaths coming in staggered gasps, and he wants so badly to hold you, keep you close to him, reassure you, promise you that everything’s okay.

He tries to move closer to you, to reach out to you but you’re already running away. Already moving towards the door on unsteady legs, clips of words spewing from your mouth that don’t make any sense. His vision doubles, then triples, and the world feels out of sync, off balance while air rapidly leaves his lungs and his brain feels like it's being split apart. No no no. Please don't go. Please. He can't breathe. He can't move. He can't do anything but watch his nightmares play out in real life, watch as you hold your head in your hands and slam your eyes shut like you too, are feeling what he's feeling. Please don't go. He's a child again, a small, frightened boy, screaming and crying and begging aloud to no one, pleading with someone to save him, to make it all stop.

You reach for the door handle and he cannot bring himself to move. He's frozen in time, frozen to the floor, the gleam of his wedding ring mocking his heart and his hope while you tremble, your legs unsteady beneath you, his come leaking out from your body as you abandon him, run from him, leave him. Again.

When the door clicks shut, he falls against the wall and succumbs to the first panic attack he's had since Theo was born, slumped over in his living room, empty handed and alone.

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon x sass #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon riley x female reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #cod mwii

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calmcoldevening · 3 months

Note

Can you do a Valentine's day themed thingy for slashers x reader please?

Happy Valentine's day, kitten ♡⁠ I hope you spent this day with your love)

Slashers x reader, Valentine's Day headcanons

Michael Myers

• Michael basically doesn't see any special importance in this day, it's not Halloween. But seeing how you fuss that day, Michael just gives up.

• He returns home from hunting, and you meet him in the kitchen with a bright smile and a delicious dinner on the table. It causes a strange, mixed feeling in his chest. He doesn't know what it is, but it's something warm and pleasant.

• You have dinner together in almost complete silence, only sometimes you tell something about your day. Michael doesn't give this dinner that much importance, after all, you often have dinner together.

• After dinner, you sit on the couch together and watch a movie. This time you chose some kind of romantic melodrama, after all, it was in the spirit of today's holiday. And even though Michael didn't give you the special attention you wanted, you just liked that he was with you tonight. Michael liked horror more, he didn't particularly like movies with feelings other than fear. But it made him put some kind of puzzle together in his head.

• In the morning, as usual, you woke up alone. The sheets on Michael's side were cold. It left a painful feeling in your chest. When you came downstairs, you found a large bouquet of scarlet roses on the table. Next to the bouquet was a small note with an inscription on it, written in a sloppy handwriting: "Sorry ♡⁠".

Jason Voorhees

• Before meeting you, Jason didn't really know much about holidays, but now he wanted to please you on such special days. Valentine's Day was no exception. And although he didn't have much money for this, after all, Jason lived in an old camp, which was quite far from the city, and he didn't like people, the guy tried to make this day as romantic as possible for you.

• You did not return to your cabin until late in the evening (perhaps you were at work or studying). You were very tired and your mood was almost at zero. You just wanted to go to bed and forget, this day wasn't anything special. You slowly opened the door to your bedroom.

• What was your surprise when you saw Jason sitting on the bed. Your whole little room was filled with various, mostly red candles. Maroon petals of some flowers were scattered on the bed.

• Jason was sitting facing you, his cheeks flushed scarlet even through the cracks of the mask. He looked up at you nervously and pulled out a pink box from behind his back. You carefully picked it up and opened it. It was a big postcard with lots of pages and cute inscriptions on them. Everything was bright, although a little messy, but it looked nice. Hearts and seals were painted, compliments and words of love were written. Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly nervous.

• You carefully put the postcard on the desk. As you got closer, you climbed onto Jason's lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. A nervous mutter escaped from the man's chest. You smiled, "I love you." Jason blushed visibly. A nervous "I love you too," Jason signed, wrapping his arms around your waist.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba was very worried. He knew about the upcoming holiday and didn't know how to please you. Besides, his brothers made fun of him because of his excitement. This made Bubba completely discouraged.

• And yet, the brothers understood his excitement, after all, you were the first and only person Bubba ever loved and who loved Bubba back. They are in no way going to interfere with his romantic plans.

• Bubba asked Drayton to do some shopping, which he agreed to, wanting to help Sawyer Jr., although not without a little joke. But not wanting to make the guy blush any more, Drayton and the twins left the house that day for 'important things'.

• You returned home after a little work in the city and were greeted by a pleasant romantic atmosphere. All the lights in the house were turned off, and the dining room was lit with wax candles. You walked in, smiling softly and looking around the room. Bubba couldn't hide his excitement and fear, he was nervously biting his lower lip. Finally, he looked up at you and handed you a big teddy bear. You smiled happily as you accepted the gift and hugged Bubba. He was overjoyed. After a sweet kiss, Bubba showed you the dinner he made just for the two of you.

• After dinner, you lay in each other's arms all evening. Bubba held you gently to him and covered your face and neck with kisses, whining softly. He was overwhelmed with emotion. He was happy to love you and be loved by you.

Hannibal Lecter

• This man will spend the best valentine's day of your life with you.

• Hannibal will bring you breakfast in bed first. It will be something light but delicious, like a classic American breakfast and a cup of your favorite coffee.

• Later in the evening, he will take you to a nice expensive restaurant and ask you to wait. The man will return with a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small gift bag. Inside was an expensive necklace with a bright stone that accentuated your eye color.

• If you prefer something simpler, Hannibal will suggest you take a walk after the restaurant. Gentle kisses under the night sky and caring hugs. Hannibal will offer you his jacket to keep you warm.

• This day will be full of tenderness and love on his part, Hannibal will try in every way to show that you are really dear to him. "Even in a room full of art, I would still only look at you."

Harry Warden

• This is a pretty difficult situation, because for Harry, Valentine's Day is a reminder of that tragedy in the mine, so it's unlikely that he will decide to cancel it, even with you.

• But the next night, he'll just decide to spend romantic time with you. The man will cook some simple but delicious dinner, and then offer to watch a movie. You will be sitting on the couch in the living room and cuddling. His arm is around your waist, your head is on his shoulder. This is a moment filled with pleasant silence and tenderness.

• A few hours earlier, Harry gave you a beautiful piece of jewelry, a box of your favorite candies (not in a heart box, no) and a neat bouquet of beautiful flowers. It's his own way of apologizing to you for ruining the holiday.

• You will also sleep in an embrace. Harry always falls asleep much later than you, but today it was especially noticeable. You were already snuffling in his arms, while Harry held you protectively in his arms and stroked your hair. His gaze is entirely focused on you and only you. He's just surprised how your wonderful angel agreed to be his soulmate. Harry is so happy. The man leans closer and kisses you briefly on the lips. "Sweet dreams, my love."

#slashers x reader #michael myers imagine #michael myers x reader #michael myers #michael myers x y/n #michael myers x you #jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees x you #jason voorhees #bubba sawyer x reader #bubba sawyer #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter #harry warden #harry warden x reader

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luveline · 11 months

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Hey bestie, if you’re taking request, can you write something with Hotch helping Reader with a bout of depression? Super fluffy and sweet, I think you might’ve written something like this before but I’m in need lol.

ty for ur request!! fem!reader

cw depression

Hotch's office is eerily similar to a Principal's, in that every time he calls you in, you worry you're in trouble far before you think something good might have happened. He sits on the other side of his desk like a monolith, unshakeable, but a softness relaxes his brow that you aren't used to seeing.

"You can have some days off," he says.

You squeeze the armrests of the chair you're sitting in, the old wood creaking. Legs crossed, arms held to your abdomen to protect from a blow that won't come, you're tightly wound with exhaustion, the stick of it twisting and twisting. You're curled nauseously around it. So tired you could cry.

"If I come back to all that leftover work I'll feel worse," you say morosely. "It's better if I keep working."

"It can't get better if you're still working. And don't worry about what gets leftover, that's my job. I'll delegate."

"That's not fair from me, giving other people my work 'cos I'm feeling down."

"You're very far away," he says. You don't understand his meaning until he holds out his hand. "I know this is a work conversation, but these aren't work feelings." His strict adherence to professionalism in the face of your relationship can't withstand this, it never has. Hotch doesn't gesture for you again. His expression says enough.

It's alright.

You're not surprised when he pushes his chair out to make room for you. You perch on the desk, your legs between his, his fingers quick to pull at the end of your rising pencil skirt and neaten you up. You look at his shoulder rather than his serious gaze, arms crossed against your chest defensively.

"As your boyfriend," he begins, flattening the wrinkles of your skirt in an excuse to rub your thigh, "I'd tell you to take as much time off as they can give you, and as your boss, I'm telling you that that's as many days as you need to feel better."

"I just feel so down," you admit, dropping your face, hiding your mouth behind a closed hand.

Hotch's fingertips push against the hem of your skirt. His hand is warm. It slides far post a proper place to spread out over the fat of your thigh, his head bowed toward your stomach. "Tell me what I can do to make it better," he says.

You know you could ask him for anything, in that moment, and he'd try to get it for you.

"Can you hug me?" you ask.

There, his hand sliding to the back of your thigh and pulling you toward him. He hugs your back with his face crushed under your chest, unapologetically steel-armed. It doesn't take long for him to convince you down onto his thigh, even as you murmur about being heavy, shy to lay your weight in his lap.

"Things will get better," he says quietly, a promise, "but only if you slow down, and let people take care of you."

You hold your breath.

Hotch feels bigger than you, not in stature but in warmth, maybe.

"You don't know that," you say.

"Well, how you're feeling now? I think it needs attention. Like a cold. Like a broken bone." He speaks for you alone, his voice warm and quiet. "You can't keep walking on it. When you're here, you feel like you have to pretend to feel better. If we go home you can rest."

We, he said.

He holds you longer than he should, through emails beeping on his cell and the landlines ringing to the left. He only lets you stand when a knock sounds against the heavy door, and even then it's with a comforting kiss pressed to your temple.

"Am I interrupting?" Rossi asks at the door.

"No," you say, rubbing your tired eyes, again perched on the lip of his desk.

"Absolutely," Hotch says. "What do you need?"

"Just wondering how our young L/N was doing," Rossi says. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"She'll be okay," Hotch says.

Rossi adds that he actually did need something beyond a wellbeing check on you, and rather than shuttle you out, he and Hotch stand outside of the office, talking in dulcet tones. You sit in Hotch's big leather chair and glance idly at his things, a photo of him and Jack with a fish between them. Wedged into the corner, held between the frame and the outer glass, is a photo of you.

You might not believe you'll ever feel better right now, but you can believe Hotch. If he says you'll feel better, you trust that he's right.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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fireinmoonshot · 10 months

Note

19. Picking up your partner and spinning them around in a hug to show them how much you missed them with jake pls

“So, when’s your girl coming home?” Javy said, handing his pool cue over to the next player and picking up his beer from the table.

Jake watched as the next player accidentally knocked the white ball into the pocket and chuckled to himself. “Not too sure yet, man. Next week if I’m lucky.”

You’d gone away for a few days back home to visit family, and then extended your trip to meet up with a few old friends from your college days. Jake was glad you were having fun, but he did miss the hell out of you.

Little did Jake know, you’d planned a surprise. Natasha was the only one that was in on it as you’d needed someone to keep an eye on Jake an update you with his whereabouts when you got home. Your flight had landed an hour ago and you’d made a small pitstop at home to drop off your suitcase before getting a taxi to the Hard Deck after getting Natasha’s text that he was there.

It wasn’t a surprise – the man frequented the place.

You spotted him as soon as you walked in the door, his blond hair and tall frame completely familiar to you. You also spotted Natasha, sitting at a table not far from him. She met your eye across the room and smiled, nodding towards Jake.

It was lucky it was a fairly busy night as it meant it was easy for you to slip through the crowd unnoticed by any of the other pilots there that knew you as they were all too busy in their own conversations and weren’t going to blow your cover before you got to Jake.

Jake had no idea that you were even in the room or the state as you crept up behind him, and even Javy didn’t see as he was too busy about to hit his ball in the game of pool that was going on.

You felt Jake stiffen as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He twisted around instantly, trying to figure out what stranger had decided it was okay to do that to him all of a sudden.

The sight of you, though, had his heart beating faster and his face breaking into a smile. He unhooked your arms from around his waist and then weaved his arms around you, effortlessly lifting you off the floor and spinning you around.

“What the hell are you doing here, baby?” His voice spoke into your ear. His words for you and you alone.

“Surprise,” you smiled, hugging him tightly as he spun you around again. You pulled back a little to see his face, see the bright smile on it at the sight of you. Back in the arms of the man you loved.

“You should’ve told me you were coming home. I’d have picked you up from the airport. Now I feel like a real jackass for making you travel all the way here alone, baby,” he sighed.

You shook your head. “It was worth it to see the look on your face. And I got here safely, so I’m okay Jake. I promise,” you smiled. “I’m just glad to be back home with you.”

Jake wasted no time in leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. He had no care in the world that others in the bar were watching you, or that it was now his turn in the game of pool because the only thing in the room that mattered was you. He held you tightly to his body as his lips moved against yours. A kiss to make up for the weeks he hadn’t been able to.

When the two of you broke apart, you were both a little breathless and very much caught up in the moment. It was only broken by Bob clearing his throat and reminding Jake that it was his turn in pool.

Jake gently set you back down on the ground but kept an arm firmly around you as he turned to the others. “You’re gonna have to finish the game without me, guys,” he said.

You looked at him, confused. “Jake, we can stay. I’m not tired yet.”

He shook his head at you and it was impossible not to see the mischief in his eyes. You knew exactly what he had planned. “I’m taking this one home. We have some catching up to do.”

Jake leant down so his lips were by your ear, so his words were only audible to you. “That kiss isn’t the only thing I have to make up for…”

#top gun #top gun maverick #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader

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transforming · 6 months

Text

For those requesting to see my stories from my previous tumblr account as reference for commissions, I'll be posting them here now!

To start off, here's one of my favorite stories of mine, which I wrote for Thanksgiving three years ago...

The House on Oak Street

There’s been some rumors spreading about the old grey house at the end of Oak Street. Built in the Victorian style of architecture, it’s been left in ruins for, say, 50 years? The deed to the house was never given up by the family who used to live in there, though the house has been for sale for some time. Apparently, it couldn’t be sold to anyone after what had happened to their friends, relatives, even the robbers or strangers that ever set foot inside…

Finn was tired. He’s at his breaking point. University is stressful enough, but add jocks and frats into it made it even worse. He was just walking home from class with his friends Peter and Ned, the three of them happen sharing an apartment far from campus since they couldn’t afford to stay in the dorms.They all shared the same interests - their studies, D&D, and architecture, all of them studying in the field.

The trio of friends were trying to avoid the Pi Kappa Alpha house, which was on the route they frequently took, when they passed by Oak Street that fateful day. As they passed by the line of houses, Finn stopped at one - an abandoned Victorian.

“Guys, look!” Finn said, pointing towards the empty house, intrigued.

“Finneas, it’s just an abandoned house,” Peter responded painfully, looking down at his shiny black school shoes.

“Not just any abandoned house Peter, it’s the Creepy Vic of Oak Street,” Ned added as he adjusted his thick glasses.

The three eighteen-year-olds looked at each other. According to urban legend, this very house on Oak Street had a reputation of endless trespassers, all of whom never reappeared once they entered the front door, some say having been pulled into another dimension or being eaten alive by a monster.

“But those are just silly rumors, right? Does anyone actually believe that?” Finn asked as he took a step towards the porch.

“I do, Finneas. Do you want to disappear? And it’s just basic morals to never trespass someone else’s property,” Ned asked concerned.

Finneas nodded, and followed his friends, but something caught his eye, something he didn’t notice there before. A FOR SALE sign posted at the front of the yard. Finneas felt a connection with the house, but he couldn’t place a finger on it, so he quickly took a picture of the sign, making sure to get the realtor’s number, and sped towards Ned and Pete.

From the corner of the street, the trio could hear the speeding vroom of a sports car.

“Yo, ‘Lex, Chad! it’s the poor faggy nerd trio!” Leo jeered from the driver’s seat.

“Park the car, dude!” Alex said grinning, getting off and standing toe-to-toe with Finn.

“What do you want, Alex?” Ned replied angrily.

Chad pushed him to the ground. “No one talks to us like that that, lil’ pussy ass dweeb. Why’re you here, anyway? Didn’t wanna get your asses kicked?”

Peter helped Ned up and pulled Finn close to them.

“Leave us alone, don’t you guys have trainings to go to?” Peter retorted.

The jocks chuckled as they harrassed the three students, punching their faces and breaking Peter’s glasses.

“I’m bored, bro, let’s just go, they got nothing today,” Leo chuckled. The three frat jocks jumped into the Maserati and sped away, while the three nerds trudged home. They dropped their bags and headed for the kitchen, starving. Ned took out a box of corn flakes and poured milk into a bowl first.

“Milk first, Ned?” Peter asked, shocked.

“What? I’m hungry,” he replied frustrated.

“I know, but that’s just weird!”

As they argued over how to eat cereal, Finn opened his phone and stared at the picture of the sign. A weird feeling of need came over him and he felt like the house was calling to him, though obviously a house has no such power. He typed up the number of the realtor, and pressed call.

“Mike Philipps for Century 21, how may I help?”

“Uh– hi, I… I wanted to inquire about the house for sale on Oak Street?”

“1324 Oak Street, the old Victorian?” Mike asked.

“Y-yes… it says it’s for sale?”

“Well, yes… but the family hasn’t been cooperative with our previous interested buyers.”

“How come?”

“Some weird rumors spreading about it, nothing of substance, really. How would you like to arrange an appointment to see the place?”

“Sure, sir! H-how’s…” Finn fumbled as he checked his calendar and schedule. “How’s tomorrow, Mr. Philipps?”

“Perfect. I’ll inform Mr. Thomas of your interest in the place.”

——–

After a few weeks of negotiating, and talking it out with Ned and Pete, the three friends somehow managed to buy the place at a real low price. Mr. Thomas was an odd man, for sure, and seemed interested in the boys. As the boys headed out of the tour, Alex, Leo and Chad harrassed them again, and Mr. Thomas watched silently. He may not have wanted what happened to the people in this house, but these three kids needed it.

Ned’s dad and his brother Colin came over to help renovate the place. New walls needed to be installed, new windows, new pipes (which Pete took care of with his uncle’s plumbing company), new roofing, all being supervised by Finn, who among the three was the best architect. The three painted the house and about a few months later, they moved in.

“Can’t believe we got this place cheap,” Ned laughed as he carried his stash of comic books in.

“Mind you, this being the Creepy Old Vic, it’s not so creepy now!” Pete added, starting the fire.

“Yeah, guys. We have a place now,” Finn said.

Outside, the three douchebag jocks peered into the window. They’ve made some messes before, but this was gonna be the biggest prank they’ve pulled. Alex ran and switched off the house’s power. All the lights went out. The TV died. Silence and darkness, save the fire.

“Finn, what happened? I thought the electrical stuff was dealt with,” Peter shouted.

“They were-”

“Yo nerds! Need help?” shouted a voice, the sound of smug laughter coming from outside the front door.

“FUCK, it was them!” Ned whispered.

Finn cautiously unlocked and opened the door. Alex pushed him to the ground.

“’Sup, nerd?” Alex grinned, “We wanna play!”

Ned and Pete hid, but they were pulled by the back of their t-shirts, their skinny frames revealed.

“LET US GO!” Peter screamed, trying to break free from Chad.

“What have WE ever done to YOU?” Ned squirmed in Leo’s arms.

“Oh, nothing,” Alex snapped, “Just being nerds is enough.”

As the trio of athletes tied and gagged the three trapped friends, the front door banged shut and locked itself.

“The fuck?” Chad said, running over and trying to open the door.

“We can go through the back bro,” Leo replied. He walked through the kitchen and tried to open the door as well, but it was bolted.

“Bolted here as well?” he asked, as the curtains suddenly moved and closed. Pete spat out the cloth in his mouth.

“It’s the Creepy Old Vic. What did I tell you, Finn?!” he cried.

Finn’s eyes welled up, frightened. Ned was still moving about restlessly. As the three realized they could lose their lives, the fire died out, keeping them all in darkness. Suddenly, Chad felt a punch to the face as he fell to the floor, suddenly getting absorbed into the hardwood as if it were deep water. Leo heard Chad’s fall and ran towards the door, his phone’s torch on.

“Chad? Bro, where you…” his voice trailed off as he saw Chad’s hand sinking into the floor. Alex gasped in horror.

“Chad?”

“Alex–” Leo replied, but he was cut off. He felt the wall grab him, pulling him in, hands gagging his mouth as they dragged him in. The four college students could only stare as Chad’s eyes drowned in the blue concrete. Alex ran and pulled out a knife from the kitchen.

“I’m not afraid of this house!” he shouted as he walked towards the living room, only to find the nerds he tied up missing, the rope and gags strewn around the room.

Alex looked up and saw two green eyes. He was petrified.

“NO!” he screamed as the eyes formed a mouth and swallowed him whole, the three jocks never to be seen again.

——–

The next morning, Ned woke up lying on the floor, in front of the front door. His body ached.

Meanwhile, Peter was in the attic experiencing the same as Ned. Muscles everywhere.

“Woah,” he chuckled, pinching himself as if he was dreaming, but nothing. The muscle didn’t fade.

“I’m a handsome muscular guy?” he mumbled in his… super sexy voice. He stepped out of the tub and admired himself in the mirror. He looked so different, as if he was mixed with Leo. He certainly felt different, and was surprised when he looked down and saw his new, way heftier package.

He grinned.

The bathroom door opened, and two other handsome, well-built guys stood, hands on their hips.

“N-Ned? Peter?”

“Dude, what happened to us?” Pete flexed his arms, smirking and posing the handsome devil he was.

“I dunno, bro, Ned?” Finn replied, and realized he just said bro as if he always said it.

“I told ya it’s the house!” Ned’s voice boomed. “Didn’t you guys see when Chad and Leo were just… absorbed by the house?”

The lights turned back on. The three boys, well, men now, felt a sharp pain in their heads as knowledge of sports, fitness, working out and eating healthily, along with some knowledge of sex and a boost of confidence, filled into their minds, not completely altering who they were, but adapting them to their new physiques.

As they looked at each other, grinning with their new confidence, screams came from the basement. Pete ran down to check what was going on, when he saw a hooded figure surrounding three skinny boys, who were crying for help until the hood transformed into a blanket and covered the trio, the blanket absorbing them into the ground below.

Chad and Finn watched from behind Pete, as he closed the door.

——–

a few days later…

“What now?” Pete asked

“We’re still the same… somewhat. Inside, at least,” Ned responed as he made his pecs dance.

“And our families and classmates?” Pete added.

Ned had an idea. “We need to change names.”

“True,” Pete replied, smiling. “I’m… now Alex.”

“And I’m guessing Ned’s now Chad?” Finn asked, smirking.

Ned nodded.

“Cool, bro, then I’m Leo now,” Finn chuckled.

It felt weird, but it also felt right. Like this was their destiny. Finn’s connection to the house finally made sense, but he had another idea come into his mind too.

“Why don’t we… start our own frat?” Leo beamed.

“A frat?” the two studs looked surprised.

“I mean, why not? We’re hot now, and plus, the house helped us become this,” he smiled as he demonstrated with their bodies. “We could help others just like us.”

Alex nodded, “You’ve got a point, but what would we be called?”

Chad pondered for a moment, thinking through the Greek alphabet. “How about Delta Beta Alpha?”

“Delta Beta Alpha,” Leo repeated. “The change of betas, like who we were, into Alpha men, like who we are now?”

Chad smirked and nodded.

Leo and Alex grinned as well. The house was gonna make some more changes to others like them.

Mr Thomas would be pleased if he ever knew.

#male tf #haunted house tf #nerd to jock #archive #leos-tf-stories

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