#OR (I’d actually prefer this) cut it out entirely

[determinedowl23]

mmm smash ultimate is my comfort game but i genuinely dont like the midna’s lament remix

#Owl hoots #ssbu #midna’s lament #its too… dramatic #it doesn’t have the same sense of dread #The feeling that your companion- your closest friend throughout the entire game- is slowly dying in your “arms” #I guess it’s good if you don’t know what the origins of the song are?? But it’s way too much for what it’s actually from #Like I don’t think the Song of Healing is in the game for that reason: it’s so melancholic. #It doesn’t fit as a song that plays in the background of a triumphant battle #And neither does Midna’s lament!! #But yeah apparently the original was in brawl so. Bring that back if there’s smash 6 #OR (I’d actually prefer this) cut it out entirely #Because again!! It doesn’t fit as a fighting song!!

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [15K] PART TWO OF TWO old money steve, an infatuated waitress, no labels, a disaster waiting to happen. some smut, some jealousy and too many mentions of monaco. 18+

tw: mentions of pregnancy, slight steddie.

If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right

Five weeks. 

You didn’t see Steve for five weeks. Not for lack of looking. The Lake House was astoundingly quieter with the loss of the youngest Harrington and his friends, the bar empty, the Macallan well stocked and poker nights were taken over by the older generation. You didn’t see him on the golf course, nor in the spa. He didn’t frequent the smoking lounge and you didn’t see him at the bar. Gone was his maroon BMW from the parking lot and on the one, stupid occasion where you’d swallowed all your shame, you drove past his townhouse after a late night shift and you weren’t sure if you were disappointed or relieved to see it sitting in the dark, empty.

You hadn’t exchanged numbers that night, still, the radio silence was infuriating. But hey, at least he wasn’t just plain avoiding you. 

Which you realised when he waltzed in one Tuesday before lunch service, more tanned than ever, white shirt sleeves rolled up, tan trousers perfectly tailored. His eyes were on you immediately, his hair longer than you’d last seen him, like he’d been so busy he hadn’t had time to get it cut. Strands of it fell into his eyes and he swept them out of the way with a grin as he approached the bar. More so a smirk, really. And it irked you, his smirk, his pretty brown eyes, his perfectly messy hair, his sunkissed skin and don’t give a fuck attitude. 

He leant on the bar like he owned it, elbows pressed to the wood, hands clasped in front of him so the gold ring glinted in the afternoon sun. He didn’t say anything, he just waited, watching as you finished polishing a wine glass and put it back on the glass shelf. 

You cleared your throat and didn’t bother to smile, but the voice you spoke in was very much reserved for customer service. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?”

You watched as Steve’s eyes flashed a little darker, amused and something else. He let out a soft laugh, like he thought you were funny. Like he thought your cold indifference was hilarious. So he played along, sliding onto one of the suede stools. The bar room was somewhat empty, most of the members either gathering for lunch in the sun room or soaking up the last of the warm weather on the golf course. It was quiet, and the tension between the two of you could fill the entire manor. 

“A Macallan, please,” Steve answered, just as politely. 

He was still watching every move you made, eyes raking over your legs, the fit of your dress over your hips, the swell of your ass when you turned and reached up for the bottle of scotch. You smiled, a sardonic press of your lips that didn’t meet your eyes when you asked him, “would you like ice with that?”

Steve really laughed then, but there was an edge to it that told you were getting under his skin. If he wanted to leave the country for over a month after blowing your mind in his fancy living room like it was no big deal, well— you could pretend you don’t care. Or better yet, didn’t even remember him. 

“No ice,” he said and before you could pour, he waved his hand for you to stop. “Actually, you know what? I’d prefer the forty year. You have that right, honey?”

You did. But it was in the back, behind a heavy, locked door. The forty year old scotch could go for thirty thousand dollars a bottle. You tried not to look surprised, or worse, impressed. So you nodded instead and told him, “of course, sir. Please bear with me.”

But when you left the bar to walk towards the door that was marked ‘employees only,’ Steve was behind you. You watched him lean against the wall as you fumbled with your key card, pressing it once, twice - fuck - three times against the pad before it buzzed. And when you pushed the door open and Steve caught it, slipping in behind you, your cold indifference turned to anger. 

Who did he think he was? Did he think he was that untouchable?

“This is employees only,” you hissed at him, panicking at the thought of someone else - god forbid, your boss - catching you in the hallway with him. 

Like they’d be able to tell you’d gone to his late one night, that you’d stood and stripped for him in front of his big fireplace and bigger TV, like they’d find out he’d put his mouth on you and made to you come harder than  anyone else ever ha—

But Steve just sighed, a long suffering thing that made your hackles rise up that little bit higher. You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Honey, how many times do I have to tell you?” He brushed past you, hands in his pockets, walking down the corridor towards the locked room where the high value liquor was kept. “No one gets in trouble unless I say so. Now, come on.”

You didn’t want to obey, you didn’t want to do as he said. But you were at a loss. He looked so good and smelled so nice, clean and like the ocean, like sunscreen, like he’d just stepped off the plane from whatever Italian city he’d been hiding in and came straight to you. So you didn’t say anything, you just straightened up and let the clickclickclick of your heels fill the silence as you edged past him again and walked towards the door. 

He didn’t let you reach it before he started talking again, a lazy drawl that matched his slow walk, an effortless thing that suited his linen trousers and effortlessly rumpled shirt. Even the lock of hair that fell across his forehead looked artfully placed. 

“Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?” 

You clenched your jaw. “No.”

You heard him laugh and the sound made your hand slip from where it tried to remember the combination for the door. He was so sure of himself, so sure and so confident that you’d spent the last five weeks thinking of him and where he was and what he was doing and who he was with—

“So rude today, honey. You don’t want to hear about the business deals I secured? The money I made?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. You kept your back to him, body stiff, mind positivity empty as you tried to recall the fucking code. You could sense him getting closer, body heat crowding yours, his cologne, his scent, like he’d bottled an Italian summer and sprayed it all over himself. 

“No,” you repeated. Blunt, short, cold. 

“What if I brought you back a present, wouldn’t you want to know then?”

He was behind you now, a towering presence, intimidating even when you weren’t looking at him. His chest brushed your back, a solid, warm thing that you wanted to melt against. But you kept yourself strong, hoping he couldn’t see your shaking hands as you tried another series of numbers. Steve’s hand came up to your neck, sweeping away the hair there, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin. 

The keypad beeped at you in protest, another denied entry. 

“You’re not like the other girls, are you, honey?”

You braced yourself, waiting for the speech about how you were different from the others, better in whatever way Steve deemed appropriate. Prettier, maybe. Smarter, quirkier, some kind of compliment that was supposed to make you preen for him. 

 Steve tsked and moved closer, his nose brushing the nape of your neck. “No, you don’t want my money. You’re not interested, huh? You don’t want the cash, the presents, no diamonds, no five thousand dollar shoes. You don’t want the cars or the houses or the yachts or the ring on your finger, huh?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Steve’s little speech didn’t go the way you assumed. The boy spun you suddenly, backing you into the wall as he took your chin in his hold, heated skin between a finger and his thumb, his nose and lips trailing over your cheek, your temple. You closed your eyes, breathing him in. You waited. 

“No, honey, you just want fucked, don’t you?” 

His lips were at your ear, trailing over the shell of it and you couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered, heading lolling back until it thudded against the wall. You were breathing funny, your body boneless. How did you fucking get here?

Steve grinned even though you couldn’t see, teeth on your jaw instead. He took your hand from where it lay limp by your side and brought it to his crotch, cupping it between his own and his cock, the hard length of him pushing against his slacks and your small hand. “You just want this, right?” His teeth nipped at you and you scrunched your face in pleasure, lips parting. “Tell me.”

You folded, a new kind of girl from the one that stood at the bar, brushing him off and pretending you couldn’t recall the way you came on his tongue. You nodded, brows knitted together, like you were ready to beg. Maybe you were. “Yeah,” you answered breathily. “I want it.”

Steve kissed your cheek, a sweet thing, a sudden and shocking touch. “Want what? Wanna hear it, honey, c’mon.”

Heat rushed through you, clinging to your cheeks, your neck. You squirmed, embarrassed and turned on, even more embarrassed that you were throbbing at his words. You blinked at him. “Want your cock,” you whispered. 

“Smart girl,” he cooed. “Clever girl. Such a good fucking girl.” Steve let go of your chin, used his fingertips to brush your hair back and draw a line down your jaw. He pressed another kiss, to your chin this time, a fleeting thing that you tried to chase. You wanted to taste him. “That’s better isn’t it? So much better when you play nice. Where do you want it? Hm? Wanna suck it for me, honey? Want to feel it down your throat?” Steve tsked, his voice low and controlled despite the filth he was muttering against your cheek. “No, no, you want it inside of you, right? My baby wants fucked, right?”

Baby. My baby. It didn’t feel like a pet name, not really. Not like the way he said ‘honey,’ like melted candy on his tongue. No. This felt like ownership. 

You were throbbing from the inside out, your brain buzzing, a white noise kind of sound that tuned out everything bar Steve’s voice, his words, that awfully fucking pretty cadence that made you feel like you were one step away from getting in trouble. You don’t know why you loved it, why it made your toes curl, your lips part and a whine get stuck in your throat. 

“Fuck, Steve,” you clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping over his shirt, creasing the expensive linen. You didn’t care. “Yeah, please, I want that.”

“Oh, it’s Steve, now, is it?” The boy laughed a little meanly, grabbing at your hips to turn you for him, your chest pressed to the wall as he made sure your ass stayed popped out for him. He traced the pretty arch of your back, rocked his dick against the curve of your ass cheek and squeezed. “I think I preferred ‘sir.’ Made you sound so much more agreeable.”

You just moaned. A sound you’d never heard yourself make, an animalistic thing, wrecked sounding and it made Steve beam. “Oh honey, you’re filthy, aren’t you? You’d let me fuck you right here, wouldn’t you?” His hands found the hem of your dress and cool air hit the tops of your thighs as he started lifting it up. 

You didn’t care. You didn’t fucking care. 

Your cheek was pressed to the wall, Lake House green paint under the press of your palms and you remained pliant for Steve, back arched and legs spreading a little, ready for him to pull your underwear to the side and slip his cock inside of you. You wanted it, you needed it—

“I’m not gonna fuck you here, pretty girl, not yet.” Steve was at your ear again, whispering against the shell of it, his fingers grabbing a handful of your ass under your dress as he squeezed and pulled at the dough of it. “Gonna take my time with you for that. Going to make sure I ruin you.”

Disappointment washed over you like a bucket of cold water. It was sobering and his words made you whine, a desperate noise that the staff corridor of The Lake House should never have heard. You turned on your own volition, gazing at Steve with heavy lidded eyes and you were pleased to see he looked the same. Cheeks pink, lips parted, his chest moving a little quicker than before. You remembered the way he’d taken charge that night, how he’d just assumed you’d come home with him after the poker game, how he’d sat in front of you, sprawled on his big sofa as he watched you take off your clothes for him. 

How he’d told you to. 

And then he’d made you come undone, unravelling against his mouth as he whispered dirty things to you, leaving you fuzzy and hazy as he dropped you home, seemingly unaffected. You wanted that power back, you wanted to see him too far gone to remember how much money he had in the bank. 

So you pressed your palms to his chest and smoothed down his shirt collar before you dropped to your knees in front of him. It should’ve been a submissive thing, most people would assume it was. You, kneeling below the rich man, the man who had wealth and connections and an entire legacy built on just his name. You, the girl who was paid to serve him from behind a bar, pouring drinks that you’d ever be able to afford, on the floor in front of him. 

But when you looked back up at Steve, his cocky expression had changed to one of awe. Genuine surprise showed in his eyes, lashes fanning over his cheeks as he blinked at you, dreamlike, hazy, fuzzy. Just like he’d made you feel. You brought your hands to the front of his trousers, finger teasing the button there before he slumped forward a little and braced his hands on the very wall he’d pushed you up against. He nodded, mumbled something that sounded like ‘please.’

Victory. 

You looked back at the door you’d come through, no windows in the wood, but still thin enough that could hear the grand piano playing in the dining room, the distant tinkling of china teapots against porcelain teacups. Anyone could walk in. You’d get fired. Or worse.

The button popped under your finger and thumb, and the zipper whispered in the quiet when you tugged it down. Steve groaned, a heavy, hot sound that made the slick between your thighs worsen. He was leaning over you, head bowed between the arms that held him up, his full lips pink and parted as he stared down at you. You waited for some sort of instruction, an order, some filthy kind of praise but instead, he just watched. 

Powerless. 

You flattened a palm against his cock, hard and warm under the cotton of his black Calvin Kleins, your other hand braced on his thigh. You looked up, one brow raised, a silent question even as the solid length of him kicked up against your touch. 

“Yes,” he rasped, nodding. “Yeah, honey, go ‘head.”

You worked fast, the rest of the club a far away murmur behind the locked door as Steve’s heavy breaths took over your senses instead. You dragged the band of his underwear down, his cock slapping up against his stomach. He was huge, thick and long and hard to wrap your fingers around and you hated that he had another reason to walk around acting like he fucking owned the world. 

But you wanted the power back and you grasped him in your fist, pumping him against your palm as he tried to stop his hips from bucking forward. You wanted Steve like putty, yours to play with, you wanted him to fall apart as fast and as hard as he made you. 

So you skipped the teasing, leaning forward to lick a broad stripe across the head of his cock, salt on your tongue and he swore, hips jerking when you opened your mouth and let him slide past your lips. You worked quick, heart racing from the adrenline of sucking someone off during working hours, hidden in a place you weren’t supposed to be. This was stupid, it was so fucking stupid but the stretch of your jaw around Steve’s cock was delicious, the sounds he was making even better. He was gasping your name, his voice hoarse, his eyes barely able to stay open but his lashes fluttered and he made sure he watched the way his cock disappeared in and out your mouth, over and over again. 

Your nails scratched at his thighs, making him hiss, your free hand pumping the length of him that you couldn’t nudge into your throat. It was wet and messy, a filthy thing that made his brain malfunction ‘cause you were looking up at him the whole time with big, doe eyes and your pretty, little dress was splayed over your thighs. You looked like sin, you looked like his own personal wet dream and you were tracing your tongue along the underside of his cock as the head of it hit the back of your throat and—

“Oh my god,” Steve growled. One hand fell from the wall to grasp your head, not pushing, not guiding. Just twisting into your hair and holding on for dear fucking life. “Oh, fuck, m’gonnacome.”

It had barely been five minutes and a new sort of determination flushed through you. You were soaked, inner thighs wet from the heat of Steve’s stare, from the weight of his cock on your tongue and god, he was tipping his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he groaned, fingers tightening in your hair as he realised you were doubling down on your efforts and not pulling off. 

“In your mouth, honey, yeah?” His voice was a little higher, breathier, so much less than controlled that it ever had been. “Gonna come in that pretty mouth, that smart, little mouth, hm? Please? Gonna swallow it all for me?”

You hummed in agreement, refusing to take you lips away from him, bringing a hand to cup his balls as you worked your mouth around him, rolling them in your palm. Steve twitched against your tongue, hips jerking forward as he gasped out everything from a prayer, to your name, to a curse. He came hard and sudden, his jaw hanging slack as he stared down at you, watching with a greedy sort of awe as he spilled over your tongue. You made a show of it for him, lips parting and mouth open as you pumped what you could out of him, letting him see it cover your tongue before you swallowed. 

And as he stood, barely keeping himself up, breathless and speechless, you tucked him back into his trouser, soft and spent. You stood primly, caged between his arms as you smoothed down your skirt and met his gaze. He looked a little wild, a little wrecked and he swore under his breath when you licked your lips, using your thumb to politely swipe at the corner of your mouth, like a lady at high tea, not a girl who’d just sucked the fucking life from him. 

Neither of you spoke. You weren’t sure Steve could. So you ducked under his arm and walked away, heels clicking on the hardwood floor as you tried to make sure he couldn’t seen the way your legs shook. Chin high, smile victorious, you didn’t look back before you slipped out of the door and out to the bar. It took a while for Steve to appear, face still a little flushed, but he’d brushed back his hair and smoothed out any wrinkles in his shirt, his trouser buttoned back up but his eyes gave him away. 

They were glittering, trained on you as he came through the employees only door like he owned the entire building. 

He didn’t care that you were serving Mr and Mrs St. Clair there afternoon martinis. No, he walked right up to the bar and tapped his fingers on the wood, vying for your attention. You gave it easily, gaze on Steve instead of the cocktail shaker you were filling with ice. 

“What time do you finish?” He asked, voice still rough. 

You swallowed tightly, eyes flitting to the older couple who weren’t paying you much mind. Not when their drinks weren’t ready yet. “Seven,” you told him.

Steve nodded. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

—————

That’s how it went. 

No labels, not much talking - not about anything too serious anyway, like the future. Just a whirlwind you couldn’t really call a romance because Steve Harrington had fucked you in every room of his house, every car he parked in his too big garage, but he’d never kissed your lips. You’d found that Steve didn’t really do sweet unless it came with some kind of condescending tone that made your toes curl, surprising you on the odd occasion with a sudden fondness that even shocked him. But still, no kisses. He’d kiss you everywhere else, forehead often resting against yours as you both caught your breaths, his cock still inside you. You’d feel his nose bump your own, a soft touch, an intimate thing. But he’d pull back when you’d lift your chin a little, mouth searching for his like he hadn’t just been gasping into it. 

He didn’t really hold your hand or call you his girlfriend but he knew your favourite wine, an expensive Chardonnay he liked to buy you by the crate, along with flowers you hadn’t even seen before, colourful blooms that looked like they belonged in a magazine. He’d place his hand on the small of your back when he took you out to restaurants, cocktail bars full of business men that only he knew. Away from Hawkins, always in the front of one of his cars, each one faster and shinier than the last. Dining rooms with chandeliers and low lights, pillar candles on white table cloths and five forks each. 

He showed you off, surprising you with silk dresses and red bottomed heels that you told him off for, but Steve would kiss your neck, your bare shoulder and whisper how he wanted to take the pretty dress off of you later, how he wanted you in nothing but Louboutin’s. His touch was possessive, dirty, sometimes surprisingly caring, a gentleman that opened your car doors for you, who pulled out your chair for you to sit. 

 But no, he never kissed your lips. 

And when he was spending days and weeks in Rome, Milan, Cannes, New York, Los Angeles, Singapore, St. Martin, well. When was there time to talk about relationships?

Steve Harrington was private jets and brand new Bentley’s. He was a special edition Rolex and had his family's name outside Hawkin’s city hall on a gold plaque. He was silk, leather, polished shoes and freshly ironed shirts. Gold, suede, expensive cologne, yachts in Monaco, a villa in the hills of the French Riviera. But he wasn’t your boyfriend. 

No. He was thousand dollar bottles of whisky, business deals in San Tropez, a private beach club in Marbella. He was parties. He was the party. Cocktail nights with the elite, a grown up rager in someone's mansion, where chandeliers swung from ornate ceilings and the stairs were painted in gold leaf, littered with coked up rich kids who were using daddie’s hundred dollar bills to fill their noses. 

Like the one you were at now, the thumpthumpthump of far away music still managing to reach you three floors up. The entire house was filled with art, a gallery more than a home and twenty something year olds made the place look too messy, black ties loose around men’s necks as girls walked around the marble floors barefoot, bottles of Moët clutched in their hands, each one looking for someone else to fuck. Grecian statues were thrown like footballs, busts of women from too long ago used as something to take a line off of and there were five people in the pool outside, naked, drunk, all taking turns touching each other. 

It was debauchery at its finest. At its richest. 

It was Eddie’s idea. 

He’d invited Steve who’d then picked you up in a car you hadn’t seen before, a deep green Camaro with tan leather seats. It was already late, later than you’d like to have left for the beginning of a night out but Eddie promised a good time and the possibility of a new business venture for Steve.  

The house had been an hour out of town, nestled off into the countryside between a forest and a lake, the long driveway spot lit as it led to the huge brick manor. You’d walked through the door behind Eddie, Steve’s hand on your back as he coaxed you inside and into the chaos. Music, bodies, champagne flutes overflowing on a round table in the foyer, marble flooring, tapestries on the walls, spilled glitter on the stairway and money littering a desk, poker chips on the floor. 

No one greeted you, no one looked at you. But someone slapped Steve on the shoulder and Eddie shook a guy's hand, a bag of white powder exchanged for a rolled up wad of cash. No words were said. So Steve grabbed a mottle of Moët from a tabletop and took your hand, only to lead you up the stairs and Eddie followed, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he winked at the girl on the landing that you all had to step over. 

An empty room, champagne bubbles, two men. 

The bed was huge, a canopy style thing with too many pillows and with gold stitched quilts. Red drapes and low lights, a thick carpet that you dug your toes into when you slipped off your heels and then fell onto the mattress. Eddie followed, tipsy, boisterous, laughing as he did. Steve lazed in an armchair in the corner, long legs splayed out in front of him as he sipped from the bottle, his eyes on the way the hem of your dress slipped up your thighs. 

“How does Steve’s little friend like the lifestyle?” Eddie asked you, grinning. “Is the Moët to your taste, sweetheart?” He was teasing and you knew that, teasing in a lighter way than Steve would because he was smiling and his eyes were kind, his cheek pushed to the bedding as he waited for your answer. 

You took the bottle from Steve and let the bubbles slide down your throat, the fizziness tickling the roof of your mouth and it wasn’t sweet enough. Still, you took it greedily, wetting your lips before you dropped the empty bottle onto the floor with a thud. “I prefer Chardonnay, but it’ll do,” you joked back. 

Eddie laughed and then hummed. He appraised you thoughtfully before his eyes flickered to Steve, dark in the dim light. “Oh yeah, Mr Harrington was kind enough to buy you a whole case of it, huh? I saw the order, sweetheart don’t get flustered.” Eddie reached out to brush a stand of your hair away from your face and from the corner of your eye, you saw Steve sit up a little straighter. “He’s real nice, isn’t he? Likes to spoil a pretty girl like you.”

“Eddie,” Steve’s voice was a warning. 

“Right?” he continued, nodding at you like you’d agreed. You simply watched him from the bed, breath hitching a little when he propped himself onto one elbow so he could look down at you, one finger tracing up and down your forearm. “Jewellery, flowers, nice dinners, nicer dresses,” he trailed off, plucking at the strap of your black dress. “Pretty things for pretty girls. He doesn’t kiss you though, does he?”

The air was sucked out of the room and Steve bristled. “Eddie.”

Eddie ignored him. He tutted sympathetically, pouting at you. “He hasn’t, has he? He never does, some weird rule he has.” You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t. But you gasped quietly when Eddie traced a finger over your bottom lip, tugging at it gently until he let it go and it fell back into place with a soft ‘pop’. “Such a shame.”

He pulled away slightly to look back at Steve, who was sitting forward in the chair now, his elbows braved on his knees as he stared at Eddie with a dark expression. Like he was waiting. Warning him. But he didn’t say anything, so Eddie turned back to you. 

“D’you know that Steve and I share things?”

You shook your head, wishing you had the sense to sit up, to collect yourself, to pull the hem of your damn dress down because the warm air that was trapped inside the room - between these two men - was heating up the skin on your thighs. 

“Yeah,” Eddie explained. “Shares, stocks, cars… girls.” He leaned down again, nose bumping against your temple as he whispered theatrically into your, loud enough for Steve to hear. “He likes me more than Hargrove, you see.”

You could hear a pin drop. 

“Do you think he’d let me kiss you, sweetheart? I bet he would.” Eddie was on his hands and knees now, crawling over you, hovering just above, hands braced on either side of your head and he grinned at the way your pupils grew a little bigger, a little darker. Both of you turned your heads to the side, your cheeks pressed to the expensive Egyptian cotton and you both looked at Steve. You weren’t sure what for. For a scolding, for a fight, for approval. 

“C’mon, Harrington,” Eddie broke the silence. “She’s not your girl, is she? You gonna let me taste her? Seeing as you don’t? Bet she’s so fuckin’ sweet.”

Steve let out a huff of breath, his eyes flashing as he gripped the arm of the chair too tight. He sat back into the leather, shoulders stiff and lips in a straight line. “I know how she tastes, Munson, trust me.”

The way they spoke about you like you weren’t there made your skin tingle, an electric current that ran through your bones and you were buzzing, fizzing - but that might’ve been the champagne. But still, Eddie continued, playing Steve until he was flushed in the face with an emotion you couldn’t place. 

“Yeah but those lips look pretty fucking biteable,” Eddie whispered and he ducked his head down, nose brushing yours, lips parting when yours did on instinct. “Could eat her up. Like a little peach, huh?”

Steve didn’t say anything, he didn’t stop it. He just sat and stared, cock stirring in his trousers because this is how these parties went and this wasn’t the first time he’d watched his friend take the girl he’d brought on a bed. In fact, this was tame compared to the other nights, lines of coke and whisky on a bedside table, his cock buried in some strange girl's mouth as Eddie took her from behind, shirt buttons ripped open and matching red lipstick on both their chests. 

This was different. It felt different. 

But still, he stayed quiet. 

“You just want a kiss, don’t you?” Eddie cooed as he kept close, nuzzling his nose to your cheek, making sure his lips brushed across your when he moved to the other side. Your hands curled around the outside of his thighs where he kneeled over you, keeping him there, holding tight. You could see Steve out of your peripheral. “Pretty thing like you just wants some lovin’, I know it.”

Then slowly, as if allowing you - or Steve - to stop him, Eddie moved in, kissing your top lip before moving to your bottom, a barely there thing before he was kissing you properly, mouth pushing against yours. He angled his face so Steve could see, so the other boy on the armchair could watch the way he parted his lips and opened your own with his tongue, licking into you in a way that made your back arch. Steve watched the black silk of your dress - the one he bought you - meet Eddie’s shirt, matching colours, black as midnight. Ink on skin, moving against a stranger's sheets. Nipples pebbling against the material as Eddie dragged one of his hands down your sides, lifting your arm up and keeping it above your head so he could drag his fingers down the side of your breast, the material pulling tight over your skin. 

He followed the curve of it, made you gasp into his mouth and then he was groaning, whispering something about how sweet you were, his tongue sweeping over your own before he was ripped away from you. 

Steve had Eddie by the scruff of his shirt, hauling him off of the bed and you until he staggered into the other boy, grinning like this was all the funniest game in the world. You were panting, lips still glossy from Eddie’s kiss, eyes wide with shock because Steve was pulling himself up to his full height, shoulder squared, chin tilted up. 

His nose almost touched Eddie’s. 

“S’wrong, Harrington?” Eddie whispered. He was goading, excited, too amused. “She’s not your girl, right?” Their chests touched but Eddie didn’t back down, still grinning, curls mussed from where he’d lay on the bed with you, your gloss smeared across his own lips, a pretty pink that matched the flush across his cheeks. “You normally don’t mind sharing, dude, what’s the problem?”

Steve’s nostrils flared and he was breathing a little heavier, gaze flickering to you as you sat up and smoothed down your dress, your hair. Part of you wanted to get between the boys, soothe whatever was about to start, but something inside of you wanted to hear what Steve had to say. You stared back at him, feeling too hot, too exposed but you waited, gaze hard on him. 

“Quit playin’, Eddie,” Steve warned and he took one step back, standing in the middle of you and the other boy. He looked flustered, a little put together than he normally did, his eyes dark and his cheeks heated, his back too stiff and he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the way they were balled into fists. “I’m not in the mood.”

But Eddie kept smiling, hands held out in front of him as if he were surrendering but he continued to smile, eyes shining as kept talking, voice lilting. “Poor thing just wanted a kiss, man, only giving her what you don’t. Sorta mean, don’t you think?”

You couldn’t say anything, you just watched as Steve glared and Eddie grinned, the room filled with something more than faded music, empty champagne bottles and all the leftover bubbles. Tension fizzed in the corners, it made the walls crack and split, it made your chest turn a little too tight. 

“Like I said,” Eddie gestured to you, eyes flirting up and down your frame appreciatively before turning back to Steve, “s’not like she’s your girl, is she?”

The thump of a bassline from two floors down, faint splashes from a pool outside the open window, the smash of a glass. But silence from Steve. 

“Am I?” 

Your voice sounded so much smaller than you wanted it to but you stared at Steve as you watched his jaw tense and flex. He closed his eyes and said something under his breath, something you couldn’t hear, pressing his thumb to the corner of his eye before he faced you. 

“We’ve, uh,” he swallowed and reached for another cigarette. “We’ve spoken about this, honey.” He said it calmly, casually, like you should’ve known better. 

But you had spoken about it at all. Not really. Steve’s silence said more than words and when he only pressed kisses to your cheek, to the insides of your thighs and side of your neck, you’d finally gotten the hint. Steve Harrington didn’t get attached. He didn’t do relationships. He was too busy, and spent too much time between too many cities, too many countries. Steve Harrington had yachts and cars and penthouses and villas. But he didn’t have girlfriends. Not just one, anyway. 

You should’ve known. You had known. But hearing it aloud made it hurt that little bit more. So you nodded as if you agreed and when Steve lit the cigarette and let it hang between his lips, you stared at the floor as he stared at you. Then he was nodding towards the door and expecting you to follow him. 

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t move. Eddie chuckled, a dark thing that made Steve glare at him but he looked over at you, cigarette between his fingers as it turned down quicker than he could smoke it. “Honey, let’s go.”

You still didn’t move. 

So Steve looked at you and then he looked at Eddie and scoffed, waving a dismissive hand before he left the room and left the house. 

Oh Lord, save me, my drug is my baby

You didn’t hear from Steve for the first few days after the party. 

Four days went by without seeing him and honestly, that was okay with you. He stayed away from the clubhouse, even when you saw Billy and Eddie in the lounge, Jonathan at poker nights, Steve wasn’t with them. You saw his car around town now and then, passing the maroon BMW as you drove home from work late at night, watching its tail lights speed away in your rear view mirror. You wondered if he had another girl in the front seat, someone else he called honey and fucked on the living room sofa. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You knew this would happen, you were just stupid enough to let it. You knew you’d get your heart broken, you knew you’d be the one left hurt. Because despite Steve’s proclivity for showering you in gifts and sex, you did have fun with him. He was sweet when he wanted to be, when he took off his suit and tie and shut off his pager. The business calls would stop and he’d forgo the expensive wine and designer shoes in favour of bringing a bag of your favourite chocolate, a dollar from the gas station and more appreciated than he realised. 

There had been a night he’d taken you his kitchen counter, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked you with an intensity you’d never felt from him before, his forehead pressed to yours, his soft murmurs falling into your open mouth. 

“Eyes on me, honey, keep watchin.”

“You’re so pretty, y’know that? Could stay inside you all fuckin’ night, Jesus Christ.”

“There she is, there she is, look at you, huh? Fuckin’ perfect at takin’ me.”

It had made you feel giddy, fuzzy, coming on Steve’s cock harder than ever and after he slid out of you he ran you a bath instead of taking you home. He didn’t join you like you asked, scoffing at the idea of lavender bubbles and water hot enough to scald him but he did sit on the tiles, shirtless and with his hands in the tub, fingers trailing over your water slick legs. He told you about the places he’d been, beaches and cities, the towns he’d think you’d like. And in the candle light, at three in the morning, with no one else around, Steve told you that he’d have to take you one day. 

You’d hummed, pleased, heart racing at the idea of something coming from all of this. Not a free holiday, but someone to be with. A boyfriend, maybe, a partner. Someone who loved you as good as they fucked you. You weren’t deluded, you knew this wasn’t love. Not yet. But this handsome man came to the bar one day and decided that you were going to be his in some way or another. He wined you, dined you, spoiled you. Fucked you the way you asked and looked at you with stars in his eyes every time you got on your knees for him. He didn’t want you kissing anyone else, even when he couldn’t bring himself to kiss you. 

There were times you thought he would. Times he looked at you like he wanted to, needed to. Straying closer and closer to your lips every time he kissed you goodnight, a lingering thing on your cheek that you wished you could bottle up and keep. He’d let his lips graze over you when he fucked you, pressing you into the cushions of his couch because even taking you to his bed was too intimate, too much like a relationship. So he’d fuck you slow in his living room, in the glow of the fireplace with the red wine forgotten on the table as he lost himself in it all, mouth skimming over the planes of your cheeks, the slope of your jaw, the very fucking corner of your bottom lip, like that wasn’t as bad as letting him bend you over his mattress. 

Steve Harrington told you that he didn’t get attached, but you weren’t able to promise him the same.  

So your crush gave way to anger, a frustrated annoyance that made your blood simmer when you left work one Wednesday evening, autumn settling over the town as you wrapped your jacket around you a little tighter and headed to your car. Except Steve was leaning against the hood of it, a dozen red roses clutched in one hand. He didn’t look nearly as put together as he normally did, but you thought he was twice as pretty. Still tanned, forever sunkissed even as the leaves on the trees started to fall, dressed in a pair of jeans and an old Harvard sweater. He didn’t go to Harvard, didn’t need to, but he looked every part the preppy boy you would’ve fallen in love with if you’d made it to college. 

He looked softer but still as confident as ever as he stayed lounging against your car, like he was waiting for you to come to him. Instead you rolled your eyes and headed to the driver's side of your old Volkswagen, ignoring him as you passed. 

“Wow, you’re just going to pretend I’m not here?” 

Annoyance flared inside of you at the sound of his voice, unapologetic with a touch of entitlement. You scoffed, turning to the boy only to glare and you opened the drivers door so you could throw in your purse. “Most people would start with an apology, Steve.”

He pushed off the front of your hood and came to you, flowers held out as if to say ‘this is the apology.’ You could smell the flowers in the air, fresh and a vibrant red, overflowing from his hand and you could only imagine the price he paid for something that would wilt and die in a few days. 

“You actually have to say it, you know.” You challenged him, eyes meeting his, unblinking, unwavering. Time spent with the richest man in town had given you some confidence of your own, an unflinching boldness when faced with stares in restaurants, whispers in crowded bars. “I don’t want your gifts.”

“Honey,” Steve tried, reaching for your hand. You moved back, out of his reach. He tried another approach, softer, sweeter. “Baby, c’mon. I’m sorry, alright? I am. I shouldn’t have acted like that at the party.”

He was right, he shouldn’t have. So you nodded but kept away, standing stiff and tense as you decided whether you should ask what you wanted to. You crossed your arms, a protective stance, and tried to sound braver than you felt. “Why wasn’t Eddie allowed to kiss me?”

Steve stared at you before he scoffed, setting the roses on your car roof before he shoved his hands into his pockets. His face became passive, a mask, a shield, the one he used on business calls and during luncheons with shareholders in his fathers companies. “So that’s what we’re doing now, huh? Kissing other people in front of each other?”

You could feel your frustration rising to the surface, bubbling and simmering and ready to explode out of you. “Why shouldn’t we? You said it yourself, we’re not together. I’m not your girlfriend.”

Steve avoided the question, eyes flashing instead and he swiped a hand over his face, through his hair. “Honey, please, like you wouldn't throw a fit if I took someone out to dinner, hm? If you found out I’d been taking someone else to nice restaurants and—”

“How do I know that’s not happening already!” You shot back, almost too loud. Mr and Mrs Lewinsky were walking arm and arm to their Mercedes, glancing over to the corner you car was tucked into. Thank god it was dark. You turned back to Steve, face heated. “You leave, like all the time. You’re gone for days and weeks, all over the world with villas and hotel rooms and penthouse apartments. You expect me to believe you don’t have a girl in every city? There’s not another me waiting for you on your living room couch in New York? Monaco? Italy? France? Oh, I’m sorry, do you maybe let them into your bed?”

Steve swore, looking around the parking lot as more people started to flood out now that dinner was over. Valets were moving cars down to the door and you could hear the voice of Frederick bidding guests goodbye. He held his hand out, “give me your keys.”

You stared at him, face screwed up. “What?”

“I said,” Steve repeated calmly, “give me your keys and get in the car.”

You scoffed, “no, I’m not going anywhere with you. And you’re not driving my fucking car.”

“I’m not having this conversation here,” Steve muttered and his voice was annoyed. “Either get in and let me drive or I’m marching you across the lot to my own car and you can wave to your boss at the same time.”

Annoyance pricked at your skin, a thousand needles of anger that made your back stiffen and your eyes narrow. “You drive like a fucking formula one wannabe,” you hissed, but still you threw your keys at his chest and marched round to the passenger seat, not caring to see if he caught them or not. “You fuck up my wheels, you’re buying me new alloys, Steve.”

Steve threw himself into the driver's seat and laughed meanly, lifting the bouquet of roses and throwing them into the backseat. Petals scattered everywhere. He slammed the door with the same amount of aggression as you did and once you were seated, he turned to you and smiled too sweetly. “Honey, I’ll buy you a new goddamn car, okay? Put your seatbelt on.”

You sat, stubborn, arms crossed and staring out the window. Your seatbelt remained unfastened. Steve revved the engine and despite the headlights stopping them from seeing who was behind the wheel of the beat up old Volkswagen, they were still staring. 

“Stop it,” you hissed. “Just, get us out of here, god.”

“Seatbelt,” Steve repeated. You didn’t move and he tutted. “Where did my good girl go, huh?” He leaned over you and you remained passive, even when his breath was on your jaw and his hand slid around your hip as he did the belt for you. “You used to be so good at doing what you were told.”

“I’m not your girl,” you reminded him, smiling in a way that was anything but friendly. You felt dead behind the eyes, nothing but annoyance when you looked at Steve right then. “Remember?”

Steve grunted, swearing under his breath as he pulled away too fast and the wheels screeched as he sped out of the clubhouse parking lot. He hit sixty on the country roads at the back of Hawkins, screaming past the lake before he pulled off the road, just as you were ready to tell him off. He parked up in an empty lot, nothing but dirt and trees and a view of the water tower in the distance. 

“There’s no other girls,” he said, breaking the silence. It was easier not to yell in the dark, in the closeness of the front of the car, where everything felt intimately softer than before. 

“What?” You scrunched your face, mostly in disbelief as you tried to recall what you had yelled at him before he drove your car away from the scene. 

“There aren’t any girls in other cities. There’s no one fucking waiting for me in Monaco, or, or Cannes, or L.A, no one, okay?”

You scoffed, disbelieving and you unclipped your seatbelt so you could lean against the door, facing him. Steve was still gripping the wheel with one hand, another swiping tiredly over his face, but for what it was worth, he looked sincere. But still, annoyance and the lingering feeling of rejection clawed in your stomach, an awful, ugly thing that made you sneer. 

“Whatever, you really expect me to believe that? The front page of the Hawkins Post ran a damn article about how your new yacht had a mirrored ceiling in one of the bedrooms.” You laughed meanly, sadly, hoping your voice didn’t crack. “Okay, Hugh Hefner, excuse me if I don’t buy your bullshit.”

Steve groaned again, a long suffering thing and he pulled at his sweater sleeves, rolling them up his forearms until his watch face glinted in the light of the moon. “Fine, okay, yeah, I used to! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

No, it wasn’t. 

“Had a girl for each damn arm, alright? But I haven’t— I haven’t—” Steve swallowed and you watched the harsh way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the furrow in his brow deepen. He didn’t look at you when he said, “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

It was a surprise, that was for sure. And what was even more startling, was the fact that you believed him, you truly did. Gone was the businessman facade, the smooth tone of voice that made you call him Mr Harrington. Instead there was a young man in front of you who was doing his best to make you understand. 

“I don’t do relationships, honey, you knew that,” Steve said and he sounded almost sad. “I don’t kiss girls and hope they fall in love with me, I don’t bring them home and take to my bed and let them believe we’ll wake up together in the morning and fuckin’ cuddle.”

You blinked away tears, angry, upset, frustrated tears that burned the corners of your eyes. You sniffed, annoyed, venomous. “Fine. I’m far from declaring my undying adoration for you Steve, don’t worry. But you don’t then get to decide who I get to kiss if you don’t wanna do it yourself.”

Steve stiffened then, turning to you with an angry flash in his eyes and hard set to his jaw. He narrowed his gaze at you and shook his head. “Don’t test me, honey.”

You scoffed, defiant. “Whatever. Take me home, you can walk back to your car.”

“I’m not done talking,” Steve frowned and he couldn’t believe it when you simply laughed and got out of the car. He jumped out after you, bewildered at the sight of you walking through mud and the littering of fallen leaves in your clubhouse uniform, heels and all. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Walking,” you shot back, “what does it look like!” 

“Get in the damn car,” Steve said your name and it sounded like a warning, “it’s pitch fuckin’ black out here.”

You didn’t turn around though, arms crossed right across your chest because you’d left your coat in your locker like an idiot. “Then I’ll find a pay phone, call for a ride. Maybe Eddie will come get me.” It was a cheap blow, but it did exactly what it was supposed to. 

The sound of heavy feet marching up behind you, a hand on your arm to stop you from moving and then Steve was in front of you, face scrunched in anger, in frustration. He held your shoulders, slipped his wide hands down the length of your arms until he eased them from your chest and held your fingers between his. 

“What do you want me to do, huh?” Steve asked, his voice a little louder than it had been earlier. He seemed to unravel slightly, a panic in his tone that you’d never heard before. “I— I take you out, I treat you good, right? But you presents ‘n’ pretty things, fuckin’ flowers and shoes and dresses and take you to restaurant openings, parties and, and—”

“I don’t want any of that, Steve!” You yelled, eyes wide. You felt too hot despite the cold night. “I never wanted any of that! I didn’t ask for it.” You blew out a breath but you didn’t drop his hands. “I appreciated it, all of it, I did. I do. But I didn’t need any of that! I enjoyed being with you.”

Steve shook his head at you, lips parted and a look of confusion on his face. Like he’d never been told such a thing before. “So, so what? You want Eddie? None of that, but you want Eddie, is that it?”

You huffed, head thrown back in exasperation and you counted to three, staring at the stars blinking back at you in the night sky and you wondered what you were doing here, you wondered what cruel twist of fate led you to sit down with Steve Harrington that night in the lounge. 

“No,” you eventually said, calmer than you’d sounded before. “No, I don’t want Eddie. God, Steve, I wanted you, alright? This whole time, just you. Not your money, or your cars or your houses or anything else. Just you. I wanted to hold your hand and go on dates. Somewhere stupid and lame like the movies, or, or a drive through for a cheap burger and shake. I wanted you to kiss me goodnight and kiss me good morning and maybe, I don’t know,  have sex with me on a mattress like a normal couple.”

You sniffed, willing away the tears that came with your speech. You weren’t prepared to cry over a man who didn’t want you the way you wanted him. But you watched Steve’s expression fall, a crumpled thing that made him look young and boyish. He dropped your hands only to move closer and cup your face instead, his thumb soothing over your bottom lip like he could will your upset away. You watched his gaze fall to your mouth, following the movements his thumb made across the seam of your lips like he wanted to put his against yours. His lips parted and he looked pained. 

“I’m not asking you to fucking marry me, Steve, but god, why won’t you at least kiss me? Am I that much of a throw away toy for you that you won’t even—”

“Because if I kiss you, I’ll fucking fall in love with you, okay!” Steve barked out, sudden and rushed and panicked sounding. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath, letting his hands fall to your neck, his head falling forward. “God.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. 

“You don’t think I know I can get any girl I want?” Steve laughed and it sounded powerful, it sounded like money. “Honey, I walked into the club that day and saw your pretty face and knew I was fucked.” Steve lifted his head so you could see him again, lips parted in surprise at his admission but he just smiled. He brought a hand back to your cheek, smoothed a thumb over the apple of it, down the line of your jaw. “So I told myself I could just have some with you, see how good you looked without that uniform on, maybe spoil you a little and whatnot.”

“You’re a pig,” you told him but you didn’t move away. 

“I know,” Steve shrugged. “Wasn’t looking for a wife honey, I just loved the way you got all huffy with me, how sweet you’d get when I got my hands on you.” Steve dragged his thumb down your neck, pressed lightly and watched the way you tilted your chin up for him. “You’re just so fucking pretty.”

“But then you had to get under my skin didn’t you? Thought about you all the goddamn time and couldn’t look at any other girl without seeing your face instead.” Steve tsked, walked you backwards until you were against the side of your car and pressed against him. “Hated it at first, you know. Tried to stay away for longer than I needed to, but shit, got back into town and went straight to the club to see you. There you were, pretty as ever and chewing me out for being gone too long, callin’ me Mr Harrington like you knew it would get me so fuckin’ hot for you.”

Steve grinned when you whined, a knee jerk response to the way he was sliding a hand around your upper thigh, up under the hem of your dress and your head hit the door of your car with a dull thud. “Ate at Michelin star restaurants all ‘round the world, honey, but I’ve never tasted anything as good as you, you know that?” He was on your throat now, mouthing up it, licking a line along your neck until he could nip at your jaw. “Want you, all the time. Just you. It drives me fucking insane and I dunno what to do.”

You felt the fight leave you and you hated yourself for it, feeling weaker every time Steve put his mouth on your skin and his nose was pressed to your cheek now, one hand in your hair and the other squeezing at the dough do your ass under your dress, pulling up the hem of it to expose you to the cool air and it was all filthy. It was all exactly why you entered into this whole situation in the first place. Steve Harrington - money and family name or not - made you feel like you were on fucking fire. 

So you grabbed at him, tried to fight back in other ways, with fingers in his hair so you could tug him down and let him latch his mouth to your neck. He scraped his teeth along the column of it, groaning when you pulled meanly. Steve swore, licking over the bruise he’d marked you with, a pink-red bloom on your skin that would remind you of him even days later. His nose bumped yours as he leaned down to you, crowding you against the car and up against his chest and you were panting, waiting for it, feeling the way he let his nose graze yours, a teasing back and forth that left his mouth hovering over yours. 

“Get in the back,” Steve whispered and it was a quiet order, a soft demand, one that you knew you’d bend to because you were soaked, clit pulsing against the lace of your underwear, and shit, Steve knew that too. 

But it didn’t mean you weren’t going to make him work for it. 

“No,” you argued back. You didn’t mean it, this was foreplay. This was everything that got Steve a little hot under the collar, the way you played pretend and tried to get your own way. “You can fuck me here, ‘gainst the door.”

Steve laughed and he pressed the sound into your cheek, teeth against your skin and he pushed a kiss there, a smattering of them as his hands went back under your dress and he pulled down your underwear with the tips of his fingers. He let them fall to the ground, not bothering to pick them up. 

“Get in the car, honey. Front or back, you decide, but either way you’re gonna ride me, okay?” Steve told you and that big, bad businessman voice was back, the one that made your toes curl and your cunt ache. Sweet, syrupy, demanding. He brought a hand between your thighs and cupped you, groaning at the heat and the slick that coated his fingers as he swept them through your folds. “She’s missed me,” he cooed, not asking but telling. Like it was a fact. 

“This is the last time,” you told him and it felt like you were trying to tell yourself that too. “We don’t want the same things, fuck—” you were cut off on a gasp when Steve circled your clit, his gaze heavy and dark as he leaned in and let his forehead touch yours. “S’all gonna end in a mess.”

“In the car, honey,” Steve reminded you, neither agreeing or arguing with your words. There wasn’t any point. You both knew this wasn’t the end. “C’mon, be a good girl for me.”

So you stepped out of your underwear and left them lying, like some sick white flag, a symbol of surrender as you pushed Steve away and opened the back door, sliding over the seats as Steve joined you. The door clicked shut and silence took over, the dark and heavy kind that came with the late night, the one that carried a special type of tension and it filled the whole space, it fizzed and crackled in the air between you and it made you fucking breathless. 

You watched with a tight chest as Steve sat back in the middle  seat, already looking wrecked, his hair a mess from your greedy fingers. He spread his legs as much as he could in the tight space and he nodded to his lap, where you could already see the outline of his dick pressed under the denim. “Sit,” he said. 

Not feeling as ready to argue anymore, you listened to the throbbing between your legs and obeyed, the top of your head grazing the car roof as you slid onto Steve’s lap, thighs spread over his in a way that made you burn that white-blue type of hot, because your dress was too short and your underwear was still outside. He could see everything when you looked down, hem of your uniform flirting too high, the dirty spread of you on display. Even in the low light he could see you shine, wet and ready, all for him. 

But Steve kept his hands on the seats, practically lounging as he tilted his head back to look at you from where you were perched on top of him. He studied you, like a piece of art he was ready to buy. His eyes found yours before his gaze dropped to your nose, your cheeks, the line of your jaw, the slope of your neck. Then he found your lips, parted and wanting, the tip of your tongue peeking from between as if you were just dying for something to taste. 

Maybe his fingers, you liked that. The heavy feel of them on your tongue so you could suck on them while he fucked you slow. Maybe his neck, right where it met his shoulder, that almost always bruised piece of skin that you bit down on when you came, riding Steve’s cock somewhere you shouldn’t and you had to keep quiet. Maybe you wanted his dick, too big to take all of it, but the stretch of your jaw and the hot slide of it over your tongue made you rock your hips against nothing, especially when Steve was feeling extra sweet and swept his hands over your face when you sucked him off, thumbing at the corners of your full mouth as he told you how pretty you looked. 

But he offered none of those. No. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, “what do you want?”

You looked at him, a question mark on your face, just able to see the shine of his eyes and the strong lines of his nose and jaw in the dark. His hands remained by his sides. “What?”

Steve smiled, just a small thing. “I said, what do you want?”

“You,” you answered shyly, only after a beat or two of quiet. You kept it deliberately vague, leaving it to the boy to decipher if that meant sex or more. Or both. “I want you, Steve.”

“You don’t want my money,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. He knew that already. “Not interested in where I could take you, what I could buy you. No,” Steve's voice grew warmer, softer, fond. “Told you before, didn’t I? I know my girl just wants fucked.”

You squirmed, nodding. Because if this was the last time, you’d make sure you enjoyed it. But then Steve did something even more unexpected. He let his hands settle on your thighs, still a little cold from being outside and you hissed at the slide of them going upupup. He didn’t touch your cunt though, didn’t let his fingers play with you like he usually did. 

“C’mere,” he asked instead. “Close your eyes, yeah?”

Your brows stitched together at his request. You were hardly a stranger to blindfolds and surprises, but this didn’t seem like the time or place. 

“You trust me?” Steve whispered and his gaze was on your lips, waiting. 

It didn’t take you long to nod, because yes, despite it all, despite Steve’s issues with… commitment, you did trust him. You believed him about the other girls, about everything. 

“Good girl. Close your eyes,” Steve asked again and you did. 

The car seemed smaller with one sense gone. Eyes shut and Steve so near. You could feel his warmth, the way he moved into you a little more, closer than before until his breath was fanning over your mouth and chin and his nose was bumping yours. Your stomach tumbled. 

“I can’t promise you anything,” he whispered into you. You could feel his lips moving, a barely there ghost against your own. His touch felt like a secret. “I don’t know how— how to be someone’s boyfriend. I’ve never done that. But I can try, if you’ll let me.”

You weren’t sure when your own hands had moved but they were fisting the front of Steve’s sweater. The letters for Harvard crushed in your palms and you were holding on for dear life. 

“You said this was the last time,” Steve murmured and you wanted to open your eyes, you wanted to stare him down and challenge him but you did as he asked. You kept your eyes closed. “Is this the last time, baby?”

Baby. 

“Or are you gonna give me a chance? I’ll do my best for you, I swear, I’ll try,” Steve’s mouth was moving over your cheek, kisses pressed there between each word until he was mouthing along your jaw and chin and you were weak, sitting on top of him and feeling like you could melt. “I’ll try for you, honey, don’t wanna lose you. Don’t want you with someone else.”

He was talking faster now, like there was an urgency there that wasn’t before and his hands were skimming up from your thighs to squeeze at your waist before his palms were cupping your jaw and pulling you to him. His lips touched yours, only just and you gasped like you’d been burned. Steve kept you there, panting hard, his own eyes closed now and his brow furrowed. 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered and his voice cracked. Gone was the businessman. He smelled like mint toothpaste and cologne, like sunscreen. “We can stop this here and I’ll let you go and we can pretend we never met, if that’s what you want.”

You only clung to him tighter, one hand trailing blindly up his neck until you could pull at the longer hairs there and hold him. You made a noise of protest, tears lining your lashes as you tried to squeeze your eyes shut tighter so they’d stay in. You shook your head, nose brushing Steve’s, lips moving over his so, so briefly. 

“I don’t want to stop.”

You weren’t sure what you thought your first kiss with Steve Harrington would be like. You’d thought about it a lot, sure. But it was usually in the heat of the moment, when he was inching inside of you, hips slapping against your own, your fingers tight in his hair and whispering filthy things to each other. You thought he’d kiss you like that, hard and fast and messy, with a dirty lick of his tongue. But Steve moved slowly, almost shy. He hesitated as he brought his thumb over your cheek, a brief touch before he was closing the gap and meeting your lips with his. 

It was slow, careful. Soft. A gentle thing and Steve exhaled shakily, his breath fanning over your cheek as he tilted his head and let you press closer. His lips parted, tongue swiping over yours as the kiss deepened and when you let out a soft noise of appreciation, the boy groaned and his hands fell to your waist, squeezing and pulling you closer still. 

Once he started, it was like he couldn’t stop. 

Steve pulled away only briefly for you both to suck in a breath, his lips finding yours again until the kiss turned into the kind you’d thought about, a messy, dirty thing that had you whining into his open mouth, tugging at his hair until he let you swallow each groan. Steve’s eyes were closed when he spoke, chest heaving, words a low, rough rasp and his hands were under your dress now, fingertips skimming up the inside of your thighs until you were squirming. 

“Want it, honey? Yeah?” Steve was mouthing over your jaw, kissing at your cheek as you panted, pulling at his belt buckle until you could free his cock from his boxers. He sounded drunk, wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, c’mon, take it. S’all yours.”

Steve let his head fall back, resting on the back seat of the car, eyes hooded as he watched you. You didn’t waste any time, pulling at the button of his jeans until you had enough room to free his cock. He was already hard, leaking for you, his breath hitching when you wrapped a small hand around him and pumped once, twice. You swiped a thumb over the tip, dragged the slick back down the length of him and leaned in, intent on making Mr. Steve fucking Harrington, business man, millionare, poker winner, car collector, fall apart for you.

Your nose slid against and your bottom lip brushed his, a teasing thing that you managed to not give into, even when Steve's lips chased yours. He’d made you wait months for a kiss, he could wait another minute or two. You pumped his cock again, fisting it a little tighter, the way you’d learned that he’d liked. He was quick to pant into your mouth, lips catching yours when he titled his chin up for you.

“Tell me it’s mine,” you coaxed, voice low and sweet, just the way Steve loved to speak to you. You palmed his cock, voice sugar. “Tell me this is mine.”

Steve’s hands swept up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the skin, grip bordering on too tight, a possessive touch. He was breathing heavily, the windows in the car starting to steam up, condensation running tracks down the glass. “S’yours,” he slurred, drunk sounding, softer than ever. “S’your cock, honey, promise.”

You couldn’t wait any longer, rutting yourself against Steve’s thigh as you touched him, foreheads pressed together, lips catching against each other and it pulled a moan from both of you when you raised up on your knees. Dirty, wet noises filled the car as you ran the head of his cock through your folds and Steve dragged your dress up, pushing the material over your hip so he could watch you sink down onto him, taking every inch.

He helped you bounce, up and down, up and down before you started a lazy roll of your hips, grinding down against the boy until you were pulling on his hair and whining into the crook of his neck. It was all too much and Steve’s hand grabbed at the nape of your neck, hand fisting in your own hair, bordering on too tight but he brought your face back to his, eyes half lidded as he gazed at you and pleaded: “shit, honey, kiss me? Kiss me, please, fuck-- m’gonna come.”

His neediness made you groan, a pitchy, breathy noise that Steve soon swallowed, your lips melting between his as he caught you in a kiss, open mouthed and possessive, teeth and tongues as he came. His hips bucked up as you rode him harder and the boy let go of your hair to cup your jaw, his free hand falling to rub at your clit with two fingers, white hot pleasure shooting up your spine. You fell into him, letting Steve catch you and you kissed him, eyes glassy, squeezed shut, your mouth on his as you both came hard. You felt Steve’s cock twitch, spilling into you as he kissed you, chest heaving against yours and as your hips slowed, so did his kisses, softer, kinder.

“You okay?” he breathed, breath fanning over your lips, your cheeks, your gaze blurry and unfocused. “Baby, you with me?”

Baby. Babybabybaby.

You nodded, nose knocking against his but you didn’t dare pull away. You didn’t want to. And by the looks of things, Steve wasn’t ready to let you go either. His hands soothed over your hair, pushing back the stray strands that clung to your damp forehead, your warm cheeks. He was still inside of you, softening only slightly, a mix of you both spilling over your thighs. It was dirty, filthy, it was the most tender thing you’d experienced with him.

“So good,” Steve breathed, cheeks flushed, his eyes shining. He looked drunk, he looked as gone as you felt, his hands roaming over you, touching every piece of bare skin he came across, palming greedily at your hips, your thighs, your ass. He dotted a line of kisses from your neck to your cheek, nosing there until you lifted your chin for him and kissed his lips, sighing as you did. “So fuckin’ good for me, all the time, huh? My girl, fuck, you’re so pretty, so, so pretty.”

You lazed against him, soaking up his touch, his words, the insane feel of his lips over your skin, your throat, chasing your lips until you pressed into him, opening your mouth when he did, tongues brushing over each other in languid strokes. Steve kissed like he fucked, like he wanted you to feel every part, like he wanted you to remember it for days.

“Come home w’me,” he murmured into your lips, never leaving them, never stopping his kisses. Steve whispered between words, hummed happily when your hands clasped his cheeks, when your fingers trailed over the stubble on his jaw. “Come back to mine, please. We can talk ‘bout everything. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning, I’ll wake up beside you. Please.”

Your heart stopped at the idea of it all. The intimacy you hadn’t been given yet. The thought of Steve talking to you about something as serious and long term as a relationship. No dropping you home after five orgasms, kissing the back of your hand as he dropped you at your apartment at three am. No running off to an airport, no flights, no meetings, no business calls to interrupt. 

“You can’t cook,” is what you said, voice muffled by his shoulder, the way your face was buried in the crook of his neck. 

Steve scoffed, laughing even though you could hear the nerves there. He nosed at your cheek until you emerged, a hand wrapping gently around your neck, thumb pushed to the underside of your chin so you’d meet his gaze and the sincerity there took your breath away. You were still on his lap, his softening cock still inside of you but neither of you made the move to unravel from the other.

“I mean it,” he whispered and in the quiet of the night it was like you could hear his heartbeat. A thumpthumpthump that rattled the air between you, but fuck, maybe that was your own. “Come home with me, honey. I wanna-- I wanna make this right.”

-------

The next morning, Steve woke you up with his lips on your cheek, a soft, cautious thing that you leaned into even half asleep. Your bare chest pressed to his, your legs stretching out alongside the boy’s. You turned, arms needling around Steve’s neck so you could find his lips with yours, mouths searching, needy, suddenly desperate even with half closed eyes. 

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Mornin’, honey,” Steve whispered back and you couldn’t see with your closed eyes but the boy was smiling, soft and proud and fond. 

You were right, the night before, in the car. Steve didn’t cook. So after a shared shower where you let Steve hook your leg over his shoulder and kiss at your cunt until you came on his tongue - his eyes on your the entire time, his nose squished all pretty against your pussy as he came in his own fist, the waterfall shower raining down on you both - Steve took you out for breakfast.

Dressed in a pair of his running shorts that you had to roll up and one of his hoodies that had a tiny Yves Saint Laurent logo on the chest, you were relieved to find a pair of sneakers in your trunk. You’d mumbled that you’d looked ridiculous, but Steve had just used your embarrassment to kiss you again, hands on your cheeks and pulling you to him in the driveway. 

He got to take his car instead of yours, only because you got to choose where to eat. 

So Steve Harrington drove you both from his three story townhouse in his shiny BMW to a Mom and Pop’s just out of town. He held your hand across the parking lot, held the door open for you and plucked at his sweater collar to pull you in for a kiss over the table, red leather seats sticking to his expensive jeans. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t complain, didn’t mutter about missing out on eggs benedict and caviar at the clubhouse because here, he got to kiss you all he wanted.

And it was worth it, to watch the way you softened for him, feet against his under the table, sharing a strawberry milkshake that didn’t really go with the hashbrowns and bacon you’d ordered. It was worth it, to leave his pager at home, to ignore the incessant beeping, emails pinging in his office about flights, meetings, business deals, money, shares, stocks. 

Steve was realising it was all worth it, to have you. 

I'll be usin' for the rest of my life 

Three Years Later.

The sway of the boat made you feel weightless. A miracle really, considering how heavy you actually felt. The italian sun warmed your skin, mostly bare from your bikini, straps slipping down your shoulders as you lay flat on a lounger, sunglasses covering your eyes from the harsh blue skies above.

The water was the same colour, the gentle lap of the ocean on the sides making you sleepy. The bustle of the city was barely heard, Monaco in the distance as the yacht bobbed just outside of the harbour. Despite its size, The Smart Girl hardly had anyone on board. You were on the deck, catching the last of the day’s sun, with a few staff members milling around. And Steve? Steve was in one of the rooms he’d made into his office from home, a big oak desk taking up most of the space and he’d sit for hours taking calls, pouting at you from the open door as he tried to coax you in to sit on his lap. You’d always refuse, stretching out on your lounger, bikini top riding up, giving him a show until he could string enough words together to make an excuse to whatever big shot millionaire was on the other end of the line.

“There’s my baby.”

The lounger dipped as Steve pushed a knee to the cushion, crowding over you, leaning in to greet you with a kiss, tasting like aperol and oranges. You hummed into him, salt on both of your lips from the sun, the sea. Steve kissed your cheek too, moving down to nuzzle at your neck as his hand skimmed over your belly, the slight swell of it making your red bikini bottoms stretch out.

“And my other baby,” Steve cooed cupping your growing tummy. 

“You said an hour, tops,” you complained but there wasn’t any heat behind it. It was hard to be annoyed about Steve leaving you to your own devices when the Mediterranean sea was rocking you to sleep. “No more business, right?”

Steve smirked at your bossiness, nodding as he leaned back down to ghost some kisses along your shoulder, he nipped at your jaw and hummed. “No more business, honey. M’all yours.”

The trip was supposed to be a babymoon of sorts, even though you were only a few months into your pregnancy and you were sure Steve would whisk you off somewhere else warm and sunny as the months passed. But he’d promised no business, no meetings and when the chance to join a conference call with the owner of the city's most prestigious club arose, Steve caved. 

“I’ll buy you somethin’ pretty to make up for it,” he’d told you and you’d tried to act huffy but after three years together, the man saw right through you. 

“How’d the call go?” You asked him, eyeing him greedily as he popped some buttons on his shirt, the white linen falling open to show off sunkissed skin, the gold chain around his neck. 

Steve slipped his sunglasses from his pocket onto his nose, made sure to wink at you over the frame of them so you knew he saw your appreciative gaze. He stretched out next to you, one of the staff members appearing - Paul - with a tray of lemon water and glasses as he got comfy. “It went well,” he smiled his thanks to Paul and gave you a class, coaxing you to drink up. “We scheduled another call for when we’re back home to iron out some details. I told him my pretty wife would have me thrown overboard if I took any longer.”

Steve grinned when you frowned. “I wouldn’t do that,” you mumbled. “I’d just yell at you for a bit.”

Steve leaned in, still smiling, nosing along your jawline as his hand plucked at the flimsy strap of your bikini. “You know that would just get me all hot, right?”

You rolled your eyes and tried to hide your smile in his neck, tipping it back to let Steve kiss the skin there. He still smelled like he did when you first met him, the same expensive cologne, sunscreen and the Italian countryside. “You make me sound so bossy,” you murmured, meeting him for a kiss. 

“You are,” Steve whispered, his hand back on your tummy, his thumb running over the bump in soft circles. “M’whipped, remember?” He held up his other hand, the band on his ring finger glinting in the sun. 

“You complained when Eddie said it,” you teased. 

“That’s ‘cause Eddie’s a dick,” Steve shot back but it was light hearted. “Speaking of, I promised him we’d meet him for dinner when we got back. I know it’s not your favourite but—”

“The clubhouse?” You groaned, pouting. “Really?”

“He loves the steak tartare there, honey, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I was fired from there—” you reminded him, voice surly. 

“You’re a member there,” Steve quipped back. He kissed your palm, over your knuckles, lips grazing the diamond on your finger. 

“—after my boss caught you going down on me in the ladies changing rooms,” you continued, cheeks still hot at the memory even if it was years ago. You’d never forget the expression on Frederick’s face. “I can’t look that man in the eye, never mind order dinner from him.”

“Fun times,” Steve smirked. “Don’t you love being able to click your fingers at the man who made your life hell? Order the most expensive champagne with all your money?”

You whined, a fake complaint as Steve manhandled you into his lap, letting you lie between his legs, your back resting his chest. He was warm from the sun, strong, solid. “I don’t click my fingers at anyone, Harrington. It’s rude. And it’s not my money, I’m unemployed. I’m basically a leech,” you pouted up at him, all faux dramatics. 

Steve snorted at your words before leaning down, skimming his lips over your hairline, his hands, wide and warm, cupping the swell of your tummy. “You’re not unemployed, you’re on maternity leave. And studying. No woman of mine is working while she’s growing our baby,” he kissed your nose when you tilted your chin up to him, smiling. “And what’s mine is yours, Harrington,” he shot back. 

“Your woman?” You raised your brows at his words. 

“My favourite one,” Steve whispered. He was still all charm, even after the years had passed. His voice grew softer then, fingers trailing up your ribs. “Can’t wait to take you home - both of you - get settled, build a crib, paint a nursery.”

“You’re not building a crib,” you laughed, eyes shining. It was easy, it was wonderful, being this is love. This happy. “Have you even held a hammer before, Steve?”

He responded by nipping at your neck, enticing a squeal from you, a choked laugh. “You’re incredibly rude, Mrs Harrington, I’ll let you know I have, actually.”

You turned in his arms, kneeling between his thighs and you watched as his eyes darkened, gaze trailing over the way your breasts pushed out, the way your thighs pressed themselves together. “That’s not important,” he answered tartly and he grinned when you snorted. 

The new house back in Indiana was modest, by Steve’s standards. But he’d let you choose, a family home that was built in the 1800’s with big, bay windows, original cornicing and a fireplace in each bedroom. A perfect family home, with more rooms in it than you could’ve ever imagined having.

It had been easier than you’d thought, to get here. With Steve Harrington, married and with a baby on the way. Not that you’d expected it, not back then. But weeks turned into months and months turned into years, your first anniversary sailing by without much issue. There were arguments, forlorn phone calls when Steve left for business and you had to work, shouting matches when the boy came home and tried to get you to quit work altogether, ‘cause you didn’t need a wage when you had him, right?

But he was quick to compromise, when it came to you. Kissing away your upset, swapping expensive gifts for genuine apologies, your favourite flowers that came by the handful instead of the boxes of hundred dollar bouquets made by someone else. Was he smug about it when the job at The Lake House came to an end? Sure. Too smug, maybe, considering he gave a half assed apology to Frederick with your lipstick trailed across his cheek and jaw. But he supported you - celebrated you - when you got a new position in a paralegal’s office, picking back up your textbooks that you once had to abandon. 

There was a big bed to share now, a wardrobe that held both your clothes, suits and silk dresses, your old sweaters, Steve’s knitwear that was practically all yours. Your toothbrush next to his, your vinyls next to his record player, a stocked fridge with all the ingredients for his favourite meals, ready for you to reach him how to cook. There was sex, holidays, hotels, more sex, nights on the sofa with blankets and movies, a diamond, Steve in the driver's seat in the parking lot of that Mom ‘n’ Pops diner, the ring clutched between his shaky fingers as he told you how much he loved you. A pregnancy test, staring back at you both from the bathroom vanity, a year after the wedding in Cannes, the honeymoon in the Maldives. 

Unplanned, yes? Unexpected, definitely. Did it make you both overwhelmingly excited? More than you could express. 

Steve took your chin in his hand, pulling you in, thumb rubbing over your bottom lip, his eyes growing softer when you kissed at it. “Are you happy?” he whispered.

“With you?” you answered, smiling. “Always.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington oneshot

[pupcuck]

NYMPHOMANIA !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. daddy-daughter incest, femcel reader :3, reader wants to get raped so she talks about that, dub-con for like a paragraph, suicidal thoughts, awful thoughts in general, tiny bit of somno, threats, spanking, slapping

note. HAII :3 back on my femcel shit… god i rewrote this like 15 times and restarted over and over so i hate this 😭 it’s clunky so ignore any mistakes!!! feedback n rbs always so appreciated <3 was thinking of og4 leon but.. honestly idk atp !! anyway sorry again for the slow decrease in quality in this .. title has nothing to do w the fic ack ok bye :3

tumblr removes fics that use, for example, tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

There are two things you want to get off your chest.

You are not, under any circumstances, ugly. Your face just takes getting used to. (This is a cope.)

You have a crush on your dad. No excuse for this one. Cupid is a conniving bastard. That’s that.

These might not seem like related issues, but they most certainly are because being ugly is hard, and having a crush on your dad is equally as hard.

You’re a sweet girl, you didn’t choose to come out ugly, it’s not your fault you turned out this way. It’s unfair, but ultimately no one meant for it to happen

(Well, you hope no one meant for it to happen unless someone had a vendetta against your mother and cursed her firstborn. She’s an irritating lady, you can see why someone would do so.)

You won’t even be the kind of below-average woman who marries a mediocre man to have mediocre sex to make mediocre kids to live in caustic mediocrity. You have one friend, she’s an online friend, and she might be a lonely old man. To be entirely honest you would prefer that. ‘Cause that would mean someone out there wants to creep on you.

If you weren’t ugly, having a crush on your dad would be socially acceptable. That’s why daddy-daughter porn spans pages and pages and pages of Pornhub. Everyone loves to watch a busty, blonde slut on her dad’s dick. If you didn’t have a crush on your dad, being ugly would be perfectly fine— No, that’s wrong.

Being ugly is never fine. Being ugly is on the same level as being a rapist. Being ugly in the presence of people who are objectively not ugly is, like, worse than being a rapist. ‘Cause all the dudes in high school were rapists in the making. Ted Bundy-style shit.

Grope an ugly bitch in the bathrooms and she wouldn’t speak up, and if she did— She just wouldn’t actually. Would be burnt at the stake Salem style. Hung. Crucifixion perhaps. Ugly girls aren’t good enough to die like martyrs did, however. Especially not ugly girls who cry wolf.

Why on God’s green earth would a hot guy go out of his way to slap a freaky-looking girl’s ass, right? Got girls lined up down the halls waiting for him to sign their perky tits, he doesn’t need to rape. It must be wishful thinking on her part, right? A wet dream she took as reality.

Why would you say that? Do you want to throw what he’s worked for down the drain? Accusations like this, they’re not jokes, y’know that? He’s got a scholarship, college wouldn’t take something like this so lightly.

Aw, you miss her. This goth chick in senior year. Your sorta friend. When it all went down and she had nowhere else to go, you invited her over because you’re a nice girl with no nefarious intentions. None at all. When she lay beside you at night, and she opened up, and she thanked you for believing her, you totally did not have your hand in your panties. And you totally did not rub yourself raw while she spoke about it in excruciating detail. You did not treat her rape case as erotica.

The dude got away with it of course. He was on TV the other day in fact. NFL. Baltimore Ravens. Still stupid hot. God, you wish it was you he picked - wouldn’t have told a single soul. Would’ve sucked the sweat from his jockstrap without complaint.

You’re too repulsive to be touched or raped, and you’ve learnt to live with that. Passing out in alleyways would result in rapists who frequent the area to avoid those very alleyways. Only your hand knows the cushiony softness of your tits, the wetness between your legs, how great your mouth feels— Only your dildo knows that, but you can imagine it’s good. You’re a total catch. A nympho. Men love nymphos when they’re pretty, which you are not. So you’re a nympho without the sex appeal. So in other words you are a pervert. A degenerate. A fucking freak.

It’s time to start sticking your fingers down your throat. ‘Cause that’s what gorgeous girls do to achieve that grave-robbed look. Heroin chic. Modelesque. It’s all the same type of beautiful. Emaciated and sickly. Dead girls are the sexiest ‘cause they can’t say yes or no and if there’s no no then it’s a yes. A nymphetic loophole of sorts. Men love dead girls that double as nymphos. Unfortunately, you are well and alive. Walking into traffic seems like fun, but you would be classed as roadkill, and it wouldn’t be tragically beautiful, just embarrassing to get scraped off the concrete like that. Even in death, you would be ugly because you are ugly to your very core. Your bone marrow is so ugly no scientist would want to make stem cells out of it, polynucleotides so deformed— You’re ugly. No need to wax poetic about it. Nothing poetic about being ugly.

Dad is the closest a human being can get to perfection. A divine image. Michelangelo is, like, dead and gone. David should've died alongside him. Dad deserves to take his place in the Accademia Gallery. With the way people gawk at him, he might as well be art. You’re surprised he doesn’t sell tickets to merely exist in his presence. He’s hot like a Calvin Klein model, and mom is hot like a regular model. Due to how you’ve turned out, you have a few qualms with your mother.

Like, what the fuck happened to you in her womb? Did someone take a mallet to one side of her belly to ensure her child came out as asymmetrical as one can be? A lack of nutrients maybe? Was she dieting during the pregnancy? Did dad fuck her too hard? Busted her womb up or some shit.

It simply might be that two rights make a wrong.

Or you were a tester before she popped your siblings out. Little ichor-filled putto. They were child models, scouted in their diapers, and you would stand behind your mother and the cameraman so hurt you couldn’t even feel jealous. Now they’re all grown up, fully-fledged erotes, and they’re working and doing all this shit you still haven’t managed to get a grasp on. Navigating the world as an ugly bitch is terribly hard.

Rape kinks are developed, dads get crushed on - awful, terrible things happen when girls are ugly and alone and unable to leave the comfort of their bedrooms.

Pretty girls have daddy issues that are dealt with in standard pretty girl fashion - finding emotionally unavailable, salt-and-pepper-haired men to fill every hole, including the one in their doll hearts. The thing is pretty girls don’t go for their dads. ‘Cause a lot of the time dads are gross. Dads do not look like your dad does. And to be fair you don’t exactly have daddy issues. Your dad is present and he doesn’t hit or shout or do anything out of the norm. Maybe this is a you issue.

It is a you issue, not even an ugly girl issue or an any type of girl issue. It’s your issue and yours alone.

It is your issue that when Leon asks what you want for dinner you almost ask for his hand around your throat or his hand in marriage. Either would be fine. Both would be preferred.

Severing your relationship would be even better. Goddamn, girls with absent fathers are lucky. You wish he was anything but your dad— It’s just that if you weren’t his daughter, dad wouldn’t ever look your way, he would pass by you like every man does.

Dad is a busy guy, and he’s a strange guy in the sense that he’s never really bothered with you. He loves your sister, and he loves your brother. But everyone loves those two. You don’t think he likes you very much, you can deal with that. Doesn’t mean you have daddy issues ‘cause no one likes you very much. So it’s a you issue and you should try harder.

Leon’s home early today. He’s collapsed on the couch, withered into himself like he always is after business trips. Mom said not to disturb him. You don’t. Then you do. This is like crack to you. Dad.

More specifically, dad without mom hovering over him. Dad’s sleeping so your brain is not stewed by his intense gaze. It only ever lingers on you for merely a second, but your stomach flips like you’ve got appendicitis and your legs spread involuntarily.

He’s a light sleeper, you’re well aware. He’s also a living, breathing Ken doll so you don’t put much thought into it when you reach out to ghost your fingers along the bridge of his nose. So pointy it could pierce your clit. Your clit. His nose. Oh, it could work so well, you want to grind yourself to mush against it.

Until dad shifts, he’s so beautiful up close you almost forget he’s real, not a wax figure. You trace the straight edge of his jaw, then thumb his petal lips, dragging your pointer finger over the fuller bottom one to push the tip into his wet mouth. Your dad is a slut. ‘Cause he sucks for a good second or two. Heat licks at your insides. You might vomit. His spit glistens like cobwebs when you take it back. That hand is shoved down your pants. That finger finds your clit, uses what spit is left to get it nice and wet. Which is totally unneeded, you’ve been soaked since god knows when, your pussy doesn’t know when to quit.

Feels good knowing that a part of dad is in you, his spit pushed into your hole. You’ll give him something back, it’s only fair, you smear your slick on the spot you traced. His tongue pokes out, likely to combat dry mouth, it swipes along his bottom lip— He tastes you. Heat engulfs you, chars your body from the inside out, the scent of rotting meat is in your nostrils.

Dad tasted you.

Holy fuck. You sit there with a trembling smile, staring down at him and he does not rouse. Shit, you’re creepy and you know it, but you’re not stupid. What other chance do you have? You unzip his old shearling jacket, underneath is that compression shirt that fits him too well. You map out the ridges of his abs, the slight dip between his pecs, every hard line that makes up his body. He smells so sexy, lavender and leather, must be some sorta pheromone ‘cause all you want to do is drop your face into his tits to bathe in that scent, to have it stick to your skin. Shit. Holy fucking shit. You’ve got a sex doll instead of a dad. That explains the distantness. He’s made of silicone.

The door clicks the moment you find it in yourself to click open his belt.

“What're you doing?” Mom ruins everything. She’s had it out for you the moment you formed in her womb. “He’s sleeping, don’t disturb him.” She says tersely, placing her Coach Tabby on the coffee table.

“He was cold.” That’s why his nipples are peaking, piercing the fabric of that shirt. Should be illegal to wear that in public. He’s asking for it.

“Yeah?” She asks, unconvinced, bending down to unclasp her heels.

“Yeah.” You stand up, dad’s indirect kiss on your cunt, shoot her a nasty sneer before you scuttle away to your bedroom for the rest of the day.

There are stairs that creak and stairs that don’t. You hang around down here at midnight often so you know the right path to take as to not alert your parents of your presence. They’re speaking about you.

“—be careful around her.” Truly, you hate your mother.

“What is there to be careful about?” Right? You tell her dad.

“Just, just be careful. She doesn’t y’know.”

“She doesn’t what?”

“She doesn’t get off her ass, she doesn’t talk to anyone but, well, I don’t know actually, she doesn’t talk to anyone at all.” You could pretend and say it hurts, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing insulting about the truth.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re a guy, she doesn't talk to guys.”

“We don’t talk much either.” Dad is too stiff to make conversation, and you collapse anytime he breathes in your general direction.

“Yeah, but, Leon.” Mom sounds exasperated, but she’s not getting her point across well. She should know better, dad’s skull is thicker than cement. “I’m worried.”

“What, for me or her?”

“Her, obviously, I don’t want her to… I want her to get out, like, I want her to do stuff,” mom sniffles, she is so putting this on to make dad feel guilty. “It’s so hard to watch your adult daughter just sit in a room and do nothing all day, Leon, she’s like a big fucking baby, why is she like that?”

“Babe,” he coos, and your knees buckle.

“Go talk to her.”

“What?”

“Go talk to her about it,” Mom repeats, voice shaking. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

They go back and forth for a few minutes, and then dad sighs and says fine. You make haste back to your hovel that doubles as a bedroom, crawl into bed and try to look natural.

Leon clears his throat before he knocks, when you don’t answer he pokes his head in. He says your name and you stir, sheets taut to your body as you peek up at him.

“You should open a window in here.”

When you don’t respond, he sits at the foot of your bed, looks around and nods. His gaze is scathing. Not purposefully. You just take it that way.

“Dinner’s ready,” he lies, then he leaves. His perfume lingers, and you touch the space he was sitting in, his warmth remains.

The day after that, you’re in the living room, tuckered out after mom forced you to help her with the groceries. You’re not cut out for this sort of life. The living sort of life. You were made to rot.

“Door wasn’t locked,” Leon says when he steps in, he puts his keys down, shucks his jacket off, tracks mud halfway down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Your shoes, Leon,” Mom groans, “she came in last.”

“Oh, sorry,” you say absentmindedly. If it doesn’t include tits or dicks or pussy it is none of your business. You have enough energy to keep up with one thing and that is your porn addiction. Groceries really took it out of you.

“You should be careful, rapists might come in, murderers or some shit.” Leon is speaking to your mother. Not you because he has seen your face and he knows very well that an ugly girl like you would survive out of sheer ugliness.

Mom snorts, “I think you’re the scariest thing that could walk through that door, honey.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

You’d like to know what that means too. Well, you get the gist, ‘cause you’ve heard all those stories. Dad and his wandering hands.

“You know what that means.” The sound of lips smacking is enough to have you feeling sick, dizzy as you cling to the walls and make your escape. “Did she leave— Quit it, Leon— Hands off, can you go talk to her, please? Properly this time.”

He forgets to knock this time, or he can’t bother to knock. Dad sits in that same spot, he opens his mouth and closes it about five times.

“Mom’s worried about you,” Leon says robotically. “You good?”

“I’m great.” Your tone is unconvincing, but he clearly doesn’t care enough because you're his dirty little secret. Not in a sex way. You would do anything for it to be in the sex way. Dirty little secret as in the ugly kid he chooses to ignore purely because you’re ugly. Dad doesn’t like ugly girls, you know that. He doesn’t think they’re worth a second glance, even a first glance is too much. Dad is superficial and his love is plastic.

These are all things you’re making up in your head based on assumptions. This is how all attractive men think. Ugly girls aren’t worth rape, dirtying your dick in ugly pussy sounds like a hassle. If you were pretty, you wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy. Even as a self-proclaimed ugly girl, you still wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy ‘cause they’re gross, and it’s not like they want you. Ugly guys shoot high and aim for pretty girls. Duh.

So you get it. Honestly. Whatever. Dad doesn’t like you. That’s okay, you don’t like him as a dad anyway. You love him like an obsessive lover. A hallway crush that stars in your late-night rape fantasies. And you’re fine like this. You’re so fine.

“Can I… Can I actually have a hug, dad?” You muster up what is left in your hollow heart to ask him that. It’s a big deal.

Leon blinks at you, levels you with his blank stare. He’s so handsome you want to blow your brains out, it’s an easy feat because you’re always looking for reasons to blow your brains out. Every straw is your last and yet you’re still here.

“Sure, sweetheart.” Dad opens his arms, and you crawl towards him, head on his shoulder as his arms loop around your waist. Oh, god, you will your heart into giving out. Dying right here in dad’s arms is ideal.

He holds you so gently it’s brutal. He crushes you with the weight of his loveless love. Dad’s so good at pretending you almost think he cares.

“Can you… I want to stay like this.”

“Uh, sure, sweetheart,” Leon calls everyone sweetheart. Sweetheart is his default. Sweetheart ranges from Auntie Ashley to babysitters to lifeguards and retail workers who aren’t getting paid enough to deal with some old man making eyes at them. Not that anyone minds dad’s attention. It’s fucking unfair. Mom is babe, and your sister is baby, and your brother is buddy or sport or tiger or whatever shit he pulls out of his ass. And you’re sweetheart because you’re not important to him. His firstborn daughter is not important to him ‘cause she’s ugly. More of a specimen than a human.

You would do anything to keep him here.

“Dad?” You whisper into his neck.

“…Yeah?”

“I want you to…” Your lack of life flashes in front of your eyes. Bedroom. Bedroom. Porn. Bedroom. Porn. Porn. Dad. Not much. What have you got to lose? “I want to— I want to fuck you.”

Dad is silent. Then: “Oh.” He never makes the move to pull away, so you sit snugly in his grip for a few seconds longer.

“I— Dad, I touch myself thinkin’ about you.” Your stomach ties itself into a Gordian knot.

“Yeah, okay, why don’t we— Yeah, fuck, I see what she meant, okay. Wow, that’s a lot. Sweetheart, why… Listen.” Dad says a whole lot of nothing as he takes your hands off him.

“Please… I love you, dad. I really like you— I know it’s weird, dad, I do, seriously, I know, but please I just… I just like you.” There is no explanation for it. “Dad… Daddy.”

He full-on winces. It’s like you’re being flayed. Something inside of you just— Just shatters. Not your heart ‘cause it’s pumping more blood than it ever has. Fragments of your sanity splinter into even smaller segments until there is nothing left but nauseating levels of mental disturbance.

“If you don’t…”

“You seriously trying that right now?” Leon scoffs, and he’s so cocky you get hot under the collar.

(Between your thighs too, but that’s a different story.)

“Yeah, I’m serious— If you don’t… If you don’t do it- do it with me, I’ll tell mom you… I’ll tell her you raped me.” In actuality, you would never tell mom if daddy raped you. You would treasure it, keep it in a heart-shaped locket and think about it when you get off twelve times a day. Getting your pussy reamed by dad’s cock would fix you right up.

“Don’t— Are you okay?” Leon smacks your hand away, his tone is even.

“You do it too— I know you’ve done it, I know how you and mom met.”

His face drains, pallor yellowish. “That don’t… That’s different.”

“How is that any different?” Different ‘cause he’s hot and mom is hot. Leon passed it off as a drunken mistake and they end up getting together. It’s not rape if the perpetrator is a hottie. You agree, but still— It’s not fucking fair.

“‘Cause I didn’t do this.” Leon gestures abstractly.

You kiss him, hands braced on each of his tits, digging your fingers into the meat to feel him tense and harden like he’s wearing a chest plate. “You’re so hot dad,” you whine into his mouth, and Leon is quick to push you off, your wrists in his hands. Makeshift handcuffs.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Dad is using his dad voice. It’s like porn to you, only makes you wetter. “I don’t like hitting girls, but you’re givin’ me a damn good reason.”

“You can hit me, daddy.” You offer your face to him, stretching your neck forward, closing your eyes as you wait for the impact. It lands firm on your cheek, his fingertips catching the tip of your nose. Fuck that felt good. Shit. You think you’ve creamed your panties. “Again, dad, hit me again—“ He does. Harder than the last time. Your head knocks backwards, and your brain must have a dent in it.

Dad puts you over his lap and you’re so sure you’ve entered the pearly gates. Or the innermost circle of hell. Probably that ‘cause Jesus Christ are you steaming.

“I hate stupid little sluts that try it out on me,” Leon drags your sweats over the swell of your ass, “Do you have a dick?”

“What, dad— No!” You tell him, more mortified at his question than you are by your bare ass under his palm. Fuck— You’re so wet it’s disgusting, dripping down your thighs and surely staining his lap. Thick like treacle.

“No? Were you gonna rape dad with this stupid cunt?” Oh, you hope he spanks your pussy. Porn makes it look delicious. “You look like you might have a dick with that face of yours.” He traces the seam of your cunt through your panties. “Or is your pussy just fat?”

Good fucking lord.

“Dad…” You arch into him, only to have a hand come down on your left ass cheek. One. Two. Three. They all hurt bad as each other. Four. “Ouch!” That one hurt real bad. Five. You feel like a naughty child. This is not as hot as you thought it would be. More dull and embarrassing. Not even the good kind of embarrassing.

Leon puts you on your knees, the hand wrapped around your jaw forces your lips into a pout, and you think he is going to kiss you— God, you close your eyes and wait for it, lean into him, shit you’d pop your leg if you were standing up. He spits in your face and it trickles down the bridge of your nose.

“Got me dirty with that filthy pussy.” Dad speaks offhandedly, he speaks to you like you’re dog shit. Not dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Just dog shit on the side of the road. Like the sort that bothers you enough to complain about it, but it doesn’t ignite any real anger.

His hand remains tight on your jaw, then he drops it to fish his fat cock from his pants to slap the drippy head on your cheek. The sound ricochets off the walls. Hits you like a bullet. Holy fuck. Dad really just did that. You giggle, batting your lashes up at him as pretty as an ugly girl can, and he grimaces so it can’t be pretty.

“Christ, you nasty fuck,” Leon snickers at the look on your face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Daddy,” you whimper, nosing the tip of his dick, he smells so good you want him in your mouth, “I jus’ love you lots.”

“God, I hate ugly little freaks like you.” He said that already, no need to rub it in. Another slap of his cock on your face. Your heart beats for him and him alone. “You know what I think?” Dad guides his cock into your warm mouth. “Shit, that’s good— I think your mom is a liar.”

His dick is all you’ve ever wanted. It’s heavy on your tongue, though the longer you suckle on the tip, the weightier it gets, and he’s wet. Dripping all over the place. You must get that gene from your dad.

“‘Cause I don’t think,” he grunts, palm resting on your forehead to push you off his shaft, “I don’t think I could make a kid this ugly.”

“No,” you say breathlessly, “No, you’re my dad, my daddy.” Crouched down below him, you lave over his balls, putting more effort into this than you have done with anything else in your life. Gargling dad’s balls is your best work. Nothing else you have to be proud of.

Your pussy is pulsing, shit has its own heartbeat, you drop your hand down to soothe your poor cunt, rubbing figure eights into the bulge of your clit over your panties. It’s not enough, you push them to the side, your fingers slip a couple times, not enough, only dad’s fingers are enough, only his cock will plug up your leaking hole.

“Get off me,” dad instructs, and you might be glued to him, but you detach yourself immediately. “C’mon, stand up.” You use his thighs as leverage, standing on shaky legs that threaten to give out at any second. He takes your shirt off. “Cute tits gone to waste,” dad sighs like it’s heartbreaking. “We could've done something about it, y’know? Could fix your face right up, just had to ask daddy.”

“Really, dad? I want to be pretty, daddy, I want to be pretty for you, you never call me pretty— Daddy, I want to be pretty, please.” You clasp his shirt, and he brings you into his lap once more, raising your legs to slide your panties down so you’re free bleeding on his lap. Free bleeding without the blood. Just good old pussy.

“Messin’ with you, sweetheart, can’t fix that dog face,” dad coos to you tenderly, and the plain-as-day insult flies right over you. Dad could get you to sell both your kidneys if he keeps talking to you like that. “Just gotta live with it.”

You have. You have lived with it. That’s what you do. Live with your ugly face. You could die, that’s an option, but you choose to wait it out. ‘Cause dying is pretty scary no matter how much you want it. And Leon’s dick is hard beneath your pussy so there are things to live for. The world isn’t all cruel.

“Up,” he taps your lower back, you raise your hips and he presses his cock to your stretched hole. Toy after toy after toy. All to ready yourself for dad. When you sink down on him, your body convulses. It’s the sweet release of death. Or an orgasm. Fuck. Dying on dad’s cock is— You haven’t died on his dick, he fucks you through your high, feet planted firmly on the ground as he thrusts upwards, dick angled just right.

Heroin is meant to be good. You’ve seen Trainspotting. Better than any cock— You don’t believe that for a minute. Unless he’s leaking smack straight into your pussy, numbing your walls. Could be that ‘cause god— You’re not really thinking, not that you think much, when you decide to shove your fingers into his mouth.

“Daddy, can you taste me?” You ask him, giving a languid grind of your hips down onto his cock, you regret it immediately ‘cause it’s so good your cunt squelches loudly. “Do you taste me, dad? Dad—“

“Yeah,” Dad says, muffled, “Shoving your fingers down my fuckin’ throat, you little psycho, ‘course I taste it.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Daddy looks so pretty with his lips wrapped around your fingers, you fuck them in and out of his pink mouth, his tongue runs along the length of your fingers like he’s sucking a nice cock. Treating your fingers better than you did his dick.

Daddy’s splitting you in two. He fucks you without a care in the world. ‘Cause he doesn’t care about you. One-time-use pussy. You’re disposable like the gloves you get with box dye. Like a plastic spork. His cock is so deep he might as well tear open your middle and fuck your guts. Leon grabs your hips, forces you up and drops you down. The air in your lungs has no time to build up— You grasp at his shirt, bouncing in his lap like you’re a fleshlight, and you would be so happy with that title. Dad’s personal fleshlight. It makes you giddy.

Leon’s cock twitches inside of you, when he lifts you off of him, your pussy clings to the tip, holding on for dear life, insistent on milking daddy’s dick, taking every drop of his cum.

“Daddy…” Your head drops to his shoulder. “Please, daddy, am I pretty? Can you call me pretty?”

His hips stutter, and you don’t have to see his face to know he hesitates. It’s a struggle to call a girl like you pretty. “You’re so pretty, sweetheart.” Then he dumps his load so deep— So deep, you warm to the thought of having your daddy’s baby. You already fucked so why not go the extra mile?

Dad doesn’t kiss you, but he lays you down and tucks you in like he never has before. “Your mom’s worried.” He goes back to the topic at hand and you groan, covering your face with a pillow. “Hey, we can, uh…” Leon scratches his head. “We can y’know…” He shrugs, glances down at you. “Can do that if you try pulling your weight a little.”

The promise of your dad’s cock is enough to have you applying for every job in a thirty-mile radius. Dad’s cock is a fix for an ugly girl like you. You’ve got a pussy only your daddy could love, and you think you’re more than okay with that.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you

[whoistartaglia]

“are you single?”

cyno x gn!reader

you tilt your head at the question. are you single?

“i don’t know,” you decide.

“you don’t know?” the guy asks.

you give a sidelong glance to the man on your left. cyno stands a little bit aways, leaning against the bar with your group of friends. they’re talking about something, and those his eyes don’t stray, you know all he’s listening to is you.

“well, i’m not sure,” you say, letting a hint of flirtatiousness creep into your voice. you give this man, this stranger at the bar, an arch smile. “why are you asking?”

“i was watching you from across the man,” he confesses. “can i buy you a drink?”

“i don’t think the guy i came with here would like that very much.”

it’s then that you feel a hand on your waist, a chest behind your back. you turn around and look up at a displeased cyno. whether he’s annoyed at you, at the random stranger in front of you, you don’t know. maybe both.

“they’re right. i don’t.” his voice is needles and thorns. the man opens his mouth to respond, but cyno cuts him off with a sharp, “leave us.”

the looks down at you, and you shrug. “sorry.”

he leaves, muttering obscenities under his breath. cyno watches him until he’s out the door, and then turns his piercing stare on you. it softens a fraction.

“what are you doing?”

“what am i doing?” you ask, swiveling in your chair to face him. he leans back and crosses his arms. “what are you doing?”

“well, i was having a lovely conversation before you interrupted it.”

“i did not,” you defend yourself. “in fact, i was having a lovely conversation as well.”

“oh, i’m sure,” cyno drawls. he sighs and covers his face with a hand. “we really need to stop doing this.”

“doing what?”

he removes the hand to look at you. “you know what.”

“no,” you shake your head. “i don’t.” you look over at your friends engrossed in their own conversations, at the bartender wiping the counter, the bard strumming softly in the corner. no one is paying attention to you and cyno. it’s just you and him right now. you continue in a softer voice, “i don’t know why we keeping running in circles, you after me until it’s me after you.”

“it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“but it is,” you respond. “you only looked at me tonight when that guy started showing interest.” you clasp your hands together, and fidget with your rings and bracelets while you wait for cyno’s response.

“that’s the one i gave you.”

you look up. “what?”

cyno takes you hand, and turns it over. the bracelet he got you on your most recent birthday catches in the firelight.

“oh, yes,” you say. “it’s the nicest piece of jewelry i own.”

cyno stares at it, twists it over as he thinks.

“if someone asked you who got it for, what would you say?”

“i don’t know.” you repeat the words that started this chain of events, now in a whispered hush than a coy tone. “i’m not sure.” you let dangerous words fall from your tongue. “what do you want me to say?”

a pause, a pause, a pause. the entire tavern is filled with laughter and chitchat, neither one louder than the silence betwen you and cyno.

“i’d prefer boyfriend,” he says at last.

“well. so you would i,” you admit. “but i can’t call you that unless you start acting like to actually want to be my boyfriend, and stop just telling me.”

you look down at your wrist, at cyno’s hand on it, so close yet so far, anything but his sharp stare. you can picture him walking away, going back to your friends, or even out the door and away from this tavern and town forever. the desert is large, and if cyno wanted to leave, he had only a few steps to take.

“okay.” you look up. a second later, stronger, “okay.” he draws up your other hand and sandwiches both of them between his own. “every day, i’ll show you.”

you nod faintly, praying to whatever archon will listen that he promise hold true. you think the conversation is over then. cyno’s friends wait for him, the bard is asleep, the fireplace is embers, and soon you will be rushed out for the night. but cyno turns and gestures to the bartender instead. two drinks, he orders.

one for him. one for you.

#genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #cyno x reader #cyno scenarios #cyno headcanons #genshin impact cyno #cyno fluff #cyno angst #genshin #genshin impact cyno headcanons #cyno x you #cyno #cyno imagines #genshin cyno

[wovenstarlight]

and another rant i have built up over jinjae is their everything around food. the first instance i can remember is the courtesy chocolates SHJ brings HYJ after the Babar dungeon, when he's in the hospital (chapters 80/81), which he says is for HYJ due to the stress he must be feeling over HYH. and then immediately kills any goodwill in the very next sentence by going Wowww you're so useful and i'd love to acquire you etc etc. HYJ's not even the one who accepts them from SHJ, that's BYR, and later HYJ says he only eats them because he has nothing better to do (no other option than SHJ, huh...) and even then the Dokkaebi ends up eating half the box. gift that's barely accepted.

the next instance i can think of is post-human trafficking auction in chapter 127 where SHJ makes him eggs, but. well. literally as he's cooking they have this exchange:

(this got so fucking long i had to put it under a cut. takes your hand come with me on this journey)

[SHJ] “I’d like for you to stay unharmed until I grow bored. Mentally, I mean.” [HYJ] “And my body doesn’t matter?” [SHJ] “If your bulk decreases, you’ll be easier to carry around.”

so "i'm making food for you" but also "i don't care if your health deteriorates and/or you lose weight, as long as you're useful". an interesting combination of messages to send, given that HYJ's also struggling in this scene to figure out what SHJ wants from him, what with seemingly looking out for him and his loved ones by lending Sillekia to BYR for fighting HYH, but also still continuing with this "my item" shit and only looking at him for his usefulness. but this instance IS notable in that it's the first time SHJ cooks for HYJ. a slight turning point in their relationship...?

it does seem so cuz after that... HYJ becoming sick of orange- and apple-flavored mana potions because he chugs them so often, and SHJ responding to this in chapter 185 (birthday arc, before HYJ admitted he stole his memories) by acquiring swiss chocolate-flavored mana potions for him. already he's started with the little treats.

and then. sorry i'm feeling the 216 feelings. 1 minute. Okay normal. and then. yes once again it's chapter 216, when SHJ first starts making readably genuine attempts at kindness towards HYJ, starting the entire interaction by making him a drink that "looked like it was just juice, but it was actually sweet. Tasty." normal behavior from SHJ to rent out the entire rooftop pool and bar to show off his bartending skills to HYJ btw.

then the VR dungeon arc, where SHJ can't see HYJ until he installs the first disc, but the moment he does he starts being absolutely unbearable, the relevant part being when HYJ's reached Achates and is stressed out over HYH's treatment to the point of losing his appetite, at which point SHJ sends him the "Must Eat Well" quest to coax him into eating, rewarding him with chocolate-flavored mana potions, which HYJ himself admits remind him of SHJ:

‘But why are they chocolate-flavored?’ It made me think of that person. It had tasted good.

we're told in chapter 249 that SHJ needs to expend tremendous effort to give HYJ quest rewards and that whatever he gives usually gets cut down (he's talking about point conversions there but i suspect it applies to other rewards as well). so to specifically seek out two potions, especially ones he knows HYJ will prefer more than the common fruit-flavored ones... [puts on my large jinjae-shaped sunglasses like that shit they sell for new years]

and ok i jumped ahead to 249 for the rewards thing but come back to 245 with me and look at that series of cooking quests SHJ sent HYJ to guide him through cooking dinner for himself and HYH. copying over my discord messages from when this chapter dropped for this part of the analysis:

ALSO SPEAKING OF SHJ that chain of quests at the end. he is driving me crazy but yes the cooking quests. like. okay. I mentioned before [...] that I considered this a jinjae scene chapter because. the layers of it all right. he sees hyj wants to cook for his brother but can't decide what to make/how to make it cuz the decision paralysis is hitting after the longass day he's had. so he goes ahead and picks a meal and gives him step by step instructions. overly specific so hyj doesn't hit some dumb roadblock like "idk where the spatula is" and lose it for real. it took multiple quests to give the instructions it might've been easier to give him a prepared meal from whatever store he's picking these rewards from but he spent that time anyway because I'm pretty sure going through the process soothed hyj. normality after the Everything of it all. and then at the end of it because he Knows hyj is prone to not eating when he gets stressed he baits him into eating with rewards. like. Bro. Bro like. OUGH. he cares. he cares.... AND ALSO THAT LAST FUCKING QUEST "made with a spoonful of your partner's love" IS NOT SOMETHING THE SYSTEM WOULD SAY SHJ I KNOW YOURE LEANING INTO "OH NO THE SYSTEMS ALTERING MY MESSAGES DW" AND LETTING YOUR FEELINGS SHOW. YOUR PAPER THIN MASK overemotional over cooking. god. god and even after the cooking thing knowing that hyj would freak upon waking up and not seeing hyh and so keeping an eye on hyh and sending him a quest to tell him where he is.... like fuck dude. FUCK!

ok that's enough of that excerpt this is starting to derail from food analysis. wait hold on actually 249's point about the cost of sending quests and rewards makes the cooking quest series even more impactful because how much did SHJ spend to go to that level of detail and care for HYJ!!!

anyway back to food analysis. 256 where HYJ dies to the inscription process and SHJ purposely serves him bitter tea and sweet cookies to point out that he shouldn't take rewards that come at great costs. SHJ you really love communicating things to people through food, huh? but the fact that the second he's understood SHJ takes away the bitter tea and replaces it with something less bitter and more savory. the fact that when the scout finds him, the last thing SHJ does, even after draping his coat over HYJ to protect him from the shards of falling sky, is refill his teacup. the fact that HYJ drinks it and thinks about how it's warm.

GOD!!! do you see my vision. do you see. SHJ and HYJ and cooking and eating as an act of caring. an act of love.

#star.txt #my sranks #jinjae #han yoojin #sung hyunjae #nsglb #im probably gonna put these in the queue so i see them again later in case i remember something to add

[aquaquadrant]

chaos theory trailer moodboard (+insane rambling below the cut)

THE INTRO TOOK ME OUT. i’ve literally envisioned what the newscasts/interviews about the nublar six would be like after their return and AUUUGHHHH. “we survived because we had each other” YEA YEA YEA THAT’S IT THAT’S MY FUCKING THESIS FOR THE ENTIRE SERIES SUMMED UP IN A SENTENCE I’M. INSANE. ohhhh i teared up seeing all the kids again, and ben giving the peace sign that’s my boy that’s my fucking son boy 😭😭😭

darius living in an isolated cabin with extensive DIY perimeter warning system and reacting to unexpected visitors with the business end of an electronic prod MY BELOVED. he is traumatized and i’m so so here for it. part of my issue with the epilogue at the end of jwcc was how… well-adjusted they all seemed but of course that was just a BRIEF snapshot to their current lives. i don’t think anyone could go thru what they did and just move on with their lives completely unaffected.

BEN…. either he responded to his trauma by completely immersing himself in gym culture, like many teenage boys, or his work on manta corp island with mae has involved lots of manual labor bc GODDAMN HE GOT BIG. i can’t say i’m a huge fan of his design, i actually prefer the jwcc epilogue ben, but at least they fixed his eyes. and ben and darius have always been one of my fave duos so i will take them in any capacity. even with chad!ben 😔

but the premise has me SO excited. as thrilling and compelling as classic dinosaur danger is, the real villain of the jurassic park franchise has always been humans. human greed, human cruelty. the commodification of science, disrespect of natural law and order, disregard for safety and due diligence. so seeing they’re being targeting by a mysterious someone (daniel???) in a thriller-type story, while dinosaurs ALSO HAPPEN TO BE RUNNING AROUND, has me PUMPED. it’s very in-line with jwcc’s theming so it should feel like a natural continuation.

animation looks about on-par with the first show, and it’ll be neat to see new backgrounds/settings. no hints of any new characters yet, and while it seems like darius and ben’s goal is to warn the other campers, not sure how much we’ll actually get to see of them. sadly i cannot fathom jenna ortega returning to voice brooklyn, she’s been rocketed to an entirely different level thanks to wednesday. i wouldn’t be opposed to a recast if they could make it believable. and GOD i’d love more yasammy to make an appearance 🙏

#jurassic world chaos theory #jurassic world camp cretaceous #jwct #jwcc

[sequinsmile-x]

Protégé à Jamais

Aaron feels his blood boil, fury flooding his veins at the way the man in front of him dared to talk about the woman he loves.

-x-

Hi friends,

Not entirely sure where this one came from. I was driving to the grocery store this morning and some of the dialogue for this came into my head and here we are!

Hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: brief canon typical violence

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily had never been so happy. 

She sighs contentedly as she leans into her fiance’s side, smiling as he pulls her even closer, his thumb rubbing back and forth on her hip through the material of her dress. 

“Are you okay sweetheart?” Aaron asks, his smile soft as he looks at her. She’s almost eye level with him because of her heels and she takes advantage of it, nodding as she leans in to stamp her lips against his. 

She hums as she pulls back, “I’m more than okay,” she says, kissing him again, smiling as she hears Derek groan and she makes a point of leaning further into the kiss, her hand coming up to cup Aaron’s cheek as she holds him in place as she licks her tongue through his mouth.

“Oh god Princess, we get it,” Derek says, shaking his head as he takes a sip of his beer, “You two love each other.” 

“I think I preferred it when they used to pretend they weren’t in love with each other,” Dave grumbles jokingly, winking at Emily as she finally pulls back from Aaron, her hand dropping down to his chest, “They may have been annoying, but at least we didn’t have to watch them make out.” 

Emily rolls her eyes at him, “Well excuse me for kissing my fiance at my engagement party.”

Party was a strong word and she knew it. They were out for a few drinks on a Thursday evening to celebrate her and Aaron’s recent engagement. She knew her actual engagement party would be something her mother insisted on throwing for them, an event full of dignitaries and people her mother considered important. This was the celebration she’d actually enjoy and she was going to make the most of it. 

Aaron chuckles and runs his hand up and down her side, rubbing the soft green material of her dress between his fingers as he presses a kiss to her cheek, “Our engagement party, sweetheart.” 

She shrugs playfully and winks at him before she finishes her beer, “Yes, baby. Our engagement party,” she kisses him again, “I need another drink.” 

He smiles and kisses her cheek before he pulls away, “I’ll go get you one, I’ll be right back.” 

She watches him go, her eyes fixed on his ass as he walks towards the bar. She groans as he gets there and as she sees him standing next to Agent Clark and Agent Lewis, “What are those creeps doing here?” 

They were both idiots. She’d never particularly liked either of them, but made polite small talk with them in the kitchen or the elevator if she saw them. Clark would often flirt with her and had asked her out on a date more than once, although that had stopped at least since she came back from Paris. 

“Garcia invited everyone,” Spencer says, and Emily smiles as she looks at Penelope and she avoids eye contact, “The email went out to the entirety of Quantico.” 

“And those two have never turned down a free drink,” Dave says, seemingly regretting for the first time all evening putting his card behind the bar, “They are usually harmless enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Penelope. 

“You guys are getting married, that should be celebrated!” Penelope exclaims, her gaze shifting to Emily who chuckles.

“Trust me Pen, Aaron and I have done plenty of celebrating by ourselves,” she says, her chuckle turning into a full laugh at the looks of horror that sweep across Derek and Dave’s faces. 

JJ joins in and shakes her head, sympathetically patting Derek on the back, “You know if you stop reacting she’ll stop telling you about their sex life.” 

“I think it’s sweet,” Penelope says, taking a sip from her cocktail, “Especially because I’d like another BAU baby to spoil soon.” 

Emily chokes on a laugh and shakes her head at her friend as she purposely ignores the treacherous hope that rolls through her chest. She and Aaron had decided to start trying recently, just a few weeks before he proposed, and she’d thrown away her birth control. She didn’t want anyone else to know yet, wanted to keep it as something just between her and Aaron, but she was excited — the thought of adding to their family enough to make her giddy. 

Her response is cut off by someone shouting at the bar and she looks back over, her eyes going wide as she spots Aaron standing close to Agent Clark, his fist clenched by his side as Clark cupped his nose, blood dripping down through his clasped fingers. Her eyes drift down to Aaron’s knuckles as she steps closer, and she sees how red they are. His skin was sure to bruise over old scars she knew as well as her own. 

She scoffs as she steps closer, confusion driving her closer as he looks at her, his eyes wide as if he isn’t sure what he’s done himself. 

“Aaron, what the hell is going on?”

___

They don’t get a chance to talk about it.

At first, it’s because he won’t. Whatever had driven him to punching a fellow agent was something he was keeping to himself, a subtle shake of his head during all of the commotion in the bar all she needed to know he wasn’t ready to talk yet. It was an unspoken rule that they didn’t push each other until they were ready, so as much as she wanted to know what was wrong she takes a step back. 

The moment they get home, Jack is on them, asking lots of questions about their night and hugging them tightly as if it had been days since he’d last seen them, not hours. The little boy blatantly disregarding his bedtime just to see them, something Jessica apologises for as she leaves. He insists that Emily is the one to put him to bed, a distraction she’s grateful for as she reads him two stories before he falls asleep against her, his hand tangled in her hair.

Despite everything in her that was screaming to go check on Aaron, to go slide into his lap where he had hidden himself in the home office, she still gives him the space she knows he needs. She gets ready for bed and slips under the covers, eventually falling asleep with her hand pressed against his pillow. 

When she wakes up in the morning she’s alone. 

She knows he had joined her at some point, can feel the warmth that only came with him surrounding her and permeating into the sheets on his side of the bed. She frowns as she sits up and spots a folded piece of paper on his pillow and she picks it up, smiling sadly as she reads his familiar writing. 

Gone to work early, I’ve left you coffee in the pot and sorted breakfast for you and Jack. 

She sighs and gets out of bed, putting aside her concern for the man she loves as she steps out into the hallway and almost trips over Jack, the little boy already awake and excited about going to school. By the time she gets to the office she feels anxious, a deep pit in her stomach as she places her bag on her desk, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she looks up at her fiance’s office. 

“You ok there, Bella?”

She jumps and places her hand on her chest as she turns to look at Dave. She shakes her head at him and huffs out a breath, “Jesus Christ, Dave. We need to get you a bell or something.”

He smiles at her and holds his hand up in an apology, “Sorry, I didn’t think it was possible to sneak up on someone who used to be a spy.” 

She hums and looks back at Aaron’s office, “I guess I’m distracted,” she sighs and turns to look at her friend, “He punched someone, Dave. And not just anyone, another agent. He could get in serious trouble over that,” she says, twisting her engagement ring around her finger, a habit that had replaced her previous one of biting her cuticles, “It’s not like him.” 

Dave nods in agreement, “It’s not, but I’d say the guy deserved it, don’t you?” 

She frowns and tilts her head at him, “Wait, do you know what happened?” 

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flicking up to Aaron’s office, “I may have spoken to Lewis last night, and got his side of what went down between Aaron and Clark.” 

She stares at him, expecting him to carry on, and when he doesn’t she asks, “What did he say?” 

Dave sighs and forces his hands into his pockets, “If he hasn’t told you I don’t know if I should-”

“Dave,” she says firmly, cutting him off, “Tell me what he said.” 

He maintains eye contact with her for a second before he nods, clearing his throat before he tells her what he knows. 

___

Aaron’s smile fades as he approaches the bar, internally groaning when he sees Agent Clark and Agent Lewis standing there. 

“Clark,” he says, nodding politely as he stands next to them, “Lewis.” 

Lewis nods in return, but Clark turns to look at him, the smell of whiskey flowing off of him like a cologne as he smiles widely as if they were old friends. 

“Congrats on the engagement, Hotchner,” Agent Clark says, his words slurring together slightly as he tips his beer towards Aaron. Clark was not a good man, and certainly not an agent Aaron would ever want on his team. He had applied to join the BAU more than once but had always been denied, his attitude and work ethic well known throughout the FBI. 

“Thanks, Clark,” Aaron says, smiling politely as he indicates to the bartender that he wants two more beers. He smiles as he hears Emily laugh from behind him, the irritation he’d felt building for the man standing next to him immediately fading. 

“Prentiss has always been a catch,” Clark says, shaking his head as he places his beer back down, “You’re a better man than I am though, I don’t think I could do it.” 

Aaron freezes, his body briefly tense as he turns ever so slightly to face the other man, already asking a question he isn’t sure he wants the answer to before he can stop himself. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Clark doesn’t pick up on his tone, nor does he pay any attention to Agent Lewis on his other side who was attempting to stop him from saying anything else. His hand on his friend’s shoulder as he tries to lead him away, Aaron’s well-known glare getting through to him. 

“Well,” Clark says, shrugging, his hand slipping off the bar as he steps closer, “You wouldn’t buy a car that already has damage to the bodywork would you?” He says, smirking as he chuckles at what he’s said. 

Aaron feels his blood boil, fury flooding his veins at the way the man in front of him dared to talk about the woman he loves. He clenches his fists at his sides, his short nails digging into his palm as he tries to distract himself, the dull pain in an attempt to pull himself back from the edge. Anger he’d inherited from his father bubbling in his belly, burning up his chest and turning bitter on his tongue. 

“What did you just say?” He asks, the words forced out through his teeth as he fixes his hard glare on him. 

“We should go-” Lewis starts, but Clark interrupts him, cutting him off as he pats Aaron on the shoulder as if they were old friends, as if they were exchanging shop talk rather than talking about his fiance. 

“Come on Hotchner,” he says, chuckling again, “We all know what Doyle did to her. She’s always had an incredible figure, but it must be a mess under that dress,” he says, nodding towards Emily, “Sometimes it’s best never to unwrap a gift if you know what I mean.” 

Aaron sees red, and anger he hasn’t felt in years, since he’d seen Foyet in the home he’d once shared with Haley, overtakes him. Any attempt to stop himself from reacting disappears. It happens in slow motion. He doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body, as if he’s watching himself as he punches Clark, the feeling of his knuckles connecting with the other man's face spreading throughout his hand. 

Everything speeds back up again as he pulls his hand back, the quiet in the bar almost deafening as it feels like everyone turns to look at them. Clark’s cursing and the way he cries out in pain as he cups his bleeding nose barely registering as he turns to look at Emily, guilt and shame filling his lungs as she furrows her brows at him, any enjoyment she’d found in the evening long gone. 

“Aaron, what the hell is going on?” 

___

She closes her eyes as Dave finishes and she shakes her head, love and a flicker of irritation aimed at her finace blooming in her chest. 

“Lewis told you all of that?” She asks as she opens her eyes and looks at Dave, smiling sadly when she sees his anger at the way she’d been spoken about painted across his face as he nods, “Maybe he can be a witness if this goes to some kind of committee hearing.” 

“He did,” he replies, “I don’t think Clark will be taking this up with anyone.” 

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at him, “What makes you say that?” 

He shrugs nonchalantly as he smirks, “Let’s just say, someone may have reminded him of his place here and about all the things he should have been reported on over the years.” 

She smiles at him and leans forward to kiss his cheek, squeezing his shoulder gratefully before she takes a step back, “Thanks Dave,” she says, blowing out a breath as she turns to look at Aaron’s office, “I’m going to go talk to him.” 

Dave nods, “I’ll distract the others when they come in, give you some time.”

She chuckles, “Someone is already taking their role as best man seriously.” 

He laughs and shakes his head at her, “For this, I expect godfather of your firstborn, Bella.” 

She turns and starts to walk towards the steps leading to Aaron’s office, “I’m not making any promises.” 

She takes a moment as she gets to his door and blows out a breath before she knocks and walks in, smiling softly at him as he looks up from his paperwork.

“Hi honey,” she says, closing the door behind her, “You left early this morning.” 

He clears his throat and nods, the same shame he’d felt ever since he’d hit Clark swelling in his chest the moment he sees her. 

“I had paperwork to do,” he says, folding his hands on his desk, “I didn’t want to wake you.” 

They fall into an awkward silence and she hates it, her eyes drifting to his knuckles that were bruised just like she knew they would be before she looks back at him, their eyes meeting as he covers the damaged skin with his other hand. She knows what he’s thinking, the comparisons he will have no doubt made to a man she’ll never get to meet, the man who he spent his whole life worrying he’d turn into. There were moments when she wished she could have a few moments alone with his father, when she wished she could give him a piece of her mind, when she wanted nothing more than to yell at the man who was supposed to protect his son, to hide him from the harshness of the world instead of exposing him to it. 

She knew they’d have to talk about it, that she’d have to tell him, again, that she didn’t need protecting, that she didn’t need him to fight her battles for her, but this wasn’t the time for that. Not yet anyway. 

“Lewis told Dave what happened,” she says, still standing by the door, her hands clasped together as she once again twists her engagement ring, around her finger, “And Dave told me.” 

Aaron sighs, and looks down at his desk, clasping his hands tighter around each other, pressing against his bruised flesh, as irritation at his friend flashes through him. He didn’t want her to know what Clark had said about her. It was one of the main reasons why he hadn’t told her last night, his desire to protect her, to stop her from being any more hurt than she already had been superseding everything else. 

“Sweetheart…” he starts, but he trails off, unsure what he wants to say. He looks up as he hears her walking towards him and he sits back in his chair, allowing her room to sit on the edge of his desk. 

“We’ll talk about how I don’t need you to protect me later,” she says, reaching for his hand and sandwiching it between both of hers, her touch careful as she runs her thumb back and forth over his damaged skin, “From both the people who say things about me and the things they say.” 

“You’re going to be my wife,” he says, anger flashing through him again, feeling wrong and biting in comparison to her gentle touch, “And even if you weren’t…no one should speak about you like that,” he says, shaking his head as he looks up at her, “You’re…you’re everything.” 

She presses her lips together and raises his hand to them, stamping a kiss against his damaged skin.

“You’re everything to me, honey,” she says, kissing his knuckles again, soft and diligent as if it would heal him instantly. On some level, he’s sure it does, “So I don’t want you to risk your job over the opinion of a guy like Clark.” 

He nods and avoids her eye contact, “I’m sorry.” 

She cups his cheek with her spare hand and makes him look at her, “You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” she says, leaning forward and stamping her lips against his, “Only he does, and  I think the broken nose is enough of a punishment,” her smile fades slightly as she chews her lip, clearly lost in thought and he squeezes her hand. 

“What’s wrong, Em?” 

She shakes her head, “Nothing’s wrong,” she assures him, “It’s just…Clark used to ask me out all the time. And he stopped when I came back from Paris. I kind of assumed it was because we got together so quickly but…” she laughs humourlessly as the scar on her abdomen burns, the phantom stake driving through it as she thinks about it, “I guess not. Not that it really matters, I’d never go there in a million years even if we weren’t together but…it just makes me wonder how many people are thinking the same thing.” 

The anger he’d felt last night flashes through him again for a moment, hot and overwhelming as he feels it threaten to burst free, but it disappears as quickly as it came, his concern for her more important. They’d both been self-conscious of their respective scars their first night together, as if they didn’t already know the worst of what each other had been through. It had been a night of exploration, of soft touches and questions that they’d had for years answered. Ever since then, they’d barely acknowledged it, as comfortable with each other as someone could be with another person. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, shifting back so she can slip into his lap, his arms tight around her as she settles against him, her side pressing into his chest, “And he’s an idiot if he thinks what happened to you doesn’t make you even more so.” 

She scoffs and smiles lovingly at him, pushing his hair from his forehead, “You’re my fiance, you have to say that.” 

“It’s true,” he says, moving his hand so it rests on her abdomen, gently tracing the edges of the scar that lay beneath her clothes. Scar tissue spread out like a constellation, the slope of it a pattern he could follow with his eyes closed, “It’s made of you, so how could it be anything other than beautiful.” 

She shakes her head and leans in to kiss him, her lips firm against his as she cups the back of his head, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he replies, kissing her once more before she rests her head against his shoulder, content to sink into his embrace before the day truly begins, “I wonder when Strauss will be in here yelling at me about last night.”

“I think Dave got you out of that one,” she says, reaching for his hand and linking their fingers together, “He had a conversation with Clark and with Lewis,” she tilts her head to look up at him, “He said something about reminding Clark of his place.” 

Aaron chuckles and kisses her forehead, “I’ll have to come up with a way to thank him.” 

She smiles, and is briefly distracted as she sees Dave walking up the stairs and stopping just outside of Aaron’s office, clearly trying to be sneaky but failing. She nods towards him and Aaron sees him too, so she winks at him, a silent request to go along with what she was going to say.

“He’s already claimed the role of godfather for our firstborn in return for it,” she says, her smile getting wider as his does, the mention of their potential future child enough to get rid of any lingering anxiety in the air around them, “Poor kid doesn’t exist and they already have Dave as their moral guidepost.” 

“I can hear you, you know.” 

They both laugh at Dave’s weary voice coming through the window and Emily leans into Aaron’s side again as she replies, happy and content in his arms.

“I know, that’s why I said it, old man.” 

-x-

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[cherienymphe]

The Less I Know The Better IV (JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron)

Warnings: eventual NON-CON, eventual DUB-CON, violence, public sex, jealousy, underage drinking, drug use, manipulation, eventual loss of virginity, mild unhealthy relationship, one sided kiara x jj, non canon ages, pogue!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @firefly-graphics​

➥ series masterlist

summary:  When you start dating Rafe Cameron, no one is more surprised than you when your best friend JJ takes it really well. However, no one is more surprised than JJ when he’s forced to see his once frumpy BFF in an entirely new light, suddenly terrified of losing what he never knew he had to the person he hates most.

~

Something was different.

JJ couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something was different. As much as he fought against it, he’d found himself staring at you all day. In the past week or so, he hadn’t seen you around as much. It was to be expected, but it didn’t suck any less. Days where you would’ve been at their side from sunup to sundown, they only caught glimpses of you if they were lucky.

But Sarah had invited them all over before planning to head to the beach. It wasn’t like JJ hadn’t been to the Cameron’s before, even before that night he’d dropped you off, but the thought of being back in the house where you and Rafe now spent your time made his stomach drop. On the other hand, he was seeing less and less of his best friend…

“Where’s Y/N?” he had asked as soon as him and Pope walked through the door.

Everyone else was in the living room, and with a quick glance around the room, you’d been nowhere to be found. JJ’s eyes had briefly caught Kie’s, and the slight knit in her brow made him frown.

“She’s upstairs,” Sarah had flippantly answered.

The reminder that you were now a semi-permanent resident in her house, and why, had him looking down. He had felt himself drifting again, looking up and looking over the furniture, wondering what you and Rafe did while you were here. Did you sit and chat with his family like some Kook in training? Did he watch movies with you like any old regular boyfriend?

His mind drifted to a dark place, thoughts he didn’t even want to entertain, and he swallowed.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom really quick.”

JJ had hurried up the stairs without a backwards glace, genuinely feeling like he might be sick. Once in there, he was relieved to only experience some lightheadedness. He had leaned against the door, slowly exhaling and telling himself to get a grip.

He promised that he’d be happy for you. He had promised to try, and at the time, he’d meant it. You were his best friend, and seeing you happy always made him happy, but maybe this was a bit out of his league. Maybe it would take more effort than he had imagined to really be okay with you and Rafe. JJ didn’t know if he needed to spend less time around you guys or more to achieve that.

When he finally stepped out, running his hands through his blond strands, he heard a familiar giggle. He could hear the faint voices of his friends traveling from upstairs, but this sound had come from down the hall. He had swallowed, shoving his hands in his pockets and nervously looking down the stairs before taking a few steps forward.

Your voice was clearer.

“I never really thought orange was my color,” he heard you murmur. “I prefer the white one.”

You were in Rafe’s room, and the door was cracked, allowing your voices to carry.

“You could put on a fucking sack, and I’d still get hard.”

Rafe’s voice had made JJ freeze, chest tightening almost painfully as he registered the other blonde’s words. JJ had felt his face twist, disgust coursing through him at how he was talking to you. You weren’t just one of the many girls Rafe had screwed wherever and whenever, and JJ hadn’t appreciated him talking to you as such, but then…

Instead of scolding him or something similar, you had laughed.

You had actually laughed at his words.

It was a genuine laugh too, like you actually found it funny. The sound had been cut off, and he could hear you kissing him before chuckling again.

“You have such a way with words.”

It came out sarcastic, mockingly, and JJ swallowed when both of you laughed now. He had forced himself to turn away and rejoin the rest of the Pogues. If any of them thought he’d been gone that long, they didn’t acknowledge it, and he could feel his irritation growing at having to be in this house any longer when you finally came down the stairs.

“Finally,” Sarah had cried. “I was starting to think that Rafe had chained you to his bed or something.”

Pope had made a noise of disgust at that, John B. grimacing, and JJ couldn’t help but to share in the sentiment. Sarah found it funny, Kie found it funny, and even you found it funny. JJ did not. His blue eyes had drank you in, seeing what you and Rafe had been talking about.

The white one piece was fairly modest save for the cutouts on the side, some simple half buttoned shorts covering the lower portion. He had first thought it then, how different something was, but he hadn’t been able to linger on it. Sarah had urged them all out, and he could hear her complimenting you.

“Thanks,” you had replied. “Rafe bought it.”

The smile on your face had only deepened his frown, and JJ could feel his lip curling a bit. How happy you had looked to tell her that, to tell her that her brother was treating you like his own personal barbie doll. Not just happy, but proud.

“I thought you never liked bathing suits.”

He hadn’t meant for the words to come out, sort of slipping out before he had a chance to process it. You had cut your eyes to him at that, an awkward laugh escaping.

“I thought I didn’t,” you had slowly said. “…but I just never found ones that I thought looked good on me.”

You had held his gaze as you walked, eyes hopeful.

“It’s cute, right?”

You were smiling at him, a desperation in your eyes for JJ to agree. It had made his heart sink, feeling bad for trying to ruin your mood when you were so happy. The way your eyes sparkled, he could see that you wanted him to like it, to confirm that it did indeed look cute on you, and when the tightness in his chest eased…he unfortunately agreed.

It looked great on you.

“Yeah…it is,” he reluctantly told you.

The extra pep in your step at his words had JJ looking down, gaze lingering on the ground.

It had sent him deep into his thoughts, debating on if he was a bad friend to feel this way. Yes, he wanted you to be happy, but not with Rafe. Yes you deserved a boyfriend who took you out and bought you nice things…but why Rafe? JJ loved seeing you smile and glow and watching the way your eyes lit up…but he hated that it was because of Rafe.

Like now.

You were all hanging out on the beach, and despite contributing to the conversation, JJ kept finding his gaze swinging back to you. Something was just so different. It wasn’t your hair or even the stupid bathing suit that Rafe had bought you. It wasn’t even your smile, because you always smiled a lot, but it was the way you were smiling.

There was something about the way your lips stretched that was different from before. The sun caught your eyes in a way that had JJ squinting, a twinkle in them that he’d never seen before. Even the way you moved, something more…relaxed about it. Maybe relaxed wasn’t the right word.

You reminded him of this girl he’d hooked up with a few months back. He remembered being struck at how open she’d been, an attractive smile on her lips as she eyed him. It seemed like every movement of hers had turned him on, designed to attract, and attract it had. Her confidence had JJ ready to keep his face between her legs for hours, and it was in that moment that JJ froze.

In his entire life, JJ was sure that he’d never seen you as comfortable in your own skin as you were now.

The way you smiled and laughed and glowed. Even the way you relaxed next to Kie, whining to her about some sunscreen or another. JJ’s brows drew together, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. He thought about that conversation he’d had with Pope and John B., his shock at their confessions, and reluctantly…JJ found himself agreeing.

His best friend was very pretty.

“Sarah, can you help me out?”

Your voice met JJ’s ears. You’d been applying sunscreen to the parts you could reach, the only sliver of skin left being your back. The rest of the group was distracted, taking the task of picking teams for their amateur football game very seriously.

“I can do it,” JJ said, moving towards you.

None of them had heard you, and you chuckled.

“They always get like that,” you said, handing the bottle to him. “You’d think it was war.”

JJ’s hands shook as he squeezed some out of the bottle. He didn’t know why. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d helped you out with something bordering on a little personal. He briefly eyed you, drinking in the smile on your face as you stared at your friends. You were still his best friend…so why did it feel different now?

Why did he shudder when the palms of his hands met your back? Why did he swallow, unable to take his eyes off of your skin as he spread the pasty looking lotion over it? JJ could feel his heart racing, beating wildly in his chest as an ocean breeze ruffled his hair, the scent of you hitting his nose? JJ scooted closer, his gaze following his fingers as they dipped under your strap just a tad, eyes trailing over what he couldn’t see.

As if remembering where he was, JJ suddenly dropped his hands. You thanked him as you took the bottle back, and he stood on shaky legs. You were none the wiser to his plight, oblivious to the ringing in his ears and the lightheadedness in his skull. JJ blew out a breath, looking down at you, and the illusion cracked.

There, just below your ear, was the dark coloring of a faint bruise. It made JJ’s skin grow cold even under the heat of the sun. It was fairly small, and the sight of it was familiar to him, because he’d left similar bruises on countless girls. It was the kind made with hungry lips and intention, fueled by desire and desperation.

It was the kind made by a lover.

Before you could turn to him and say anything else, JJ stomped away.

JJ stood outside of your door, eyes closed and breathing shaky. The sound of the rain was the only thing comforting him, right now as he struggled on whether or not to knock. The pain in his jaw was flaring, and before, where he never hesitated to come straight to your door after a fight with his dad…now not so much.

Why was it different, now?

The thought made him angry, and JJ clenched his jaw. You were his best friend, always had been for as long as he could remember, and here he was, hesitating to come to you when he needed you. He had never hesitated before, and quite literally, the only difference now was your relationship status. Rafe had already ruined a lot.

JJ wasn’t going to let him ruin this too.

You answered the door after three swift knocks, a smile on your face at the sight of him. However, it quickly died with one look at his face. Not one to be so serious all the time, JJ threw you a smile and a shrug. He didn’t want to linger on the relief he felt, the way his chest bloomed, when you pulled him into a hug.

JJ hugged you back, almost desperately as he held you to him. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing his face into the crook of your neck, not even caring that Rafe’s cologne tainted your scent. He could feel your heartbeat, feel your chest pressed to his, and he felt his face fall when you pulled away.

“I hate him, you know that?”

You had pulled him inside, hurrying to your fridge to get some ice.

“Yeah, I know,” JJ chuckled to himself, having heard the same rant over and over.

“I know he’s your dad and all, but do you ever pray he’ll just drop dead? Because I do all the time.”

You sat beside him on your couch, pressing the cloth covered ice to his face. JJ flinched, and you apologized, eyes softening. JJ almost felt sick for thinking how much he loved this. The circumstances weren’t ideal, but JJ didn’t really care, happy to have you fussing over him like you normally do.

He kept his eyes on you, watching the worry in your eyes and the emotions flitting over your face. You were pulling your lip between your teeth, and he prepared himself for what he knew you were going to say.

“JJ…”

“He needs me.”

JJ hated the way your face fell at that, a mixture of disappointment and understanding in your gaze. He lost count of how many times you had begged him to come and live with you. Your parents loved him, after all. JJ wouldn’t lie, it’d always been tempting, but he didn’t even know how to explain his complicated relationship with his dad. He was shitty and he hurt him…

…but he was family.

JJ sighed when he heard you sniff, and you wiped your face.

“All he does is use you and hurt you, and for years I haven’t been able to do anything but watch it happen and clean you up when you show up on my doorstep,” you choked out. “I hate it.”

“I know,” was all JJ could say.

“You know you’re staying here, tonight, right?”

JJ softly laughed to himself, nodding.

“I don’t care if he drank himself into a fifteen-hour sleep, you’re not going back, tonight,” you told him. “…plus, it’s raining outside. I can’t even believe you rode over here in that.”

You pulled the ice away to gently touch his face.

“You could’ve gotten really hurt.”

He sent you a small smile, leaning inti your hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

He watched you stand, and his eyes fell onto the shirt you were wearing. He’d never seen it before, sure it wasn’t yours, and it was only when you came back with a blanket and a pillow that he realized it was Rafe’s. JJ took them from you, and he took a deep breath.

“How are you and Rafe?”

You scoffed at him, bumping your shoulder against his as you sat back down.

“You don’t really want to hear about me and Rafe…”

“No, I do,” JJ breathed. “I want to make sure things are good.”

JJ was a liar.

No, the last thing he wanted to listen to was the sordid details of your relationship with Rafe Cameron, but maybe there was some part of him that was a masochist. Maybe he wanted to torture himself a little…or maybe he was just nosy.

There’d never been any part of your life that JJ hadn’t been privy to. There’d never been any secrets because you told each other everything. It was always that way, and now… Now, you had this whole other part of your life that was kept from him. You had a whole other side that he didn’t get to see, and something in him desperately wanted to.

“Okay,” you shifted on the couch. “You can’t mention it to my parents, but…”

You giggled to yourself.

“Rafe’s taking me out of town next week…”

JJ swallowed at that.

“…and not just for some fancy dinner in Charlotte, but we’ll be staying a couple of days. You know how they worry.”

“Right,” he dryly replied, still lingering on the out of town for days with Rafe part.

“Plus…”

You hesitated, a slight frown on your face, and JJ frowned too.

“What is it?”

He watched you look down, expression falling as you played with your fingers.

“They don’t really care for him.”

JJ looked down too, keeping his face even and refusing to let the smugness bleed through. Hearing that gave him great satisfaction, and he cleared his throat.

“Oh…”

“They hear things, you know? And unfortunately, the things they hear aren’t exactly lies,” you sighed. “…but he’s so much better, now. I know they’ll come around eventually but…it still sucks.”

JJ didn’t respond to that, and you continued.

“Sarah and Kie already agreed, but since you know now too, you’ll cover for me if they ask you anything?”

JJ wanted to say no so badly, but staring into your hopeful eyes had him swallowing down any negative feelings.  He was rarely able to say no to you, and this time was no different. Your smile at his agreement had his chest aching, and he could only find the strength to wish you goodnight back.

“You know, if I were an insecure sort of guy, I’d be really worried about JJ Maybank sleeping on your couch…”

Those were the words that JJ woke up to.

“…but since I’m not…”

JJ’s lashes fluttered.

“Why is he here?”

JJ heard you sigh.

“He just had a really bad night,” you explained, respecting his privacy. “You know he’s slept over before.”

“Yeah,” the other familiar voice dragged out. “…but I think it’s just a little different, now, don’t you?”

“Rafe…”

“No, jealousy, I swear, but you’d lose your shit if you came over to my house and found some random girl just spending the night on my couch.”

“…but JJ isn’t some random guy. He’s my best friend…”

“Who has four other friends, including my sister.”

“What did you want me to do? Send him away? It was raining so hard, last night…”

JJ didn’t know how he felt about listening to what was probably your first fight. However, he wouldn’t lie and say he hated that it was about him. In fact, he loved it, but then he swallowed down that sentiment moments later.

“No,” Rafe sighed. “You’re too sweet for that.”

It was quiet for a while, and JJ desperately wanted to open his eyes.

“…and I like that about you, but you are not JJ’s only friend.”

JJ frowned at Rafe’s words.

“You love him, I know, but he can’t rely on you all the time…just like you’ve stopped relying on him as much.”

“I-.”

“Who is he going to go to when you’re not here? Like next week,” Rafe continued. “You’ll be gone for days.”

You were silent at that, and JJ knew that Rafe’s words were getting to you. He knew you like the back of his hand, and hearing Rafe talk you into agreeing with him angered him. To add insult to injury, he could hear Rafe kiss you, and he turned his head, barely opening his eyes.

You were leaning against the counter, Rafe before you and caging you in his arms. The blond was dressed like the Kook he was, forehead leaning against yours. JJ swallowed, chest tight as he watched Rafe kiss you again, and he hated the way you leaned your entire body into his.

“You’re the sweetest girl I know,” Rafe whispered. “…and I can’t fault you for it, but I just don’t think it’s healthy.”

“JJ knows that he can rely on the others just as much,” you told him. “…but you forget that we’re like siblings. Just because you hate your sister…”

You trailed off with a chuckle.

JJ felt his head spin at your words. Why did they distress him so much? You were the closest thing he had to a sister, that was true, and you had always viewed him as a brother more than your own blood one. So, why did hearing that make him sweat? Why did it make his chest ache? His stomach twist?

JJ could see that Rafe had a lot on his mind, a lot more he wanted to say, but he held it in. He watched you kiss him one more time before going down the hall, none the wiser to JJ’s consciousness. Deciding to stop being so much of a creep, JJ stretched, feigning like he was just waking up. He didn’t miss that Rafe didn’t even flinch at the movement, moving about the kitchen.

“Rise and shine,” the other man sarcastically said. “Y/N made breakfast.”

JJ moved into a sitting position, unsure what to say. For the first time ever, he was alone with Rafe and they weren’t trying to beat the shit out of each other. That was remarkable considering the circumstances. He stood, and Rafe finally looked over, but JJ couldn’t read his face.

“She told me you had a pretty bad night…”

“Yeah.”

Rafe nodded, picking up a piece of bacon.

“Y/N’s sweet for letting you sleep on her couch…but I’m sure you already know that. How nice she is…”

JJ couldn’t read the tone of the conversation, blinking when Rafe looked at him again, smiling.

“She also told me that she told you about our little trip, and that you’ll say whatever you need to to her parents…”

JJ held his gaze for what felt like a long time before replying.

“Well, she’s my best friend, so. I know how they can be, and I know she’s excited.”

“Good. I’m glad you care about keeping her happy,” Rafe replied, never breaking eye contact. “It’s good to know we both want the same thing.”

JJ watched Rafe pop a piece of bacon into his mouth.

“No matter what…or who she chooses to keep around if it makes her happy.”

JJ felt his jaw clenched at that as Rafe leaned against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. JJ wasn’t some genius like Pope, but he wasn’t stupid either. Rafe tolerated him just like JJ tolerated Rafe, but Rafe wouldn’t spare a thought if JJ never came around again.

You returned then, smiling at seeing JJ awake.

“I cooked,” you excitedly told him just as Rafe pulled you into his side.

JJ cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, Rafe told me,” he dryly replied.

He watched Rafe throw an arm over your shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your head. Identical blue eyes connected as he did, and Rafe rested his cheek against you, a smile on his lips.

“You should hurry and get something to eat before it gets cold. I personally hate waiting too long to get what I want…”

JJ frowned slightly, and Rafe’s smile became crooked.

“…to eat. It’s just not the same when you warm it up.”

You agreed with your boyfriend, waving JJ over as you pulled away from Rafe. Swallowing down a sigh, and a whole heap of emotions, he followed you into the kitchen.

#jj maybank x reader #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #dark!jj maybank x reader #dark!jj maybank #outer banks #obx fanfiction #Rafe Cameron #JJ maybank

[wordsbyrian]

Meet the Culers - Ona Batlle x Reader

Summary/Request: @dying-to-live-living-to-die "Ona x USWNT!Reader where R goes with her back to Spain for the holidays & ends up getting interrogated by Ona's national teammates"

A/N: yea, I don't actually have anything to say, enjoy the fic.

Every year since you joined the USWNT, and they found out that you prefer not to interact with your family during the holidays, you’ve had to deal with them fighting over who you were going to spend Christmas with.

This year is different though because you had sent them a mass text saying that you were going to Spain with your girlfriend this year.

You hadn’t given them any more information than that so now you’re fielding calls and texts from them trying to force you to tell them who your girlfriend is.

Your team moms, Alex and Kelley, had taken this the worst because you usually told them everything. You not telling them you’ve had a girlfriend for a year and a half already was pretty shocking to them.

Which explains the phone call you're currently having in the middle of Manchester airport.

“Can the two of you stop yelling at me for a second,” you say, waiting until they’re silent to continue, “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you guys, I knew you would react like this.”

“How do you want us to react, Y/N/N,” Alex asks, “Two days ago, you didn’t have a girlfriend and today, you’re darting off to Spain with her.”

“Well, to be fair, I did have a girlfriend, you just didn’t know.”

“You’re proving my point for me, Y/N,” she says.

“Listen, Y/N,” Kelley cuts in, “You have to understand where we're coming from.”

“No I don't,” you cut her off, “Once again, you guys are treating me like a child and in case you've forgotten, I'm not.”

“Y/N.”

“No, seriously, who do you guys think I went to Switzerland with?”

There’s a moment of silence as the older players take in what you’ve said.

“You went to Switzerland with her,” Alex asks, “Like last month when you went to Switzerland, you were with her?”

“I mean yea. We went to see her brother.”

“You’ve met her brother,” Kelley asks, trying to wrap her head around it, “Things are pretty serious, huh?”

“I’d say we’re serious, she is taking me to meet the rest of her family.”

You hear both of them sigh, seemingly having a silent conversation on the other end of the line.

“Okay, Y/N/N, here’s the deal,” Alex says, “You can go to Spain but you text us when you land and you text us at least once a day.”

“I was going to Spain whether you said I could or not but I agree to your terms,” you tell them, “The plane’s started boarding, text you later, bye.”

You hang up before they have a chance to respond, grabbing your stuff and moving to stand in line with your girlfriend.

“So we’re pretty serious,” she asks, smirking.

“Yeah,” you answer, rolling your eyes, “I’d say we’re pretty serious, Ona.”

A few days later, after having spent a couple of days with her family and exploring both her hometown and Barcelona, you and Ona find yourselves seated in Estadi Johan Cruyff watching some of her national teammates play.

The way that they move together is one of the best things you’ve ever seen. And if we’re being honest, it makes you jealous that your team, both national and club, are nowhere near that efficient.

Barcelona dominates the entire match and by the final whistle blows, the score is a stunning 7-0 for La Blaugrana.

This is when your day took a significant turn because instead of watching the game and heading home like had originally been the plan. You’re sitting in a restaurant with a significant portion of the Spanish national team because Ona had been spotted by her teammates.

So there you are sitting in the restaurant with Ona’s hand on your thigh doing your best to follow the conversation in a language you are barely beginning to understand.

For the most part, you aren’t struggling too much. There’s a lot of talk about the game and everyone’s holiday plans and even a moment where you hear Irene Paredes ask Ona why you’re wearing shorts, to which she just gets a head shake in response.

It isn’t until dessert that the interrogation you’re expecting starts, except the first question isn’t one you’re expecting.

“What’s your zodiac sign,” Patri asks, kicking it off.

“Uh, Cancer,” you say, watching confused as she nods seriously.

“What do you want to do when you retire from football,” Mapi asks.

“Probably do some writing for TV or film, it’s what I was studying in college.”

This seems to be a good enough answer for the older woman because she nods as though you just told her the secret of the universe.

“How did your family react when you told them that you have a girlfriend,” Panos questions.

“Most of my family is dead and the ones that aren’t are better left unmentioned,” you say seriously.

“What about your American teammates,” Sandra doubles down, “Morgan and O’Hara rarely let you out of their sight.”

“I think they took it pretty well.”

Ona glares at you, “You spent 30 minutes getting yelled at over the phones before our flight and before that you turned your phone off for days after telling them.”

“That was because I didn’t feel like answering 1000 questions,” you say casually, “Besides any reaction that didn’t involve them dragging me back to the States is a good one.”

“Why would they have taken you back to America? Do they not like Ona,” Alexia asks glaring at you.

“It's not that. They just think it’s normal to treat me like I’m 14, not 24.”

Somewhere to your left you hear something mumbled and while you don't understand every word, you do recognize the Catalan words for 14 and years, so you respond anyway.

“Yes, I am aware that I look like an overgrown 14-year-old.”

That gets a couple of laughs from the gathered Spaniards and when you see Pina’s cheeks heat slightly, you immediately know who made the comment.

The interrogation slows down after that and it’s not long before your group finds itself walking the streets of Barcelona.

You and Ona are near the middle of the group, your arm around her shoulders, speaking to each other softly.

When she mentions that she’s a little cold, you do your best to avoid the eyes on you as you remove your hoodie and hand it to her, revealing the tank top you have on underneath.

This is apparently the final straw for Paredes who grabs you by the shoulders from behind, spins you around, and starts speaking to you in rapid Spanish.

After standing there staring at her blankly for a few moments, you decide to tell her what she should already know.

“I have no clue what you’re trying to tell me.”

She stops for a moment before she speaks again, this time in English.

“It’s 15 degrees (Celsius) out and you are wearing shorts and a tank top, why?”

“Well,” you begin, “I’m pretty sure it’s like -10 Celsius in my hometown right now and they probably have at least a meter of snow on the ground so this is actually pretty nice for me.”

While Paredes stomps off muttering something about crazy Americans, you’re dragged off by Mapi and out of the corner of your eye you can see Alexia doing the same with your girlfriend.

“Escuchame loca,” she says, “I’m starting to like you but if you hurt Ona. I’ll kill you.”

This, unsurprisingly, is not the first time you’ve been threatened over a girl so you take this in stride. It’s not even the first time you’ve been threatened over Ona this week, She has a very large Uncle who is definitely not as nice as she made him out to be.

All of that being said, you have no issue pretending to be scared as the blonde centerback promises violence against you should you hurt her friend.

Eventually, the night draws to a close; you and Ona are in the car headed back to her parent's house.

Barely bothering to take your eyes off the sights outside the window, you speak.

“Your teammates aren’t that bad,” you tell her.

“Really,” Ona sounds shocked, “Mapi wasn’t too mean to you at the end?”

“No worse than your uncle.”

“Tio Josep isn’t scary, amor,” she says, “Besides I think your teammates will be worse.”

You pause for a moment, strongly considering the possibility.

“I think I’m gonna just keep you away from them,” you tell her seriously, “Especially Alex and Kelley.”

“Good luck with that.”

#ona batlle imagine #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #womens soccer #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #muwfc imagine #muwfc x reader #espwnt imagine #espwnt x reader

[bradshawsbaby]

Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd As Your Husband

Pairing: Bob x Wife!Reader

Author’s Note: Sweet Bob, you precious angel, I’d marry you in an instant. This one was requested by @iluvbobfloyd​.

Warnings: Mentions of sex (nothing explicit), Bob being the purest husband to ever live.

- You’ve never felt more loved by anyone in your life than you do by Lieutenant Robert Floyd.

- This man is truly the kindest, most giving soul you’ve ever known and you feel so tremendously blessed to be loved by him.

- The two of you met at The Hard Deck when some of your girlfriends from work convinced you to go out with them on a Friday night.

- You’d only been there for about fifteen minutes when Bob had turned around suddenly and bumped straight into you, causing you to spill your full mug of beer all over your white top.

- “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Let me help you take that off…I mean clean it up! I mean…oh my God,” Bob had stammered, his innocent face turning bright red in mortification.

- “Hey, accidents happen. You should see what gets spilled on me at work every day,” you told him with a smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling in amusement.

- Bob had just stared at you, disarmed by how beautiful and easy-going you were. When he finally came to his senses, sliding his glasses back up his nose, he managed to ask, “Can I at least buy you another drink?”

- “I’d like that,” you’d beamed.

- That had been that. You’d spent the entire night at the bar, talking and laughing and getting to know one another until Penny had declared it was closing time.

- “It was lovely to meet you, Lieutenant Floyd,” you said softly, slipping a napkin into his hand as you slid off your stool and went to catch up with your friends.

- Bob’s eyes widened when he opened the napkin to find your phone number written in a clear hand. It had taken a good deal of cajoling from Phoenix, Rooster, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, and Hangman to finally convince him to call you.

- “Girls don’t give you their number if they don’t want you to call them,” Fanboy promised him with a wink.

- When Bob finally did call, you invited him to come to a San Diego Padres game with you.  Much to his surprise, he managed to catch a homerun ball at the game, which he promptly gave to you. You rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. You didn’t think you’d ever met a sweeter man in your life.

- Things progressed quite naturally from there. Bob officially asked you to be his girlfriend not long after that, and within the year, the two of you were engaged.

- You nearly ruined your make-up on the day of your wedding when you read the beautiful, heartfelt letter Bob penned for you.  Among other things, he had written, “I’m not sure why a girl as incredible as you would ever choose a guy like me, but I promise that I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make you the happiest woman on earth. I love you so much, Y/N.”

- Bob really does make you the happiest woman on earth. He’s honestly nothing like what you thought a Navy airman would be. He’s the gentlest, most soft-spoken man you know, but also the most fiercely protective. A lot of people underestimate him, but you know how strong and capable he is. You never fail to remind him of that fact.

- Since you’re a kindergarten teacher, you often have a lot of projects you have to work on at home for your students. Despite his long work hours, Bob is always willing to stay up all night with you, sitting on the living room floor as the two of you cut out hearts and leaves and rainbows and smiley faces. The look of intense concentration on his face as he cuts out your project templates never fails to make you giggle.

- When you have to spend the weekends baking cookies and cupcakes for your school’s bake sales, Bob is always right by your side in the kitchen, though he often prefers taste testing to actually baking.

- On the night of your kindergarteners’ class recital, Bob shows up with a huge bouquet of flowers for you and cookies from your favorite bakery for all the kids. Your students all giggle and cover their eyes as “Mrs. Floyd kisses her husband.”

- You and Bob are excellent communicators and are able to talk to each other about everything that’s on your minds and hearts. He’s always honest with you about the risks he faces at work, and you’re equally honest about how much you worry about him.

- You cry every time Bob has to leave for a mission or a long work trip. He always holds you close and gently wipes away your tears. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart,” he begs. “I promise I’m going to come home to you. I love you too much to ever leave you.”

- Bob keeps a photograph of you and a little love note you wrote him tucked inside his flight suit at all times whenever he’s in the air. You don’t know this, but he wrote a long letter for you that he sealed and gave to Rooster, making him promise that he would give it to you in case anything ever happens to him.

- On the days when Bob returns from his missions (whenever they’re not school days), you clear your schedule entirely so that you can spend all day with him. On one occasion, you even did call out sick from work just so that you could spend all day in bed with your husband.

- Despite all the time you’ve been together, making love with Bob is never not special. He’s an incredibly generous lover, always ensuring that you’re taken care of and satisfied before even beginning to think about himself. For such a quiet guy, he’s more skilled with his mouth than you ever could have imagined.

- Reciprocity is key in your relationship. You love making Bob feel just as good as he makes you feel. He very enthusiastically lets you know how much he appreciates it.

- For special date nights, Bob takes you to fancy restaurants or out dancing. He loves watching how excited you get when you get all dressed up and ready for a night out. He always makes sure to tell you at least fifty times how stunning you are.

- A little over a year into your marriage, you get some exciting news that you can’t wait to share with Bob. When he arrives home from a 72-hour trip to a base in Maryland, he finds you waiting for him in the living room, wearing a homemade T-shirt with the word “BOB” written across it in your usual creative flair.

- “Well that is a very nice shirt you’ve got there, sweetheart,” he grins, taking you into his arms and kissing you deeply.

- “Thank you,” you grin in return, your heart pounding as you look up at him. “I was thinking that this time, it really could stand for ‘Baby on Board,’” you say, a twinkle in your eyes.

- “Baby on…baby on…baby on board?” Bob stutters, eyes going wide behind his glasses.  “Baby on…this board? Our baby?!”

- “Welcome home, Daddy!” you exclaim excitedly, throwing yourself into his arms as he spins you around with a loud whoop of joy.

- “I love you so much,” he whispers, kissing you tenderly and resting one hand against your still-flat stomach.

- “I love you, too, Robert Floyd,” you whisper back, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight.

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob x reader #x reader #x female reader #lewis pullman #top gun: maverick #request

[makethatelevenrings]

Angel by the Wing - TWENTY-THREE

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy, anxiety, brief mention of throwing up

Series Masterlist (Mobile)

“Well this is pathetic,” you announced, your tone drier than a desert and laced with laughter. Jake looked up from where he was lying on the bathroom floor and glared at you. Bradley merely raised his middle finger, too scared to turn away from the toilet bowl.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who is supposed to be having morning sickness,” you added. A mug of peppermint tea sat in your hands and you sipped it, one eyebrow raised as you stared at them over the rim of the mug.

“You said so yourself,” Jake groaned. “We got shit-faced drunk last night.”

“I’m well aware considering I was the one that hauled your asses into the Bronco and got you out of your clothes and into bed.”

“Take a man out to dinner first,” Bradley said. You narrowed your eyes at him and made a pointed motion towards your stomach.

“Little late for that, Bradshaw. Once you two feel human again, I got some breakfast burritos from that food truck down the road.”

After breakfast, Bradley left to visit Maverick and have that talk they had been planning about. That left you and Jake puttering around the house. As you did the dishes, he folded laundry in the bedroom.

“Hey darlin’?” he called. You shuffled over and stuck your head around the doorframe, seeing him hold up a stack of your clothes neatly folded with every tag and hem tucked in like it was a retail store display. God, he was so cute.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t…do you want me to put this in your overnight bag? Or I can move stuff around in my dresser.” Jake Seresin was normally so cocksure and arrogant that the bumbling, blushing man in front of you seemed like an entirely different person. You stepped further into the bedroom and gently took the pile from him.

“Do you want me to use one of your drawers?”

His blue eyes darted towards the closet where you knew he had everything neatly folded or hung in some kind of order he devised. Military habits die hard, you mused.

“Your apartment isn’t healthy for you or for the baby. It makes sense to have you here long term unless you would prefer to have your own space or maybe Penny has a spare room or-”

“Jake.” You set the clothes down on the bed and settled your hands on his shoulders. “What do you want?”

A slow smile curled up at the corner of his lips and he shrugged. “I’d like to finally have a chance to go through my clothes and get rid of some. Make some space for other items.”

You twined your arms around his neck and grinned. “Then let’s do that. We’ve got nothing better to do until I go to work tonight.”

Somehow cleaning out one drawer turned into two and then the two of you were hauling trash bags full of clothes into the cab of his truck. Well, actually, he was hauling them into the truck because Jake refused to let you strain yourself even a little bit. You initially wanted to protest but this gave you the chance to watch his biceps flex as he tossed three trash bags into the back.

“Hop in, darlin’!” he shouted. The San Diego sun beat down on him, highlighting the golden shine of his hair and the tan he always seemed to have. Dark aviators rested on the bridge of his nose and he was wearing some shorts and a cut off tank top with NAVY emblazoned across the front. All in all, he looked like the epitome of a California guy.

“Can we get lunch while we’re out?” you called back.

“If you say In N Out, I’m leaving your ass here.”

You cackled as you dashed back into his place to grab sandals and your purse before skipping out, locking the door behind you. You hauled yourself up into the passenger seat of his truck and leaned over the console to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” you said, catching his attention. He glanced over at you as the truck slowly rolled back into the street. “Thank you. For staying.”

His gaze softened and he reached over to place a hand on your thigh as the other hand spun the wheel with ease. “Of course, darlin’. Roo and I aren’t going anywhere.”

Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep on the carrier, he could hear your phantom sobs echoing in his ears as you begged him to stay. Everyone leaves me, you said. Who? Who would leave behind such a brilliant woman? His grip tightened minutely on your thigh. As long as his dresser held your clothes and that baby grew inside of you, he would never let you feel that way again.

“Hey, can we stop in at Barnes & Noble while we’re here?” you asked as Jake parked in the far corner of the parking lot next to the clothes drop off bin. He nodded without a second thought and got out to toss the bags in before he climbed back in so he could park closer to the store. He dashed around to your side of the car and helped you down onto solid ground.

“What’re we looking for, angel?”

You interlaced your fingers with his and pulled him towards the nonfiction section. “I figured we could look at some books about what to expect and shit. I know it’s early but…”

He noticed the way you nervously chewed at your bottom lip and Jake leaned over to bump your shoulder with his. “By all means, sugar, lead the way.”

A snort escaped you at his endearment and he grinned. Jake dutifully followed as you weaved through the stacks until you stopped in front of the parenting section. A whole wall of books stared back at you and you swallowed past the sudden dryness in your throat.

“Well…shit,” Jake commented once he took in the sheer amount of options there were.

“That’s a lot,” you murmured. You fingered the spines of some books and inspected the titles. Granola, wellness, breastfeeding, fetus development, Christ on a bike your head was spinning.

“I’m gonna throw up,” you blurted out. Jake immediately grabbed your shoulders and spun you so that you were looking away from the books.

“Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Let’s just get this book for now and then we can research at home if we need anything else. They made a movie about this, right?” He held up What to Expect When You’re Expecting and you nodded. Your eyes caught onto another title and you snatched it up and thrust it into his chest. Jake read the name and grimaced before dropping a kiss to your head and ushering you towards the cash registers with the promise of McDonald’s Sprite after this.

When Bradley returned home a few hours later, he found his two lovers on the couch. Jake was sitting up, his feet resting on the coffee table to give you leverage. Your head rested in his lap as you held a book above your head. Jake had a book in one hand, the other rubbing small circles into the small sliver of skin of your stomach that was exposed when your shirt rolled up.

“Hey,” Bradley greeted once he kicked off his shoes at the door and made his way into the living room.

“Hi bubs,” you replied. You lowered the book down to rest on your chest. “How was your talk with Maverick?”

“It was good. He wants to meet you. He also told me that he needs to give Jake the shovel talk.”

The blond snorted in response and flipped to the next page in What to Expect. You, on the other hand, were reading Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents. Bradley settled down on the floor next to you and you reached out to run your fingers through his curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. He practically melted under your hand and pushed up against the touch as though he was a cat.

“What’d you get up to while I was gone?” he asked.

“Well,” Jake announced. “Baby is as big as an orange seed now that we’re at five weeks.”

You gently poked your stomach, wondering what it must be like in there. There was still no noticeable bump or anything. How big would you get?

“Angel’s soon going to start craving gross shit,” Jake continued. “Add in heartburn and sore breasts.”

“Don’t say breasts,” you grunted. “Ugh, that’s so clinical. Let the doctor say breasts.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? Tits? Tatas? Boobies?”

“Stop stop,” you gagged. “I don’t know. Tits, I guess.”

“Are they sore already?” Bradley asked.

“Nope, so get your groping in now, fellas.”

“You might-” Jake raised his voice to be heard over you two. “-start being constipated.”

“Oh, orange seed, you better be so worth it.”

Bradley rested his head next to your stomach and ran a hand along your skin. “She will.”

Ever since you left the bookstore, your mind had been churning with anxiety. How the fuck could you do this? Would the three of you be able to do this? But now you were stretched out on the couch with both men holding you in a reverence kept for sacred objects and goddamnit, there goes those hormones again.

You blinked back tears and nestled your cheek against Jake’s thigh. “She’s gonna be so fucking worth it.”

Still that familiar insecurity nibbled at your mind. What happens when the paternity test comes back? Would the other person leave? Or would he stay?

Tag List: @mizzzpink​ @xoxabs88xox​ @dreaminglandsworld​ @khaylin27​ @loveforaugust​ @phoenixssugarbaby​ @atarmychick007​ @itsmytimetoodream​ @krismdavis​ @emma8895eb​ @startrekfangirl​ @hangmandruigandmav​ @lunamoonbby​ @startrekfangirl2233​

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader x jake seresin #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster x reader #rooster x hangman x reader #abtw

[onlyvrse]

new tactics

“is this some kind of new flirting tactic no one gave me a heads up about?”

“i'm sorry?”

summary: rooster catches you staring.

pairing: bradley “rooster” bradshaw

genre: smut, fluff

warnings: unprotected seggs (be safe kids), thigh riding, dirty talk, praise, handjob, soft!dom rooster, very subby reader, very fluffy smut, aloooot of pillow talk (the good kind though), rooster is whipped within 3 hours

a/n: i'm feral for this man, and deeply, deeply in love with him. that is all. very mildly proof read

word count: 3.9k

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you trace your ring finger over the rim of your bottle, biting at your bottom lip as you watch a man with a pornstache, that surprisingly does wonders for him, break out into a child-like dance after his performance, shuffling and spinning with a stupid grin on his face. you watch as he fixes the aviators that had slipped to the tip of his nose while he was singing, giving everyone a stupidly gorgeous smile as they chant his name.

rooster! rooster! rooster!

you’d been gawking at this man the moment you realised you were in the same vicinity as him. ever since he’d drawn the entire bars attention to himself by playing a rendition of ‘great balls of fire’- you’re fairly certain your panties weren’t the only pair that had dropped for him. unbeknownst to you, however, he always noticed when you’re eyes were on him. he’d catch you just the millisecond you look away, and his ego grew mountains everytime you were unknowingly caught ogling. a dark-haired girl stands beside you, asking the bartender for a beer. “his name’s rooster,” she chimes, and you make eye contact with her, visibly confused. “what?” “the guy you’ve been drooling over, name’s rooster.” fuck. “was i that obvious?” she giggles, thanking the bartender before sipping at her beer as she nods. “you picked probably one of the best from the lot, though, so props to you.” she motions her beer at the other men in uniform, watching as a blonde haired man smacks one of his friends in the abdomen. before you can ask anymore questions, she’s gone- presumably rejoining her uniformed group after grabbing another drink.

“is this some kind of new flirting tactic no one gave me a heads up about?” a deep voice rattles you out of your thoughts, and you turn around to see your eye candy from before. 

“i'm sorry?”

“you’ve been staring at me all night, any particular reason why?” you curse yourself in your head the second he says this, but, there’s no turning back now. “you’re an attractive guy, no?” he seems taken aback by the remark, like he hadn’t prepared for that sort of answer, he tilts his head slightly. “that so?” you hum in response to his question, taking the last sip of your drink as he sits on the stool beside you. “you’re fairly straightforward, uh,” you smile, “y/n.” “you’re fairly straightforward, y/n.” you nod as he leans the tiniest bit closer to you. “i mean, you already caught me staring, would you have preferred me to act all innocent, mr?” he shrugs, contemplating on what to say. “name’s bradley bradshaw, but my friends call me rooster- and uh, i'm not sure actually. honestly i thought you’d have told me to piss off the second i walked up to you.” you laugh at his revelation, he smiles at the sound. “well. what did you want to happen when you walked up to me, rooster?” he smirks at this question, shit-eating-grin on display as he shuffles in his seat. “well of course, i’d have swept you off of your feet and we’d be back at my place by now, darlin’.” he says, a playful lilt in his voice. your eyebrow quips at this, accompanied with a small smile, and he reads your expression- slightly worried for your response.

“i’m joking by the-” “are you asking me to fuck you, bradley?” you cut him off, and he’s taken aback for the second time tonight. “i mean, if you want i was kind of like joking and all but if you want to that’d be cool too like-” his rambling’s cut off when your lips meet his and he gasps against you, taken aback for the third time tonight. his left hand lands on your waist and he kisses back, softly- like he’s making sure you want this. “you’re very straightforward, y/n.” you place a hand on his thigh and feel him tense under your touch, “that a good thing or a bad thing, bradshaw?” “it’s making it very hard for me to try ‘nd be a gentleman.” he speaks softly, thumb drawing circles on your waist. “asking me to fuck you, was being a gentleman?” you joke and he throws his head back and whines- “i genuinely wasn’t serious, i hope y’know. m’ happy to sit here and get to know you.” you gulp when he throws his head back, watching his adam’s apple bob when he speaks, too enticed by his physique to note the genuine confession. “you’ve charmed your way past drinks and chit-chat, rooster. we can do that after.” you don’t know where the sudden burst of confidence came from, maybe it was the growing heat in your core but nonetheless, you smile and extend an arm. “after?” he quips.

“fuck being a gentleman, just for tonight?”

he beams at this, gladly taking your hand and fiddling with his pocket to fish out his keys. you giggle at this, and he looks up at you, “what’s so funny?” you smile. “you being excited for a fuck.” you sing, swaying in your spot. “s’not just gonna be a fuck, i hope you know that, doll.” it’s your turn to question, “what’s that supposed to mean?” he grins, widely, tilting his head to watch where he’s going as he guides you out of the crowded bar. he looks over his shoulder, grin still beaming, he winks. “s’gonna be a lot more than just a fuck.”

the drive there is unbearably long, you can already feel the wet patch in your underwear growing at the thought of what would happen when the two of you arrived at his place. it’s mostly quiet, the sexual tension so thick you were so close to straddling him while he was driving. you watch as one of his hands let go of the steering wheel, taking its place on your bare thigh, you shiver slightly at the feeling. you watch as he smirks, noticing your reaction but eyes still on the road. his thumb begins to drag up and down your thigh, his hand shifting up closer to the hem of your dress. you’re about to jokingly ask him how good he is at multitasking- but you pull into the driveway.

once he’s stopped the car and taken the keys out of the ignition you’re on top of him, ignoring whatever you bumped into on the transition from the passenger seat to the drivers, and you’re kissing him desperately. “fuck, someone’s keen,” he breathes out between kisses and you bite at his bottom lip as you pull away, “just shut up and kiss me rooster.” he grins. “yes ma’am.” he slides his tongue in your mouth and you whine at the feeling, unknowingly grinding against his crotch as you do so. this elicits a deep groan from the man under you, both of his hands on your waist as you tug at the hairs on the back of his head. his hand wraps around your throat gently as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, your hands clutching at the button up shirt he’s wearing- you feel the outline of his hard on against your clothed cunt and you grind against him, slower this time as you look at him. his grip on your neck tightens slightly.

“fuck, keep going like that and i’ll cum here like i’m fucking sixteen again” he mutters out.

“been high and dry for a while, have you?” “you’ve no idea.” you giggle before his lips crash onto yours again, both of his hands resting on both sides of your face as you moan into the kiss, desperate for any sort of friction. he bucks his hips up slightly and you moan as you feel his erection against your growing arousal, “inside, now- please.” you mumble out and he chuckles, “so polite, darlin’.” he opens the door for you and you manoeuvre your way out of his lap, stumbling slightly when your feet hit the ground. he’s not far behind you, you almost jump hearing the click of the bronco locking behind you. he motions for the door, “ladies first,” he mumbles and you nod, giggling, “why thank you, bradley.” walking towards the front of his house.

once his front door is locked, his hands grab for your ass as he hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he leans you against the door- kissing you like a man starved. he’s getting rougher- not that you minded. he kneads the fat of your ass in both of his hands as your left hand is on the side of his face, the other tugging desperately at his dark hair. he licks, bites and sucks his way down your neck, no doubt leaving a constellation of purple and red in its wake. he walks you both towards the couch, laying you down softly. he’s on top of you now, both of you grabbing for anything you can reach, heavily panting. he slides a finger along your clothed core and you moan, “fuck, you’re soaked. i haven’t even done anything.” he mumbles out and you grind against his hand. “ah ah,” he says before sitting up straight. you send him a confused look and he pats his thigh, motioning for you to sit. you straddle him and he laughs, you frown. now you’re even more confused. “not both, just the one, darlin’.” “huh?”

“you said fuck being a gentleman, so, doll, why should i have to do it for you?” you shudder when you realise the meaning of his words. “i can wait here all day, sweetheart.” he speaks out, leaning his back against the couch, an arm resting over the top of it as he makes himself comfy. you look at him, anxiously gnawing at your bottom lip. he laughs softly before giving in and sitting up. “d’ya want some help, baby?” he coos, smiling at your nervous figure. you nod shyly, and a hand meets your hips, pulling you closer to him before pushing you back. you whine at the friction, not expecting it to even feel good when you’d sat on his right thigh. “there you go,” he whispers, guiding your hips as you gain rhythm. “wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” you hum a “nuh uh” in response, his hand resting on the side of your face while the other guides your hips- he smirks, watching the way your face scrunches up in pleasure everytime your clothed clit gets enough friction against the denim. “y’look so pretty like this, y/n. doing so well, love.” you moan at the praise, grabbing his face to kiss him as you continue to selfishly grind against the fabric of his jeans. you fumble for the zipper of his pants and he smiles against your lips, “so needy.” he untucks himself from his pants and you begin lazily stroking at his already hard length, then it dawns on you that you can barely wrap your hand around it.

you halt your hips movements, and he quips an eyebrow at you, watching as you marvel over his dick. “is it that impressive, doll?” he chuckles, guiding your hips to start moving again, “it.. it won’t fit?” you say, voice barely a whisper as you continue to stroke up and down his length. “it will sweetheart, don’t worry m’gonna take care of you.” you nod before continuing to get yourself off on his thigh, both of your moans filling the room as you throw your head back, he takes the opportunity to latch onto your neck again, sucking and kissing. you feel him smile against you when your breath shortens at the feeling, his hand reaches up to grope your breast and you whine when he takes your nipple between his fingers. “m-more, roos please.” he looks up at you when you call him that, and you swear you could cum just by the look he gives you. “cute.” he murmurs before helping you out of your dress, halting your movements so you can hold your arms up while he undresses you. “so pretty,” he mumbles before gliding his hands up and down your bare waist, you continue your movement- desperately trying to reach your climax as he sucks on your nipple. you let a combination of a yelp and a moan out when you feel him bite down slightly, dragging his tongue along your chest until he gets to the other breast.

you tease the slit of his dick with your thumb and he groans, tensing his thighs which causes you to whimper at the new angles to get yourself off on. you’re going much faster now, hand lazily stroking him as you aim to release your pending high, “m’gonna, fuck.” he smiles softly at your dazed state, helping you get off on him by moving your hips at the same pace you were at before you began to falter. “s’okay darlin’ i got you.” and you let yourself come undone. your thighs tremble against his and you feel a hand wrap around your waist to stable you, your head falling onto his shoulder as you let out a string of broken moans, wincing at the sensitivity of your core. when you catch your breath, you let your gaze trail to the wet patch of his jeans and he grins, grabbing your chin so you look at him. “look at the mess you made sweetheart, so needy for me.” he taps your chin teasingly and you kiss him softly, planting open mouthed kisses from his jaw to his neck, before grabbing at his shirt. “off, please” you mumble out and he laughs against you, stripping himself of his hawaiian shirt and the white tank underneath, “so polite, darlin’.” your breath hitches at the sight of him, hand tracing over his toned abs, you feel him tense slightly at your touch. you halt your movements, letting your hand back off and he grabs it, “sorry- no one’s touched me like that in a while, s’all.” “no?” you quip, and he shakes his head. “the last few before you just wanted a quick fuck, you’re more, gentle? i guess? i’m not sure.” he speaks, letting his hands wander down your sides, and you resume tracing over the ridges of his stomach. “mm,” you hum, “y’gonna take me out for dinner, roos?” he smiles at this. “‘course, baby.” you kiss him, and you whine when you feel him hook your underwear to the side, gathering your slick with his fingers.

you reposition yourself to straddle him now, hovering above him slightly as he teases your entrance with the tip of his dick, and you’re bracing yourself for the stretch. “we don’t have to, you know that right?” you smile at him and shake your head. “i wanna.” you mumble before slowly lowering yourself onto his length, you whimper when just his tip is inside, already stretching you and he holds your hips in place so you don’t sink any lower. “s’okay darlin’ i got you, take your time.” he coos, brushing a hair out of your face as he watches your breath quicken, you lower yourself a little more, getting accustomed to the unfamiliar stretch. you place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the muscles under your fingers as you fully lower yourself onto him, the two of you moaning at the feeling. you sink your nails into his shoulder, hearing him hiss quietly at the sensation, he rubs circles on your back, soothing you as it takes all of his control to not rut his hips into you relentlessly right here, right now. you breathe out, “okay, m’okay- i think,” you whisper out before lifting your hips and dropping them again slowly. rooster throws his head back onto the couch at this, feeling your walls around him and your pretty sounds driving him insane.

he kisses your cheek, letting his hand rest on the side of your face as you continue to bounce on his length at a slow pace, feeling the ridges of the veins going in and out of you. “how’s it feel, doll? you’re okay?” he asks, tenderly rubbing circles on your lower back. you nod, broken moans leaving your mouth as you struggle to maintain a rhythm with your hips, gripping tightly onto his shoulders as he places kisses along your collarbone, mumbling little praises every chance he gets. “fuck, y’so big roos.” “that’s okay, baby, want me to do it?“ he quips and you nod, watching as he smiles softly at you before repositioning the two of you so your back is against the couch and he’s on top of you. he reenters you slowly and you gasp, getting used to the way he fills you up to the brim, “you alright, love?” you smile in response, reaching your hands into his hair and tugging when he hits a certain spot inside of you. “you were so confident before, doll, what happened?” he smirks when he asks this, thrusting into you painfully slowly before pushing the last of his cock in abruptly, you moan at this- loudly, “too fucked out to talk, huh?” you whimper at his words, gripping tighter on his hair as a response. “m-more, please.” “you sure you can take it?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and you nod a little too enthusiastically.

this is all he needs to start rutting into you relentlessly, it takes you a second to process, but soon you’re cursing out and letting out a string of broken moans and whines as he continues at a pace that’s so incredibly new to you it makes you see stars. “look at that, baby, m’filling you up so well.” he traces a hand over the bulge on your lower stomach, you look down to see it as well and you throw your head back with a moan, his lips attaching to your neck the second you do so. you’re dragging your nails down his back, surely leaving some sort of mark as he continues to abuse your already sensitive heat. “how’s it feel, doll? talk to me,” he groans out, and you can barely utter a word. “s’good, fuck- feels so good, roos.” he moans lowly at the nickname, peppering kisses anywhere he can reach, forehead, temple, cheek, shoulder. “you look so pretty like this, sweetheart, you’re doing so well.” you whimper at his non-stop praise, the knot in your stomach threatening to come undone every time his dick hits the right spot inside of you, you dig your nails into his skin again and he breathes out heavily. “so close,” you cry, “fuck!” is the last thing that leaves your mouth when your body begins to shake uncontrollably, your second orgasm taking you by complete surprise, back arching off of the couch as your vision blanks for a brief second, the only thing you feel is rooster’s thick length thrusting in and out of you. you’re panting now, so overwhelmed by your second orgasm you don’t notice his hand is on the side of your face again, “you alright, love?” you nod, biting your lip to suppress another moan as his pubic hair brushes against your sensitive clit when he pushes inside of you. 

his pace starts to falter slightly, deep grunts coming from the man above you and you kiss and lick at his neck, continuing to play with his hair. “shit, where do i-” “inside, roos- please,” you whine out and he curses under his breath when the words leave your pretty little lips. thinking about how they’d feel around his cock, but that’s for another time. “i can take it, promise,” you whisper out and that’s all it takes for him to come undone, seeing you all pretty and innocent under him, while being the complete and utter opposite. a string of profanities leaves him as he thrusts into you as deep as he can, making sure you take every last drop. “holy shit,” he breathes out, as if comprehending what exactly had just happened. “thank fuck i walked up to you.” he says, rather breathlessly, actually, and the two of you laugh as he collapses on top of you, although consciously keeping the majority of his weight off of you with a hand on the couch. both of you wince slightly when he pulls out, and you giggle to yourself watching him half jog to another room shirtless and sweaty. you raise an eyebrow when he comes back with a damp towel, and you gasp when he presses it to your core, “what’re you- oh. you really are a gentleman.” “what? guys don’t clean you up after sex?” “no? i mean you’re the first in a while but still, no?” he seems baffled by this as he continues to gather up the mess as best he can before returning your underwear to its original placing. he returns after putting the towel away somewhere, extending a hand to you as you’ve sat up on his couch, gathering the fabric of your discarded dress to cover your bare chest.

he grins before talking, “can ya stand?” and you shoot him a glare, wanting to prove him wrong. but the second your legs straighten up above the hardwood floor you stumble into the man in front of you, astonished that your legs felt like jelly. you look up at him and he’s still smiling like an idiot, “oh shut up.” “i didn’t even say anything!” “yeah but you looked at me funny!” he throws his head back in laughter, and you join him. but suddenly you’re thrown across his shoulder, ass sticking up in the air as you flail in his grasp, “rooster!” you cry out and he laughs, smacking your ass playfully while you do the same shortly after, you did have the best angle for it after all. he almost stops walking when your hand meets his behind and you cackle at the confused reaction. he shakes his head with a smile before continuing to walk, placing you down on the bed while he rummages through some drawers, handing you a shirt. you thank him with a kind mumble as he changes out of his jeans, opting for a pair of sweats as he climbs into his bed with a dramatic groan. you giggle as you glance over at him, face planted in to the bed as you move yourself closer to him, looking at him amused when he lifts his head to smile at you lazily, “oh, hello.” he mumbles and your laughter continues, softly rubbing his still sweaty back as he abruptly grabs you by the waist, turning around so you’re laying in his arms. “hello,” you mumble back. 

in a half dozed state, you learn through conversation that he’s a naval aviator, much to your surprise. he tells you about his missions and his pain-in-the-ass comrades that he deals with on a daily basis, the story behind his callsign and the fact that his parents have passed. in return, less interestingly you tell him about your studies and your less-than-average job. you’re running your hands through his hair, his head on your chest. 

“so, was it a good tactic lieutenant?”

“very, but you don’t have to be too worried about using it on anyone else, sweetheart. i'm not letting you go anytime soon.” you giggle at his response, continuing to play with his hair in a soothing manner. he lifts his head up, kissing you again. 

“fuck, c’mere- i cant get enough of you.”

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pfff it’s finally here! sorry it took so long, likes and reblogs appreciated :) 

tag list:​ @luckyladycreator2​

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfic #rooster smut #top gun maverick #rooster #top gun 2022 #bradley rooster bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfic #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic

[fave-fight]

ROUND 1, MATCH 44

NO MAGIC, POWERS, WEAPONS, OR ADDITIONAL HELP FROM OTHERS

Chuuya Nakahara:

“He’s the top martial artist in the entire mafia (without using his ability), and on to of that he’s the most powerful ability user (that we know of) in Bungou Stray Dogs. If this is a normal fist fight, he could probably win without using his ability unless his opponent has some form of magic/supernatural assistance. And if they do, he could kill the pretty much instantly using his ability.  Also. I’d really like to see him win for once, because in BSD the author has to keep coming up with highly specific scenarios to justify why he’s not just wiping everyone out. Some of those scenarios include: 1) he’s just not there in the first place (he was canonically out of the country for the entire beginning of the series) 2)he gets trapped in the BSD-equivalent of an alternate dimension* (ie someplace you can’t just break out of with brute force) 3)the only guy he regularly fights has the ability to be immune to all abilities AND is the top strategist in BSD (and even so Chuuya still beats him in terms of combative skills) 4)fights that he’s about to win get interrupted by other things, causing both him and his opponent(s) to go “well I guess we could just stop fighting and call it a stalemate 🤷‍♂️  5) (spoilers for the current manga arc) he’s currently being mind controlled as a vampire (BSD vampires and the equivalent of other media’s zombies. They’re mindless or mind-controlled beings who go around biting people). He would have solved all the problems by now but the author was like “nope!” and yoinked away his free will and autonomy.  *for any BSD fans who wanna check me on calling Poe’s ability an alternate dimension, I mean in the same way other subspace-type abilities are “alternate dimensions” as Rimbaud described (counting Rimbaud, Poe, and Lucy for this type of ability), rather than referring to “alternate universes” as in Beast.”

Kevin:

“He has killed before and he will kill again. He is immune to the ol' "go for the eyes" trick some opponents might pull, because he doesn't HAVE eyes. He can still see just fine because he's granted Vision by the Smiling God. Despite the mention of his "smile knife" in the Mudstone Abyss arc, I think Kevin doesn't entirely NEED weapons because I fully believe he will bite anyone and not hold back. He'll rip a chunk off you if he has to, he'll go fucking apeshit. His whole motif is teeth and gore and devouring. And he'll be so upbeat and sunny the whole time. Now if he could GET a weapon, he would prefer that, but if he absolutely has to fight somebody unarmed, he could manage against the average person off the street. However, caught off-guard, he is easily defeated. There's a part in canon where he believes he's having a diplomatic discussion (it was actually pretty fucked up and evil but Kevin's sense of normalcy is hella skewed), and a (presumably human) character just suddenly grabs him and slams him through a portal. So it can be assumed that if someone lands an unexpected attack on Kevin, he'll get his ass kicked easy. Kevin is also probably not formally combat trained. Someone with actual fighting skills would probably beat him. He's just reliant on bizarre violence more than actual skill, in my opinion.”

“hes gods favorite freak. he wrote a whole freak bible about bugs and teeth. also he should get to bite people like that anon said”

#fight fight fight #round 1 #poll tournament #tournament poll #polls #poll #chuuya nakahara #bungou stray dogs #kevin wtnv

[silverfoxstole]

It’s done!

After ten days of work (and another three for a waistcoat I’m not that happy with; see below), the NotD coat is finished! Woohoo!

Overall, I’m really pleased with it, which is just as well as it’s taken so much time (and grief!). I worked out that if I’d paid myself minimum wage for all the hours I put in the labour alone would amount to about £500. One of my ex colleagues used to suggest I set up a dressmaking business and wouldn’t believe me when I told her it wouldn’t be cost effective as the amount of labour involved would make everything too expensive.

Anyway, I have taken quite a lot of photos, so you can see how it turned out:

This got long so I’ll stick the rest behind a cut.

I ended up adding some extra fabric to the tails, as they were sticking out at an angle and didn’t look right. It means an extra seam but it’s not that visible and I much prefer it this way, with more fullness at the back (and it properly covers my bum, which is very important!):

Though it looks fine on the dummy when I put it on I’m not convinced I didn’t raise the back waist seam a bit too far, but it’s sitting on my waist so… *shrugs* I don’t often look at myself from behind so it probably doesn’t matter that much.

After sewing on the two back buttons I changed my mind and went with the covered ones in the end, deciding on reflection that those I bought last week were a bit too pale. They would have fitted better if I’d made the binding more of a contrast (which I’m glad I didn’t as it would have been more obvious that it’s not exactly perfect in some places). I had to make the buttonholes manually as there was no way the automatic buttonhole foot wouldn’t get caught at some point. I haven’t sewn any that way since I first started out six years ago and was using my mother’s old machine! All the ones I’ve owned have had an automatic function so I had to practice a bit to remind myself how to do it. Thankfully they’ve turned out well.

I also solved the problem of the gap between the collar and lapel by stitching them together. It works a treat!

Though I’ve made a miniature version for Eight Bear, this is the first time I’ve tried to replicate an existing garment for myself (the Dark Eyes coat was an interpretation rather than a direct copy), and I am actually really proud that I’ve ended up with something that does look pretty much like the original, as well as Steven Ricks’s recreation, which has been a definite influence!

That said, while the coat has turned out well I’m not massively pleased with the waistcoat. I decided to make another one on a whim as I had a more accurate pattern and saw what looked like an ideal fabric but I don’t like it all that much now it’s done. It was hell to put together because the satin just started disintegrating and still is; I’ve had to sew up holes in both the pockets because the seams have just frayed straight through and I’d put them together before I thought of stabilising the edges with interfacing. It’s another men’s pattern and I should have made some adjustments but after doing so much to the coat I really couldn’t be bothered and just put it together as it was; I should really have added some length, which is ironic given the amount I had to remove from the coat, and perhaps levelled it off at the front. Consequently it’s not a great fit and sits really awkwardly on Stella as you can see, though that may have something to do with the fact that I put the buttonholes on the wrong side out of habit:

There is a watch on the end of the chain this time, because the pockets are real! I quite like the look of the waistcoat undone when I put it on, but done up not so much. There’s a lot of spare fabric in the front for some reason, which I tried to hide by smoothing it under the collar and then stitching the collar down. It hasn’t entirely worked, and it doesn’t help that the brocade is such a bouncy fabric and doesn’t press well.

Putting it all together I do think it looks better on Stella than me, but that’s probably because I rarely wear so many layers! I wish I had a better backdrop than the bedroom but it’ll have to do:

Maybe I could unbutton the waistcoat and untuck the shirt and be Eight having a casual day? I love the coat but I do feel much more comfortable wearing it over a t-shirt and jeans!

Now I just have to wait until some cooler weather to be able to put it into use. My only gripe is that there are no external pockets, either on the original or the pattern I used! Surely you’d think the Doctor would need pockets?

#sfs’s adventures in sewing #night of the doctor coat #doctor who #eighth doctor #8th doctor #costume making #sewing #dressmaking #frock coat #waistcoat #there’s a very good reason i never wear tops tucked in #i have next to no waist #definitely prefer it with jeans!

[crystallizedday]

DISCLAIMER: THIS INFORMATION FOR THE DOAI CD AU IS OUTDATED. I WILL POST AN UPDATED VERSION EVENTUALLY

When I feel like it

& can properly flesh shit out

You’ll see it eventually.

FUCK YEAH!!

WRITING HEADCANONS FOR HORRIFYING MAN-EATING MONSTERS!! LETS GOOOOOO!!

I got this idea cause I knew I’d clutter up the og DOAI CD AU post if I just added all these goofy ahh headcanons into THAT post, so here we are.

Anyway uhhhh

Let’s go.

General shit:

• All six Veldigun go by their canon pronouns that have been confirmed in a recent Pastra stream. Clyde goes by it/its, Winfrey goes by they/them; Klaus goes by he/him, Jack goes by they/them, Simon goes by he/him, & Flock goes by it/its

• Veldiguns CAN eat actual foods, but they don’t gain anything from it. They’re void creatures, so that shit just gets obliterated from reality the moment it gets consumed. They do so just cause they enjoy the taste of whatever they eat… MOSTLY Clyde & Winfrey. The other four don’t really do that nearly as often, if at all.

• Mind consumption works like… reading through a book. You skim through it, you get a general rough idea of the entire thing, shit like that. The Veldigun don’t ever LET the minds of others warp them unless they ALLOW them to, i.e. gaining a certain impression upon skimming through the memories of a person they just consumed.

• All Veldigun actually look SO MUCH more grotesque & animalistic than they appear to humans most of the time. Their more cutesy cartoon appearance is just a result of them causing hallucinations, which is almost always unconsciously done by them.

• A Veldigun’s touch is only lethal if they WISH it to be so. It is a manual tactic that they can control, just as long as they aren’t accidentally spooked or something.

• Veldigun still sleep, just a lil less frequently than humans do. Some Veldigun definitely sleep more than others, but this is more so based on some of them choosing to continue hunting & shit instead of sleeping rather than it being for a specific biological reason.

• Yes. Clyde & Winfrey are canonically a ✨thing✨ in this AU & have been for quite a while by the time Winfrey got captured. They are very much gay & in love & you cannot stop me.

• The overall timeline for the series is a LOT more spread out than it was in the old DOAI lore. For instance…

- Clyde Lankmann, the first human Clyde the Veldigun consumed, was the man who started the Lankmann Foundation & died during the late 1800s. He wasn’t the first to die though as a “good friend” of his, William Winfrey, was tricked into walking right into one of the Veldigun’s clutches by Lankmann himself to be rid of the bothersome musician.

- Simon Lankmann died in the early 1900s after he cut ties with the Lankmann family altogether & started a family on a rather secluded farm (the whole family later being consumed by Simon the Veldigun).

-Klaus Kruger was a young man who died in the mid 1900s. The Krugers & Lankmanns were actually part of the same family tree at this point, with Klaus finding interest in the Lankmann family business. This interest led to them stumbling across Jack Walker, an incredibly impressionable boy who Klaus used as his puppet the second he laid eyes on the poor guy. The two would get up to all sorts of trouble regarding drugs & even murdering a few people, with Klaus in particular genuinely showing a sense of excitement over their wrongdoings.

- “Vincent” Lankmann is the most RECENT Lankmann to date in the timeline. He is around 50 years old when the AU takes place (aka the late 1990s) & is looking to find out how to kill a Veldigun so he can do the one thing his many predecessors before him could not: outsmart them.

Clyde:

• Clyde prefers to munch on fruits or fruit-flavored shit. Lemons are its favorite by far.

• Alternatively, Clyde HATES anything that even REMOTELY smells like garlic & onions, much like actual cats & lizards. Having them on hand won’t save a victim from Clyde, but it’ll at least force it to get crafty with catching you off guard or getting rid of that PUTRID smell first.

• It’s often seen having a rather bouncy & giddy personality, but this is because this is just what the lil goofball’s like around Winfrey or when indulging in its hobbies. Bro’s a lil shit around other people, ESPECIALLY ones that it doesn’t particularly like. It sort of acts rather emotionless or awkward around people it doesn’t know (who are not prey) by default.

• Despite that fact, Clyde has a LIL bit of an ego that tends to show from time to time, especially over its own crafts & actions. Because of this, it is a LOT more susceptible to getting embarrassed or self defensive than its partner, & will often hold quite a few grudges, sometimes for even the smallest of things.

• Clyde uses a lot of its free time to learn certain skills such as sewing & baking. Why? For Winfrey. Clyde was the one to make Winfrey’s outfit after all, & it quite enjoys making outfits for the both of them now that it’s gotten into the habit of doing so. As much as Clyde loves getting into a ton of different hobbies to keep itself doing shit constantly, they’re MOST of the time going to have something to do with Winfrey. Call Clyde a malewife & I will send the horde to fetch your soul for me WIWOWKWOWKDOOSKFKEEKKR

• It may be… not great at singing, but it still loves singing along with Winfrey whenever it can. Winfrey finds it adorable.

• Ever since it stole that one onesie from Grimmso’s & rescued Winfrey, it’s developed quite the interest for dressing up. Sure, not everything fits perfectly, but it enjoys trying on different outfits just for the heck of it.

• Since a lot of human clothes can already fit Clyde already, most of its outfit-making work is focused solely on Winfrey, making them into a bit of a fashion model for the lil guy. Winfrey may not always agree with whatever Clyde makes, but they both enjoy the process of it nonetheless since Clyde finds it really fun & Winfrey finds it incredibly adorable.

• Clyde is a crafty lil genius that often flexes its intelligence via petty means, such as overly elaborate pranks (that are often aimed at Klaus).

• Clyde despises Klaus due to Klaus just overall being a jerk towards everyone & despises Simon due to how much of a doormat it perceives the guy as.

• Despite being on the run from the entire continent, Clyde still likes to find certain cool places for it & Winfrey to hang out & have some fun at, such as abandoned or empty amusement parks, malls, all that jazz.

• There’s just something about collecting tiny lil trinkets & gizmos & other various Doo dads that delights Clyde. If it’s small & pretty, it’s most definitely going to grab the lil guy’s attention. Captain Quackers the rubber duck was one of these things of course, but Clyde has collected SO MANY other colorful & cute lil things in the past, some of which it has to leave behind since its collection will often get too much to move from place to place.

• Clyde is extremely intelligent when it comes to strategy & crafting… but lacks a bit of emotional & social awareness that makes it hard for the poor thing to empathize with anyone it is not super close to (aka if they’re not Winfrey) as well as properly understanding & handling its own emotions, which is one of the few things Winfrey has a leg up on it with.

• It ADORES rambling on about all sorts of topics they have a fascination with, especially regarding their knack for crafting. Even so, it’s only ever comfortable info-dumping to Winfrey.

I feel like giving y’all a cute nugget of info about the CD AU.

Winfrey:

• Winfrey has a HUGE sweet tooth & enjoys sugary things & baked goods. They can’t choose a favorite, but some of their favorite foods & drinks are cookies, chocolate candy bars, toffee, cupcakes, and hot chocolate. Overall, they prefer bite-sized treats rather than full-blown desserts, but they’ll take what they can get.

• Their spice tolerance is… well, horrible. Even smelling it makes them wanna gag. Unlike Clyde, having something spicy on hand will MOST LIKELY actually save you since Winfrey is nowhere near as crafty & clever like Clyde is. You could probably chase the big guy around with a chili pepper if you feel daring, but I personally wouldn’t recommend it… not just cause you’ll most likely die regardless, but also because that’s cruel & you shouldn’t be scaring poor Winnie like that. How fuckin DARE you??

• Despite being a bit of a dimwit, they ADORE music, especially orchestral or classical music. If they hear a famous century old song play in one way or another, you BET your ass Winfrey’s gonna identify that shit INSTANTLY. This stays even after being traumatized by Lankmann, which is something Clyde both finds adorable & is relieved by.

• Winfrey also admires more complex and intricate outfits, & would be THRILLED to wear something quite dapper if it wasn’t for the fact that… well… they’re fuckin HUGE. Clyde still tries its best to make the big guy look as nice as it possibly can though, & that’s good enough for Winfrey. JWOWKSKWKDKEKEO

• Winfrey’s mouth wasn’t ALWAYS closed like that. The only reason it’s currently a blank slate by default is because Winfrey did that to themselves back when Lankmann had JUST captured them & started interrogating them regarding Clyde’s whereabouts. Beeg guy thought they could give Lankmann the permanent silent treatment, but it didn’t turn out so well for them JAOWDKWOFKWOOD

• Even though they no longer have the bouncy personality they used to, they still get excited & bubbly every now & again, particularly when they & Clyde find a fun place to mess around in or when they get to talk about music… just in general KWOWMDOWKDK

• Winfrey is a lot more open to being social than Clyde, particularly due to their old fascination with humans & their culture. Even after what happened at the asylum, they don’t find it hard at all to empathize with others, sometimes even to an excessive degree. Even so, they are definitely more so a listener rather than a speaker & will rarely ever initiate the conversation.

• They can easily tear open their mouth to speak without feeling an ounce of pain. They can do this due to how their skin isn’t ENTIRELY solid & is still very much composed of classic veldigoop. This goopiness is mainly apparent for the skin that covers their mouth while the rest of the body is decently solid & hard to tear. This is also why Winfrey’s face-skin can easily and flawlessly reconnect after Winfrey is done talking: that shit can just mold back together into one solid piece like putting two chunks of slime together.

• Winfrey enjoys hearing Clyde ramble, no matter the topic at hand. Rarely do they ever understand a lick of what Clyde’s talking about, but they just like hearing Clyde so passionate & excited about something. That & its nerdy rambles are just adorable to listen to IWNWOWKWOWNEOWM

Didn’t know which of the two’s lil categories to put this in, so uh…

I’m putting this as it’s own separate point.

Whenever they can, Clyde & Winfrey like to hop on a train to get around.

Something about trains strangely comforts Clyde, & it almost ALWAYS falls asleep as soon as the two can find their way into a fairly empty & unattended train car to crash in.

Winfrey really enjoys the view they get to see on a moving train, especially during sunset.

Klaus:

• He & Jack actually spend a lot of time in America rather than Canada like the rest of the Veldigun.

• Klaus’ methods for murdering his victims (solo) often has to do with them either luring or simply picking children off the streets. He may enjoy using Jack to finish the job, but it doesn’t necessarily mean they ALWAYS have Jack do it.

• Klaus is ALL business, meaning he & Jack don’t do ANY of the cutesy fun shit that Clyde & Winfrey do. Hell, Klaus finds that shit repulsive. All Klaus & Jack do is kill & try not to get hunted down by the entire continent by moving from place to place CONSTANTLY.

• Despite him being all business… come on, that rat bastard’s definitely tried a cigar at least ONCE at some point. LOOK at them.

Jack:

• Jack sees themselves as just Klaus’ sidekick rather than his equal, obviously thanks to Klaus himself. Because of this, they have VERY little self worth & feels that abandoning Klaus for whatever reason would leave Jack with nothing.

• They never openly admit or display their own opinions on ANYTHING, ALWAYS agreeing with what Klaus says, even if they internally don’t agree in the slightest.

• Jack is actually jealous of Clyde & Winfrey with how strong their relationship is. Klaus may hate the two for being mushy & annoying, but Jack hates them because they can’t stand seeing the two doing much better & being far happier than Jack is.

• For killing, they are usually (in their box form) carefully placed in specific situations where Klaus knows there won’t be any unnecessary witnesses that they can’t catch. Once they’re confident their victim(a) are close enough that they can’t get away, Jack springs into action, preferring to chomp down on the victim’s skull or one of their limbs to incapacitate them so Klaus can come in & either watch them slowly pass or finish the job himself.

• Jack is NOT sadistic like Klaus is, but does not mind killing either because they just see it as a norm at this point. Like… yeah, they’re bummed they can’t eat what they hunt half the time, but it’s just how life do be, so they just roll with it.

• Jack can imitate a plethora of noises, particularly more industrial & mechanical sounding noises such as radio static or *metal pipe sound effect* JWOWKDOWKDOEFK

• They do not eat real food too often, but when they do, they prefer pizza. Doesn’t matter what’s on it.

Simon:

• Even though he never really talk when on his own or with the Flock, he CAN talk. He even happily welcomes any visitors that stop by if they ever catch on that he’s alive.

• Since be chooses to stay at the same farm that Simon Lankmann lived, he doesn’t get much word on what’s happening with the other Veldigun or… just anything in general unless he’s directly told shit by someone else.

• He can sympathize with pretty much ALL the other Veldigun (some more than others… Klaus being at the very bottom of that list for good reason) & do not resent them for continuing to consume the minds of people. He’ll still try to persuade them otherwise, but he’s still pretty accepting of all of them (except for Klaus). He definitely feels bad for Jack the most, always encouraging the big guy to come visit more often but Jack rarely ever takes the deal, fearing what Klaus would do if he ever found out about it.

• He enjoys the taste of corn, which he likes to share with the Flock as well… who will just down the whole ear. Overall, Simon loves any kind of edible vegetation.

• Only VERY FEW have seen what he looks like UNDER the cloth… & you, the reader, are not one of em, so I’m not describing what they look like to you. >:))))))))))

The Flock

• It’s not the brightest, but it can recognize a friendly face from a threat & will act accordingly. For instance, if it knows you’re a friend, it is GOING to demand pets. It’s inevitable. If you are an asshole doing asshole things, it’s going to peck at your head until you fuckin beat it.

• It enjoys eating corn, but it untimately prefers slices of bread. Why? Cause in the off chance that it gets spotted & acts cute enough, there’s gonna be some poor saps who feed it bread every now & again & give the big guy attention, & the Flock LOVES that. It loves receiving bread from kind strangers who don’t know any better. Popcorn also suffices.

• It has the ability to mimic noises like Jack can, but instead of anything industrial, it’s particularly animal noises as well as SOME human phrases, even if it doesn’t actually mean the phrases it sometimes says. So yes, you CAN teach the Flock to say “Fuck”, but Simon isn’t going to be too happy about it. NWIWKDOWOKDM

Lankmann

•

•

•

•

• Linda didn’t NEED to die. He could’ve just let Clyde be contained & gotten all the information he needed to kill these things for good. But he didn’t. Someone was getting too close to the truth, someone he couldn’t just make “disappear”. He needed a way to cover his tracks & be rid of the evidence. It just so happened that Clyde came at QUITE the opportune time. Linda wasn’t that talented of a doctor anyway. No one was going to miss her.

Zamn.

Anyway, I might update this if I think of more headcanons to add in the future, but this is all for now! Thanks for reading!

:)

#doai #dreams of an insomniac #cd au #doai cd au #pastra #pastraspec #Clyde #doai clyde #Pastra clyde #Winfrey #doai winfrey #Pastra winfrey #Clinfrey #Clyde x winfrey #Klaus #Jack #doai jack #Simon #doai simon #Pastra Simon #the flock #flock #doai flock #lankmann #tw death #tw mention of death

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  MuseumGiftShopEraser! They have 9 works on AO3 in the Stranger Things Fandom, and 6 of those are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @museumgiftshoperaser:

Paint the Devil on the Wall

Conversations About Love

Now I'm A Stranger

An Exercise In Denial

Baby, You Were Meant To Follow Me

Her fics are BEAUTIFUL. When I first read Paint the Devil on the Wall I was so obsessed I immediately recced the fic to everyone I knew who would be vaguely interested in a steddie fic. -- anonymous

Below the cut, @museumgiftshoperaser answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I stumbled into it immediately after season 4 came out. I’ve felt very attached to Steve as a character from the beginning of the show and I think I was subconsciously waiting for someone to pair him up with. I think they’re both such great characters to explore themes of dealing with expectation (either by conforming, or fighting against it) and that’s something I always love to write about.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Absolute sucker for fake dating. Can’t get enough of it.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Enemies to lovers! Though now that I’m looking through my AO3 I haven’t actually written that much of it. It doesn’t have to be very intense enemies, though. I just like it when characters don’t immediately get along.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

My brain has been forever rewired by took you for a working boy by pukner. It’s such a gentle, nuanced queer story. It feels vulnerable to me in a way that really only fanfiction can be. Can I sneak in another one?? Because everyone should also absolutely read the shame is on the other side by scoops_ahoy. It taps into this very specific kind of queer compartmentalizing, that I’ve never seen written this well. It broke my heart and patched it right back up.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I’ve been stupidly busy with my masters lately so there’s probably not a lot of writing on my horizon. I do have a wip called Doll that I’m slowly chipping away at. It’s a little darker than stuff I’ve written before. I know ‘dark’ isn’t really a trope, but I’m excited to see if I can push these characters a little further. 

What is your writing process like?

Absolute chaos. I write non-chronologically, without an outline, all in the same document. I keep writing snippets and scenes until the whole thing slowly comes together. 

Do you have any writing quirks?

Italicizing words for emphasis. I love it so much, you can rip it from my cold dead hands. It accidentally makes its way into my academic writing for my degree sometimes which is a little embarrassing, but I just love the flair of it. 

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

I don’t really do schedules, it doesn’t work for me at all. I try to make sure I have a decent amount of the story written before I start posting to give me a bit of a head start, but forcing myself to finish something by a certain date is a surefire way to kill my motivation.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Probably Paint the Devil on the Wall. It was the first time I’d written the entire story before I started posting so it went through way more rounds of editing than normal. I think you can really tell. It’s also the longest story I’ve ever written (in general, even outside of fanfic). The whole project gave me a lot of confidence as a writer.

How did you get the idea for Paint the Devil on the Wall?

I knew I wanted to participate in the Bigbang and the deadline was coming up, but I still didn’t have an idea. I decided to work backwards and try to think of something that would be fun for the artist(s) to draw. I had a vision of Eddie wearing dungarees without a shirt, absolutely covered in paint and I knew I had to write something to make it happen. I set the story in 80s New York because neo expressionism is really the only kind of art I could see Eddie making. I think it suits him very well. I do actually have a background in art, though! I’m currently getting my MFA, but I’ve worked full time as an artist for several years before that. I had a lot of fun working my passion for art (and all those art history classes I had to take) into the fic.

When writing Paint the Devil on the Wall, what was something you didn’t expect?

All of Steve’s character, to be honest. The fic is written from Eddie’s POV and for a large part of it he has a very hard time figuring out what Steve’s deal is. Right alongside him, I also had an incredibly hard time figuring out his character. It wasn’t until I was working on the final chapter that he finally clicked for me. I realized very late, just like Eddie, that Steve liked him from the very beginning. Most of the enemies to lovers premise was all in Eddie’s head.

What inspired Now I'm a Stranger?

Oh boy, that was forever ago! I remember I started writing it while I was camping with friends because I liked having something to do after everyone went to bed at night. I think I had the idea for that very first scene where Steve doesn’t remember Eddie and it all sort of spiraled from there.

What was your favorite part to write from An Exercise in Denial?

That was the very first fic I wrote, right after season 4 came out! I’ve never written something that fast, I think the whole thing took me less than a week. My favorite part was probably Robin being completely exasperated with both of them. They’re such complete idiots in that fic.

How do/did you feel writing Baby, You Were Meant To Follow Me?

Ahhh… I never got around to finishing that one. I probably never will, to be honest. I wrote the first two parts quite quickly and then the idea I had for the plot spiraled out of control and I realized I didn’t actually feel like writing the rest of it. There were going to be a lot of misunderstandings and I learned that I find that an incredibly frustrating trope to write (when done for drama at least. For comedy, I’m a sucker for misunderstandings.) So I guess I felt a little in over my head.

What was the most difficult part of writing Conversations About Love?

The ending! That fic is so incredibly personal to me and I knew from the beginning that I wanted it to have a very sappy, happy ending. It was important to me to write an aromantic character getting everything they wanted, but I realized as I was writing it that I don’t actually fully know what that means. So it took a bit more soul searching than fics typically do, but it was very much worth it. 

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I still think the short little prologue for Paint the Devil on the Wall is the best thing I’ve written. “You don’t draw on things that aren’t yours, baby” is probably the best summary I have for that story.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Not really!

Thank you to our author, @museumgiftshoperaser, and our anonymous nominator! See more of @museumgiftshoperaser works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

#writer's wednesday #steddie #steddie fic recs #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #ao3 writer #steddie writers