#and jon and the rest are fucking sweating

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

For the questions for fic writers, 49 and 50 please?

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

I've been bouncing back and forth between the last chapter of toy rosaries and the next chapter of nhthcth. Here's a few lines of toy rosaries:

Not two seconds later, they notice him gawping down at them like a fool. The man in the mask freezes. Claire jabs a finger at him like she’s tattling to the recess monitor. 

“He says this guy kidnapped a kid and we need him to tell us where he is.” 

Oh, so there’s where he kept the Devil. He hadn’t felt it in some time. But it’s right there, next to the pit in his chest. It seems comfortable as it finds its way up his pulse. 

“I’ve got a pair of pliers,” says Jack, jerking his head back from where he came. “If that’ll help.”

50. Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!

Let's do this one: 17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

Okay so I have one for TMA and one for Marvel.

TMA: Danny, Jon, and Gerry Buzzfeed Unsolved AU. Jon runs into Agnes Montague while at Oxford, and it changes things. He goes on the run from the Web, picks up an amnesiac man he semi-accidentally rescued from some fucked up circus freaks, starts running even faster. They find a kind goth who joins them in their scooby adventures, because Jon is HIGHLY susceptible to serial killers and Gerry is kind enough to help him escape being bookified. They end up starting a ghost hunting YouTube channel, Ghost Hunt--not to be confused with Ghost Hunt UK, who hates them on a profound level--to cover up their monster hunting supernatural shenanigans. It gains immense popularity--because of Jon's skepticism about the existence of supernatural.

Marvel: the idea is that there are many Peter Parker's in the Multiverse, and the Collector just wants the one that no one would miss. A very lonely version of Peter gets nabbed right when he's starting off his Spider-Man career, before anyone even knows the name, by a Collector who's decided he's the centerpiece of his collection. This one is so dramatic. There's TRAUMA. There's SPACE. There's a GLADIATOR ARENA. There's MIND GAMES. the REVENGERS are there. And, Yes, I found a way for the Frank Castle's dead family to be there too. This is yet another one of my defridging the castle family stories. I am obsessed with this AU and it is so ridiculously niche. If anyone wants to ever read a space odyssey featuring Peter Parker and the Punisher's dead family, by fucking god, i have you covered.

#i want you to know in the buzzfeed unsolved au there's a meme about how the ghost hunt boys are actually secret monster hunters #because of all of the people who insist that the ghost hunt boys saved them from supernatural monster #and jon and the rest are fucking sweating #danny is the camera man on account of there's a bunch of fucked up clowns who want his spectacular skin #they don't want to give clues as to his location #the web knows where they are at all times no matter what they do #and gerrys mom doesn't know how to use a computer #so jon and gerry get to be the hosts #melanie is absolutely VIBRATING becuase these guys are besmirching the ghost hunting profession #and also people keep confusing the names #meanwhile jon and gerry in peter lukas's apartment complex trying to save the world: sometimes the real horror is capitalism #lets talk building code violations #*in a haunted building that's trying to bring the apocalypse* this isn't haunted we just need to marie kondo this space and sue the manager #in the peter parker one peter stole mjolner from the collector #ned gets it every second tuesday and on christmas to keep in his room as the world's sickest knickknack #thor's like 'haha are you. are you not using it for anything else. is it. could someone else maybe use it better. maybe--' #and everyone's else like 'thor stop trying to wheedle mjolner back from the plainly traumatized child' #i don't know why i'm so obsessed with the castle family but maria castle has a space gun and a bestie relationship with matt Murdock #matt's a smug asshole about it to #he comes over and maria's like 'MATTY' and Matt's like fully picking her up and twirling her around like HI BEST FRIEND and franks like >:( #i am so fucking convinced that matt and maria castle would be best fucking friends and i will put it in everything i can #why do i care so much about these two universes

[fic-over-cannon]

Candy Necklaces

jason todd x gn!reader

ao3 link

summary: you and jason get matching necklaces

tags: implied smut

rating mature (mdni) | wc: 0.5k

Jason would love seeing his initial around your neck, but he would secretly love wearing the first letter of your name even more. The necklaces are an anniversary gift, the two of you picking them out together. The letter pendants are small, on a chain longe enough that it can easily be tucked out of the way and into clothing if needed. You don’t mention how he goes a little teary eyed as you fix the clasp around his neck, the way his arms come around your waist as he leans down to kiss you slowly. The next few weeks you keep catching him staring at your chest and the little J that rests there, a little catch in his breath every time the glint of gold catches his eye.

It becomes a habit for Jason to play with his necklace. Pinching the pendant between his thumb, running it back and forth on its chain. There’s a warm glow in his belly at this proof of affection. That he’s yours and you’re his. It never really goes away, that feeling. It’s why he hates taking it off so much.

The only time Jason ever takes off his necklace is for patrol. Just the thought of losing it, of having it get torn off during a fight, is enough to open up a yawning cavern in his chest. Every night that the Red Hood appears, Jason adds his necklace to yours for safe keeping. Likes seeing the two necklaces together around your throat, safe, and knowing that you’ll watch over this part of him until he comes home.

Jason gets a little obsessed with watching the necklace swing as he thrusts into you. He gets a little hypnotized by it, moving his hips and body to get it to swing in different ways. You have to gently tug on his pendant to bring him back to you, pull him into a kiss. He’d make it a habit to kiss you silly, then trail kisses down your neck. His favourite look for you is wearing nothing but his name around your neck and you deserve to know exactly how much he appreciates it. He loves mouthing at your metal J where it rests on your sternum, glued to your skin with the light sweat of exertion.

Nearly six months later, after an anniversary date for the night you met, you present Jason with a little white box. Inside are two matching T pendants, the same kind as your necklaces. You tell him, “I think my name looks lonely without a “Todd’ after it.”

It takes him three days and a comment from Tim to figure out that that was you proposing to him. Sends him running for his favourite (civilian) leather jacket and the inside breast pocket where he’s been carrying around a ring for months.

“Were you serious?”

“…You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that Jason.”

“About making your last name ‘Todd’.”

“Oh, always.”

“Then I’ve got a question to ask you properly.”

The two of you wear your matching jewelry to the wedding, the Ts added to them. And if Jason fucks you a little harder, a little sweeter, at the sight of a JT at the hollow of your throat and the ring on your finger, well, that’s for you to enjoy.

#shoutout to jasonsmirrorball for letting me rant about this hc to her #ily ro #jason todd x gender neutral reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd headcanon #jason todd fic #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jason todd #implied smut #mdni #sunnie writes 🌻 #Spotify

[bellysoupset]

can you write a fic where jon thinks that he screwed up an important test and gets super anxious so much so that on results day he’s puking and refusing to eat until he gets the results only to realize that he did amazing? and caretaker leo

Leo was really cozy, his head buried in the pillows. He could vaguely feel JD purring against his stomach, her little body pressed up against his and moving with her breathing as she slept. The room was cold, but he was warm and he didn't want to get up at all.

Vaguely he wondered why he had even woken up, hand reaching out blindly for Jonah's shoulder... And met nothing. Leo frowned in his sleep, before a noise caused him to open his eyes in alarm.

Jonah throwing up.

Leo raised his head, "Jon?" he called, slightly alarmed. His boyfriend wasn't in bed, but the bathroom door was open, hence the loud noise. Still sleep drunk, Leo stumbled out of the bed and into the bathroom.

Jonah was standing in front of the toilet, one hand planted to the wall before him, half bent at the waist as he spat the sour taste in his mouth. Leo frowned, rubbing his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

Instead of answering him, Jon swallowed convulsively, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to keep from throwing up again. Leo yawned, holding a fist in front of his mouth and sleepily trying to make sense of the situation.

This clearly wasn't vertigo, so his brain was struggling to find it in it to worry.

"Did you eat something off?" Leo asked, his voice still raspy, walking further in and grabbing the glass they left on top of the sink to wash their mouths, filling it up with water.

Jonah's shoulders were trembling, but there was no heat radiating from him. Quite the opposite, he was cold to the touch. Only then did Leo realize his boyfriend was shirtless.

"Why in tarnation are you shirtless, Jon?"

Jonah let out a chuckle, that quickly turned into a whimper as he pressed his eyes to the inner part of his arm that was resting on the wall, "it was suffocating me."

"What's wrong, baby?" Leo was slightly more awake now, "are you done here? Can you come back to bed?"

"Which question you want me to answer?" Jonah scoffed, flushing the toilet and pulling back. He still looked dangerously grey, sweat collection on top of his lip as he leaned over the sink to wash his mouth.

"Uhm, you're fine," Leo concluded with a yawn, planting a hand in the middle of his back and rubbing up and down, "let's go back to bed, I'll rub your tummy. You can snuggle with JD."

"Told you..." Jonah let out a little soft burp and cringed, closing his eyes, "t'stop... letting her on the bed."

"Shhh, don't even think about it," Leo grinned, rolling his eyes and pressing his thumb and index to the back of Jonah's neck, rubbing gentle circles there, "poor baby."

"Shut the fuck up," Jonah groaned, without any heat to his voice, sounding almost a little embarrassed. His tentative smile slipped out as he mumbled a soft, "oh no," and lurched back to the toilet, this time dropping to his knees as he heaved.

Leo felt a little more awake now, as he crouched down next to his boyfriend and rubbed his back, coaxing him to breathe. Nothing came up but a few specks of spit and some burps, but Jonah was still panting as his stomach calmed down.

"Jon?" Leo brushed his curls back from his forehead, pressing his hand to it, "baby, talk with me? You're freaking me out here."

Jonah let out a groan, pulling back from the toilet and forcing himself back up again, this time swaying a little, enough that Leo grabbed his bicep to steady him.

"Jon-"

"I'm okay," he interrupted, leaning over the sink and swishing water around in his mouth, before spitting it out again, "my stomach's just a mess, I'm fine, I swear."

"Listen to yourself," Leo rolled his eyes, tugging at his arm, "come to bed, it's freezing here. What's wrong with your stomach?"

"It's just nerves," Jon allowed Leo to push him sitting on the bed and hunched over, wrapping an arm around his stomach. Unlike when he ate something off, there was no puffiness whatsoever.

Leo frowned, turning around to grab Jon something else to wear and settling for a thick creamy cardigan, it buttoned up and had a v-neck that wouldn't suffocate him, "here, put this on before you catch your death."

"That's not how contagion works at all," Jonah mumbled, but put the cardigan on, before shuddering with the cold, "I'm fine, stop looking at me like that."

"Like you just threw up your guts?"

"It was nowhere near that much."

Leo wrinkled his nose, crawling on the bed and falling on his side. He opened a pleased smile as JD immediately moved closer to him, so she could curl up near his neck.

"Lie down," Leo said, grabbing the back of Jonah's cardigan, "c'mon, lie down."

Jon groaned, slipping under the blankets and rolling closer, so he could press the top of his head to Leo's shoulder meeting the mattress, starting to gently pet JD and causing her eyes to close into little lines.

"She's purring like crazy," Leo smiled, turning his head so he could press his lips to Jon's temple, "what are you thinking about that's so horrible it made you sick?"

"The residency roll out is going to be today," Jonah mumbled, clearly not wanting to even think about it, "so I'll know if I got into cardiology or not..." his voice drifted off and Leo let out a huff.

"And you're worried? Baby, you're the best of your class," he rolled his eyes, squeezing Jonah a little tighter, "you could've gotten in any residency, Jon."

"I don't know, I think I kinda fucked the interview," Jonah rolled away, flat on his back and grabbed JD, pulling her to snuggle on top of him. The cat let out an indignant meow, slapping his chin lightly with her paw and then moving so she could curl up near his armpit, huffing.

"Fucked the interview?"

"I'm not the most likeable person," Jonah said and although he was trying to be nonchalant about it, he sounded quite bothered. Leo frowned, moving closer so he could cup Jon's face.

"You're not nearly as mean as you wanna think you are," he said, glaring at his boyfriend, "all you have is a chronic case of resting bitch face, you're one of the most caring people I know and you're a brilliant doctor. They'll take you in, Jon."

Jonah's brows dipped and he shrugged, looking scarily close to tears before he nodded and turned his head slightly, hiding it on the pillow "can we just cuddle?" he asked in a small voice and Leo promptly wrapped his arms and legs around him, like an octopus.

"Absolutely," Leo smiled, squeezing him and Jon let out a little groan at being squished like that, squirming so they could hug properly.

It was still really early on Saturday morning and Leo found himself starting to float in and out of conscience, still stroking Jon's back, occasionally letting his hand stop near where JD was purring in her sleep.

He felt Jonah slump into his arms, starting to relax, but then Leo' stomach interrupted them both by growling loudly. They were pressed together, so there was no pretending Jon didn't hear it.

"You should go eat," he said, pulling back and Leo squeezed his shoulders, keeping him put.

"I'm fine, really," he said, stopping Jon from breaking apart in the hug. Jonah let out a soft chuckle, removing Leo's arms from around him.

"Go eat."

"Urgh," Leo groaned, sitting up and rubbing his own stomach. It was hollow, completely empty, "fine. What do you want from the kitchen?"

"Nothing," Jonah shook his head, gulping down, "I'm good."

"You're still nauseous?" Leo frowned, reaching for him and cupping Jon's cheeks, "baby, you have to eat something, you already got sick, you'll just make the nausea worse if you don't."

Jonah grimaced, sitting up on the bed and nodding. Instead of answering Leo, he got up and silently followed him to the kitchen, JD following him closely, playing the hem of his pants.

Leo walked straight to the fridge. He hadn't realized he was hungry, but now that he was aware of it, it felt like he was starving. He pulled out a cartoon of eggs, some cheese, milk and butter, before looking over his shoulder.

"Grab me a bowl, would you?" he asked, eyeing Jonah up and down.

It was so wild that Jon was stressing this much about getting in, when it was pretty much a given that he would. Leo had already bought his gift, a beautiful thick white coat with Dr. Jonah Banks, MD embroidered to the right side of his chest, with space under for his specialty and his initials embroidered on the cuffs.

"Here," Jonah passed him a small bowl and then leaned against the kitchen sink as Leo cracked the eggs and started beating the ingredients together, "what if I don't get in?"

Leo frowned, the thought hadn't ever occurred to him. In his mind Jonah was already matched and working. He continued whisking the eggs as he turned to look at Jon, "then you apply next year again, babe and you can keep working at the hospital even if you don't get a residency."

"If I'm hired," Jonah said forlornly, wrapping an arm around his stomach, "which I wouldn't be, because who's gonna want a denied resident."

"You're not even graduated yet and you already have people who specifically ask for you at the ER," Leo rolled his eyes, "they'd be silly not to hire you and if they don't, there's other places you can work at. A million clinics."

"I need to have a residency for those," Jonah grumbled and Leo cringed at him finding every viable obstacle to justify his panic.

"Not for all of them. Besides, this is not a conversation we should even be having, because you'll get in. I already know it," he poured the omelet mixture in the frying pan and then moved closer to Jonah, grabbing the front of his cardigan, "take a deep breath, Jon."

Jonah obeyed, ducking his head so Leo couldn't see his eyes and then blonde let out a sigh, leaning in and pressing a haphazard kiss to Jonah's brow, "I believe in you."

"I think I'm gonna throw up again," Jonah answered instead of acknowledging Leo's words, wrapping both arms around his stomach, "I really don't feel well."

"Go sit down by the couch, I'll bring you some tea and your vertigo cookies. They should be bland enough," Leo eyed the frying pan, one hand going up Jon's back without any thought behind it.

Jonah nodded, quietly, moving away and JD let out a meow, confused as of why everyone was in the kitchen and not filling up her bowl.

"Here, you spoiled cat. Breakfast for you too," Leo scoffed, crouching down to fill her bowl up and pressing a kiss between her ears. He folded the omelet, leaving it to finish cooking and put the kettle on, sorting through the box where Jonah kept all his tea packets.

Leo couldn't remember the last time he had drunk tea, but Jonah, in true English fashion, had it almost every day, when he was not chugging coffee. Lately he was drinking more coffee than tea.

He found the peppermint one and then tilted his body back, so he could look at Jon in the living room. He was curled up on his side on the couch, as if watching television, except the TV was turned off. Leo sighed, it broke his heart to see him so unbelieving on himself, it wasn't like Jonah at all.

"Here, angel," Leo said a couple minutes later, handing Jonah a mug filled with tea and some biscuits, while sitting down holding his own plate. Jonah curled up further so Leo could sit right next to him and took a gulp of the tea, eyeing the omelet with disgust.

"Thanks," he said, nibbling at the biscuits with grimace, "my father will be insufferable if I don't get in the residency."

Leo's eyebrows shot up. He could count in one hand the amount of times in the almost two years they had been together, that Jon had mentioned his father. And it had never been like this, never like his dad actually held any impact in Jonah's life, his words were always amused or simply uninterested.

"Your dad?"

"He was first of his class. Honors graduate from Harvard University," Jonah curled up even more, taking another sip of his tea, "of course he got in his residency first thing, too."

Leo's curiosity was piqued, but he tried not to press for details no matter how much he wanted to. Jon wasn't looking so well and he was worried asking a bunch of questions wouldn't help.

"Uhm... Is he coming next week? For graduation?"

Jonah nodded quietly, then planted a hand in the middle of his chest, massaging it as if a burp was stuck, "Jackie posted all over her Instagram that she's coming, so of course he's coming too."

"Of course," Leo agreed, as if he was in the gossip, "you said they don't like each other."

"That's a way of saying it," Jonah grimaced, then muffled a little sick burp against his fist, "at least Jackie seems genuinely excited about me graduating, Jasper is just..." he made a face, then swallowed thickly.

"Jon-"

"And if I don't get in the residency, then he's going to blow a casket and I normally don't care what he thinks, but it's just- I'm a better doctor than he is. I give a shit. I'm a better person than he is, it's not fucking fair-"

"Babe, calm do-"

"And he's going to make a huge fuss with Jackie too and knowing mom she'll throw the biggest tantrum, which will ruin graduation... That's assuming they'll even show up if I don't get-" he interrupted himself with a sharp gag and Leo, who had already put away his plate in prediction of this, jumped to help.

The next gag morphed into a burp halfway through and regurgitated tea splashed all over Jonah's hands, his half filled mug... He heaved again and more vomit covered his lap.

Leo let out a whine, carefully taking the disgusting mug from him and the ruined cookies that were covered in vomit and trying his best not to gag in disgust. He dumped it all in the sink, before rushing back to the living room.

Jon had wrapped an arm around his belly, his pants had soaked the tea vomit through, so now there was just a big wet spot and a stain at the bottom of his cardigan.

"Aw Jon..." Leo sighed, crouching next to him and using the dishcloth to wipe at his chin and hands, "you're okay, I got you..."

Jon shook his head, his throat working nervously, "still think I'm gonna puke..."

"Okay, okay, can you stand?" Leo wrapped a hand around his arm and Jonah allowed him to pull himself up. Leo meant to take him back to the suite, but Jonah stumbled in the guest bathroom since it was closer, falling down to his knees and pushing the lid open just in time to cough up the rest of the tea.

"Maybe tea was a bad idea..." Leo whispered, lowering himself too and rubbing Jon's back, "it's okay, get it up, then we can go back to bed..."

Jonah heaved again, but his stomach was empty. He let out a whine and Leo wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him closer, "shhh, baby, I got you."

He heard a hiccup, which quickly morphed into a sob and Jon pressed against him, hiding his face on Leo's arm as he tried valiantly not to cry.

"Hey..." Leo hugged him closer, "Jon, you can cry if you want to, it's okay..."

"I'm not gonna cry," Jonah scoffed, although his voice was choked up and Leo let out a huff.

"I cry in front of you all the time," he squeezed the other man, "it's okay, baby..."

A little sniffle answered him, but other than that, just Jonah's difficult breathing as he tried to work through the nausea and nervousness. Across the house Leo heard his phone going off and he stiffened up, so did Jon.

"I gotta pick up..." he said, his voice all hoarse and Leo rolled his eyes.

"No, you don't-"

"I do, what if it's the University?" Jonah rested an elbow on the toilet, spitting inside of it and looking even more pale.

"I'll get your phone, stay here," Leo said, springing up. It was not the university.

Wendy's name was displayed across the front, so Leo picked it up without thinking.

"Wendy, now's not a good time-"

"JON!?" Wendy sounded breathless as she yelled in the phone and Leo cringed, pulling back from the device.

"No, it's Leo. Jonah's not-"

"LEO!" Wendy squealed again, "WHERE'S JON! HE GOT IN! HE GOT IN!!"

Leo's heart plummeted down and he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his voice low, "how do you know that...?"

Wendy was giggling, her excitement was contagious, "I came to the University to get my results and I met with Dr. Stewarts in the hallway and he's the supervisor for cardiology and he asked if Jonah had seen his email, because he got in!! HE GOT IN!!"

"Oh shit, I- I'll call you back, Wendy. I'll have Jon call you," Leo said, his heart starting to hammer away as excitement washed over him too, "bye, thank you, love you-bye," he mumbled the words, hanging up without hearing her answer and then skipped back to the bathroom.

While he was away, Jonah had somehow managed to curl up in an even smaller ball near the toilet and he barely glanced up as he heard Leo enter the bathroom again.

"I didn't get it, right?" he said in a little voice and Leo nearly screamed as he dived down to pull Jonah into a hug.

"YOU GOT IN!" He exclaimed, nearly deafening his boyfriend and pulled back, pressing a kiss over his lips, puke breath be damned. Jonah was still confused, as he pulled back.

"Leo?"

"YOU GOT IN! Wendy just called, Stewarts told her! You got in, Jonah!" Leo rattled him like a toy and Jonah let out a squeak, finally realizing what he was saying.

"I got in!?"

"YES!" Leo shook him again, "you did, of course you did! I knew you would!"

He did not expect Jonah to burst into tears. Leo froze, alarmed, as Jonah's frown cleared up and big fat tears sprung up.

"Oh baby, c'mere-" Leo wrapped his arms around him and Jonah hugged him back immediately, continuing to cry, "shhh- I know, it's a lot..." he smiled, squeezing Jon against him.

Jonah tried to say something, but all that came out was incoherent gibberish and he settled for simply returning the hug, as Leo rocked them and kissed the side of his head over and over.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he whispered, squeezing Jonah until the other man let out a choked up chuckle and said he couldn't breathe.

#mywriting #sickfic #emetophilia #emeto #nervous sickness #nerves #jonah banks #Fluff! #hurt/comfort

[love-kurdt]

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 20

word count: 1066

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

April 22, 1989

Dear Will,

Prom is tonight. And I’m not going. It’s fine. I’m fine. I made up my mind a whole month ago and have been able to withstand the borderline harassment of our friends telling me that I’m gonna regret this decision for the rest of my life and would be better off just going without a date because it doesn’t matter if I have a date or not and it’s the experience that counts and Lucas said you’re going to be there so I should go too and fuck I regret this so much.

What time is it…? Why I’m writing down the question instead of just checking my fucking watch, I don’t know. It’s 5:30pm, prom starts at 6, and you probably haven’t left your house yet. And why I’m writing about the my suit being presentable enough instead of just going to my closet to check is so fucking counterproductive and

—

It was like a movie, the way I bolted out of the house in my dress slacks and suit jacket with half-tied converse, the laces billowing behind me in the wind as I biked through the neighborhood as fast as I could to your house. I should’ve just taken my car, but of course I had to bring all of my own rom-com fantasies to life. You know, like the Big Chase scene where the guy runs through the airport, praying that it isn’t too late to confess his love to the girl that nearly got away. But alas, I am no athlete, so this unfortunately came with the consequence of looking like a sweaty rat by the time I reached your driveway. Thankfully, you and El were still there, taking photos with Jonathan on the front steps. I haphazardly thrust my bike onto the curb and sprinted up to you as fast as my legs could carry me.

“Will!” I shouted, suddenly conscious of how I hadn’t prepared anything to say to you. My actions always have spoken louder than my words, which is concerning, considering the fact that I’m planning to become a writer once we’re out of high school. So I ran across your front lawn, and I stopped in my tracks when I noticed the surprised looks on Jonathan and El’s faces, the worried look on your own, and the confused expressions on Joyce and Hop’s.

“Hey, Mike,” Jonathan’s eyebrows furrowed together as I gasped for air.

“Hey, Jon,” I replied, leaning forward until my palms rested on my knees as I panted. I acknowledged everyone else, and then looked back up at you, standing back up and running my hand through my hair. The sweat clung to my hand, which I wiped on my slacks with a grimace. “Hey,” I said, “Yeah, so, uh– Will. Dude. Buddy. Do you want to go to the prom with me?”

There was a beat of silence that followed, and I felt the urge to cut my own tongue out. Before I could actually act on my impulse, you walked down the stairs and took a few more steps in my direction. “I thought you weren’t going,” you said, crossing your arms against your chest. I shook my head, shoving my hands in my pockets.

“I changed my mind. Lucas told me–” I began, but trailed off before I gave myself away. You could never know about how Lucas convinced me to go to prom on the sole basis of your attendance. That would’ve been humiliating.

“He told you what?” you prompted me to continue, taking another step forward so we were less than a foot apart.

“Just that everyone else was going, and that I was a weirdo for not wanting to go as well.”

“He’s not wrong,” you smirked up at me, and I lightly smacked your shoulder, feigning offense. “But, like,” you went on, “now that you’re actually coming to prom with us, doesn’t that mean you’re going with me already?”

Against my better judgment, I reached out and adjusted your shirt collar against the lapels of your suit. You looked up at me in mild shock, but hey, at least I didn’t kiss you. “I mean, I was asking if you wanted to go to prom with me as my date.”

Your face turned a beautiful shade of pink, and you stammered out, “I–I’m not sure if we’d be allowed to do that.”

“Come on,” I pleaded, “We’d be going as friends, they can’t kick us out for that.”

Another moment of silence bloomed between us like the yellow flower in your jacket pocket. You picked at your nails in contemplation. “Fine,” you relented with a smirk, “I guess I could go as your prom date… buddy.”

“I just know you’re never gonna let me live that down,” I whined, and you just laughed.

“Damn straight,” you agreed, and I refrained from making a gay joke on account of, oh I don’t know, outing myself. You put my bike in your garage while I was caught up on the plan for transportation, which was Lucas’ parents’ minivan, which would be there in a few minutes to pick us up. Needless to say, everyone was shocked when I climbed into the van.

Prom was pretty lame, and we all ended up leaving early and going back to your house, but I honestly don’t give a single flying fuck, because we actually got to dance together. I repeat: we actually got to dance together. The music had slowed down, everyone was finding their respective dates, and I was just about to leave the dance floor for my impending Closet Pity Party™ when you grabbed my wrist, pulling me closer to you and placing your hands on my hips. “What’s the point of prom if you don’t have at least one slow dance?” you asked, and I tried my best to appear as nonchalant as possible by shrugging. Meanwhile, I was, like, one second away from dying of happiness. It was dark enough I could get away with putting my hands on your shoulders, and you became a bit more confident with the way your hands gripped my waist as we swayed back and forth to the music. I’m grinning so hard while writing this. I think this has been the best night of my life by far. I hope this feeling lasts forever.

Love,

Mike

-

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[marrowfrog00]

You Stir My Natural Emotions

A/N: Hi, this is a post I made a while back on my Ao3 and since I'm dragging ass on writing anything new...I thought I'd rest on my barely-there, crusty, dusty ass laurels until inspiration strikes or I put my back into actualizing my idea-rs.

CW: MDNI, Smut (characters are 18+), Mentions of Trauma, Broken Bones, Misunderstandings, Idiots in Love, Quarreling, Canon Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Descriptions of female anatomy, Oral (f receiving), P in V, Protected Sex, Adaptive Sex, Mentions of deceased grandmother, Not formatted b/c fuck that r.n., lmk if I missed anything

wc: 13.9k

Steve’s polo was pasted to his back with the sweat of high Midwestern summer. He glanced back at his Bimmer, parked behind Nancy’s station wagon, more than a little uneasy at the prospect of leaving it on the narrow shoulder of the county road. 

His destination, an unauthorized swimming hole with a somewhat rickety, decommissioned dock, didn’t have a proper parking space. Not like the well kept county-owned lakeside park on the other side of the water. That spot had designated parking but would no doubt be littered with desperate, unadventurous families trying to beat the heat. 

People unlike his friends, who frequented the busted but perfectly functional East shore of the lake. 

He bushwhacked through noxious weeds and nettles, feet seeking out the half-worn path that would take him to the meeting spot. He reached the little bluff, where he had to cut little switchbacks to make it down the hill without breaking his ankle. When he reached the last tree stand he heard the rowdy voices of his friends carry across the shallows of the lake. 

And just in time, too - the polyester and mesh of his swim trunks were chafing him under his Jordache jeans. 

He could see the backs of Robin’s and Eddie’s heads in low seat beach chairs. They were clandestinely passing a flask between them while Nancy and Jon sat on a blanket beside them, Nancy rubbing sunblock on her boyfriend’s shoulders, pausing to push her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. 

She noticed Steve’s approach, head shooting up with a bright smile. “Hey! You made it!”

Eddie, Robin and Jon’s heads shot up in reaction, each of them shooting him a half-enthused greeting.

“What took you so long, dingus?” Robin crowed, clearly half-tipsy.

Steve scoffed, pulling his polo over his head and tossing it by the cooler. 

“Well, someone called out today and I had to stay on an extra hour and a half at the store waiting for coverage,” he sniped back with no heat. Robin blew a raspberry at him.

“Strip down, Big Boy, you’re wasting daylight,” Eddie shot lazily. He stretched out on his beach chair, limbs quaking at full extension like those of a freshly-awakened cat. His chest was on full display, the white cast of badly-applied sunblock streaked across his tummy.

Steve rolled his eyes - there was nothing if not daylight to waste, the sun smiling at them all meanly from high in the sky.

 He shuffled his jeans down his legs before kicking them in Eddie’s face, who expertly dodged the attack with a guffaw.

Over on the dock, Max and El lay shoulder-to-shoulder on their stomachs, giggling over a glossy magazine while Mike and Lucas hollered off the edge, filling their super soakers from the dock’s edge. Will was buried in a sketch pad, toes dipped in the water.

Steve’s hands were planted on his hips as he did a quick headcount. A force of habit these days. He narrowed his eyes in search of the missing two. 

“Where are Dustin and Teenie?” he asked, noting suspicion in his own voice. The very two people he always had eyes on (if he could help it) were missing from this idyllic tableau. Nancy craned her neck to look toward the lake. 

“They’re in the water,” she said as if it were obvious. “They’ve been in there forever.” 

Steve felt his stomach clench uneasily but tried to school his expression into something nonplussed as he started toward the dock. 

“Why is she in the water?” he muttered to no one in particular, noting the worried pitch in his own voice. 

He saw the four heads of his nearly-adult friends turn toward him in unison as he walked past them. 

Robin chimed in then, through a hiccup “Psh, she’s fine Steven. We reinforced her.”

 Steve ignored her.

Max and El glanced up at him, muttering uninterested twin-greetings to him as he stepped gingerly between them. Will let him scooch past.

“Hey!” came your voice. “Do not shoot water in each other's mouths, this water is stagnant,” you barked. “That’s guaranteed dysentery.” 

“Sorry,” Lucas and Mike responded in unison.

Finally, yours and Dustin’s forms bobbing in the water came into view. Dustin was sputtering and rubbing his face with the hand not holding his own super soaker, clearly having been on the receiving end of Lucas and Mike’s attack. 

You were a few feet away from him, straddling a neon orange pool noodle. 

You were wearing that infernal bikini…the spring green one with ditsy white flowers and an underwire that smooshed your bust into a juicy-looking sculpture shaped by the hands of an unfair, horny god.

 Your hair was damp around your face. Even behind your red cat eye sunglasses, you appeared unimpressed until you caught sight of Steve and beamed at him. 

“Stevie!” you squealed. 

He didn’t waste another moment taking in the sight of you before he shoved off the dock and waded the short distance over to you and Dustin. 

“Hey, Steve!” he heard Dustin greet sweetly. Steve ignored it, leveling his gaze at you. 

“Teenie, what the hell are you doing in the lake?”

Your pretty smile fell at his words. You hesitated a moment before you fixed your face into a sardonic expression. 

“You’re looking at it, Stevie.”

“Your arm, Teenie! Your cast!” 

Steve didn’t notice how every head had turned toward the two of you at his little outburst. At that, you pulled your left arm out of the water, where it had been obscured. It looked like Swamp Thing, dark and soggy, water running off of it in rivulets. Steve saw that it was covered in a black rubbish bag, secured with silver duct tape (plus a derelict shoe lace) at your elbow. 

“It’s sorted, Stevie.” Steve heard conciliation in your voice. “The plaster’s bone dry underneath, ya happy?” 

No, he wasn’t happy.

Frankly, Steve didn’t care who had rigged the dry bag around the cast securing your fractured ulna. If he had, his money would have been on the braintrust that was Eddie and Robin, but who knew with this ragtag group? It wasn't as though the lot of them hadn’t crafted a bevy of improvised weapons and structures and clothing in the past.

Steve’s blood was boiling. He shouldn’t have had to tell you to stay out of the water, you should have just known.

 Yeah, lake day had been your idea, but he’d had a very different design for this day in his head when you’d proposed it.

 He thought the kids would splash around in the shallows while you and him (plus the other four sort-of grown ups) lounged at the water’s edge. 

The two of you would lather each other in sunblock (you with your good arm) and share a beer or two, and he would stare discreetly and shamelessly at your half-naked, prone body behind the safety of his Ray-Bans while some sappy love song played over the boombox and he pretended you were his and he wasn’t tap dancing around his feelings that he'd only sort of started realizing were feelings and-

“Steve,” you uttered sharply, snapping him out of his daydream.

Right. He had been busy giving you the business about reckless swimming. 

“You’re a terrible swimmer on a good day,” he scolded. “You really think you can hold your own with one arm?” he reasoned, gesturing at your form.

You pushed your sunglasses to the top of your head and glared at him, unimpressed. 

Dustin chose then to speak up, mildly. Steve almost forgot he was there. 

“We’re touching the bottom, Steve. We’re being safe, we’re touching the bottom,” he tried with a chord of desperation.

Steve looked between the two of you. A nasty little smirk on your face threatened to emerge. 

“Yeah, we’re touching the bottom.” You demonstrated your point by bouncing up and down on your toes a few times. Steve had to ignore how your boobs bounced with the motion. “And I have this, for buoyancy,” you added, smacking the end of your pool noodle into the water and sending a spray of water into Steve’s face.

Dustin cackled suddenly at Steve’s sputtering. Lucas, Mike, El and Max joined the hysterics shortly thereafter. Will hid a snicker behind his sketch pad.

 It should have broken the tension. It should have been the hard reset on the fun that Steve had almost ruined with his poop-pantsery.

“What about Dustin?” Steve tried then. He was feeling outnumbered here. And a little stupid, frankly. But righteous. Like, how the hell was he supposed to feel when he leaves the lot of you alone for one afternoon and the two (arguably) most vulnerable people are just hanging out with no one to stop you drowning?

Dustin’s blue eyes grew big and confused at the mention of his name. You looked at the young curly-haired boy reflexively.

“What about ‘im?” you shot back.

“He doesn’t have collar bones!” Steve barked, gesturing at the boy. 

Dustin looked a little hurt by the observation, true though it may be. Steve winced a little at his own insensitivity and immediately wished he could walk it back. “Sorry, bud,” he offered. 

Dustin seemed immediately appeased at his correction and shrugged as if to say “no problem.”

You weren’t ready to let it go, however. A mean guffaw escaped from the back of your throat before you replied “Dustin is fine. He’s a very capable swimmer,” you spat. Unlike me, Steve heard you mutter snarkily under your breath.

 You flicked Dustin’s nose lightly and winked at him, and he preened under your attention. All the kids did. You had that way about you, is all. 

Sensing the tension on the water, Eddie, Rob, Nance and Jon were stood up on the shore, looking on with mild concern. 

Steve noticed you noticing them and then you shook your head and declared “Know what? I packed sandwiches and nobody has touched them, so…andiamo.” 

With that, you abandoned your pool noodle and lifted yourself out of the water and onto the dock by your good arm. 

I would have helped her, Steve thought to himself bitterly, watching you drop hard on your knees before getting to your feet. 

He sated his need to help by pushing Dustin onto the dock by his butt, much to Dustin’s annoyance.

A bit later, everyone was seated on the shore, the last of the sandwiches having been polished off. 

The tension had waned for everyone else and the ambient murmur of jovial conversation had returned. 

Eddie was seated at Steve’s side, yammering in his ear about a road trip he wanted to take with you all sometime next Spring.

 But Steve’s gaze was trained on you, across the circle, engaged in quiet conversation with Nancy and Robin. 

You had pulled your shorts on, leaving them unbuttoned over your bikini bottoms. Your oxford shirt with the sleeves cut off was unbuttoned, billowing open down to your navel. The trash bag had been removed from your arm carefully with the help of the tiny scissors on Dustin’s swiss army knife. 

You smiled wryly at some joke that Robin had made. Your face was free of makeup, eyes a little tired, but sanguine. 

“Ya listening to me, Stevie boy?” Eddie asked, cutting through Steve’s haze. 

“Sorry dude,” Steve shot back mindlessly, willing himself to pry his gaze away.

Eddie merely sniggered at his friend’s lack of manners. “That was quite a spectacle the two of you put on earlier.”

Steve scowled at him, knowing damn well what he was talking about, but choosing to feign ignorance.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Eddie was unbothered by Steve’s pretend-game, continuing, “Like, you two guys pitch each other a lot of shit and it's usually good natured, but lately it's been…” Eddie sucked on his teeth as he pondered the right adjective. “Sticky.”

“Ed, man, shut up.”

“Nah,” Eddie said on a deep inhale. “Figure your shit out, Harrington. It’s embarrassing.” Eddie sunk back down into his chair. 

“Teenie Ween’s always been a sweetheart as long as I've known her but lately, you've been bringing out the worst in each other and it's exhausting.”

Steve’s face scrunched up in confusion, pondering Eddie’s cryptic words.

 “I’m sorry,” Steve said absently, though he didn’t know what he was sorry for.

 Eddie just smiled back at him from behind a pair of aviators.

Soon, the sun started to dip and everyone was a little sun drunk and over the day. Belongings were packed and the troupe of you made it up the bluff and through the thicket of overgrown weeds, back to the road. 

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

It was the transportation arrangement that really clinched the awkwardness of the outing. 

Nancy had hauled everyone to the beach earlier that day, sans you. You had been dropped off by a boy called Allen Miles and the mention of his name grated on Steve’s very spine.

Before you and Steve could devolve into another bitching match, Nancy pursed her lips and made a sound declaration that Steve would drive you, Dustin and Robin home.

 Nevermind that her station wagon would still be stuffed to the gills clown-style. And you wouldn’t even have the buffer of El at the ready since she was staying at Max’s house. You fought her on it, too.

“Does dad know you’re staying over with Max?” you asked her, almost pleading with her to give you a reason to pull elder sibling rank on you.

“Yes,” she hissed back at you haughtily. You deflated, knowing that you would be dropped off last. 

Maybe you could pretend to fall asleep during the ride so you didn’t have to deal with Steve alone. 

Looks were exchanged and car doors were slammed before you all set off into the twilight. Robin, who typically called shotty, practically shoved you into the front seat of Steve’s car. You didn’t want to make a scene in light of the day’s events, so you went without quarrel. 

Dustin and Robin droned on in the backseat about…something. You couldn’t have recounted even a smidgen of their conversation with a gun to your head. 

You were focused on Steve next to you, seething. You could feel it coming off of him. 

Your jaw clenched as Robin fixed you and Steve with an exasperated look that you could see in the side view mirror before leaving you with a cheeky adios! 

Dustin took up the mantle of filling the silence but soon enough, you were parked in front of the Henderson residence. 

The boy parried a moment before seemingly deciding he couldn't say or do anything to pop yours and Steve's acidic little bubble. The pair of you watched his mom greet him at the door before pulling away.

The thing was, today hadn’t happened in a vacuum. You and Steve had always gotten along pretty famously as far as your friends and built family were concerned. Certainly enough to make it through a world of unconscionable shit alongside the rest of them. 

But when reality as you all knew it was falling to pieces, nobody had the presence of mind to tune into the frequency that the two of you were on. They didn’t notice the intricacies of the geological formation of your relationship. 

You had materialized - yes! materialized - out of nowhere back in the fall of ‘83. You’d been sucked into the Upside Down from another time and place entirely. The unwitting and unlikely victim of a quantum hiccup twenty years in the future near your home on Nellis Airforce Base in North Las Vegas. 

Your slime-covered, barely animate fifteen-year-old body was discovered and carried out of the Upside Down by Hop. He, in a hazmat suit, you in your ripped, bloodied Catholic school uniform while Joyce stumbled alongside him with Will in her clutches. 

For weeks, you’d been near-catatonic, held in the custody of Dr. Owens while a cadre of shady G-men (plus Hop and Joyce) had tried to piece together your journey.

 You barely registered that you had leapt back in time and ended up somewhere you didn’t know a soul, half a decade before you were even born. 

For you were traumatized and plagued with guilt over the death of another teenage girl. A girl that had desperately wanted to get back to where you found yourself by accident. 

You'd tried pulling Barb off that sticky wall, even though part of you knew she was already dead. Soon, you surrendered to your exhaustion and found yourself glued to the same wall, a grotty vine prodding at your lips, trying to make a home in your esophagus right as Hop and Joyce happened upon you.

Eventually, your body healed and you came out of your stupor. You went to live with Hop. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, and besides which way, the best conclusion that the scientists from the DoE could come up with was that if you were going to go back “home”, it would be the way you came. So you had to stay close by.

 They paid a stipend to keep you fed and kept - you were an investment, afterall. Moreover, you were a liability and a paradox, and this was the best arrangement Owens could come up with. 

Hop got used to having you around, never trying to force the matter of you returning home. In the weeks when you’d lost track of El, you would sometimes stand timidly in front of the towering man until he promised you that you would find her. 

Neither of you could stand the guilt of her being out there on her own. Eventually El showed up and he decided that you would all carry on as though you had both been there the whole time. 

Nobody wanted you to go back home. How would you get there? How would you survive a second time?

You started school in January of ‘84, sticking close to the walls. 

Nancy and Jon felt responsible for you and kept you close. By default, that meant Steve, too. But Steve was suspicious of you. 

You were freaky to him and despite what he’d seen in the Byers house, he couldn’t really comprehend your being there. 

Sometimes, when you were all hanging out, a brand new song would come on the radio - like the DJ would make a big production of stressing the just released single - and then you’d absentmindedly mouth all the words perfectly. 

Other times, you’d say non-sequitur things that would turn out to be quotes from movies that hadn’t been released when you’d uttered them. 

The most unnerving was when Nancy’s father was hemming and hawing at the breakfast table one morning you were all over at the Wheeler house. 

He was pouring over a newspaper article about some sick murderer on the loose, reciting the most sordid details while Karen Wheeler stood at the stove flipping pancakes, scolding her husband for discussing it in front of the kids. 

Suddenly, you paused with your glass of orange juice poised at your lips and muttered the name Alton Coleman with a vacant look in your eyes. Days later, Alton Coleman was apprehended. 

Karen and Ted Wheeler had missed it, luckily. But when Nancy had pressed you on the issue, wondering if you were tapped into some latent psychic ability that you and her could use to fight crime, you'd disappointed the girl by informing her that one of the last things you'd seen on TV before you “leapt” was a documentary about Alton Coleman. And it had only stuck with you because you'd gone over your actions in your last days at Nellis with Owens until you were blue in the face.

Then there was the style stuff. You seemed totally confused about what you referred to as “big, crispy hair,” not to mention your general aversion to spandex and high-waisted jeans. 

You wore your hair with minimal volume, kept your clothes and makeup neutral, toned down, boring. 

Nancy thought it was because you’d been to Catholic school and you were “demure” as she put it.

But Steve had quickly clocked that you thought everything around you was cheesy and dated but you didn’t want to stand out or accidentally make a statement by dressing from your own time. So you dressed like a bland schoolmistress and let Jonathan make you mixtapes because a constant rotation of Top 40 artists eventually set your teeth on edge. 

You stopped telling Steve who the one-hit-wonders were because he was really rooting for Dexy’s Midnight Runners and he got all salty when you told him. 

Nobody tried to meet you where you were at culturally, because all of you were a little worried that if you divulged secrets from the future, it would create some kind of extra rip in the universe. So you kept your trap shut except to say that you didn’t really like your time either and that, really, the ‘80s weren’t so bad in some ways. 

Plus, you practically drooled at the sight of Eddie Van Halen and Mickey Rourke whenever you got the opportunity. They were so hot, you'd lament in a pained wail at the TV, as if you weren't living in the very time in which they were dropping your panties. 

Steve rolled his eyes every time you did this. Little Miss Catholic School swooning over rock stars and greasers. How original. Your crush on Spock from Star Trek…Well that broke up the cliché a little.

Steve slowly started to feel more at ease around you, distracting himself with his romance with Nancy. 

And you started to branch out, making friends outside of the people that knew too much for their own good.

You started wearing acid-washed denim over bolder colors, teasing your hair a bit, adopting high-waisted jeans (which made your ass look delectable, Steve grudgingly noticed - as did Allen Miles, apparently). 

You were still on the shy, mild side, but you weren't such a wallflower. People knew you by face and name now. 

Steve thought being from the future made you naturally more magnetic or something. Like you were always two moves ahead of everyone. That made him kind of nervous, though, so he still watched you in his periphery.

He told himself it was to make sure you didn’t slip up and involve anyone else in your freakish situation. He’d watch you in the cafeteria, the courtyard, laughing with your small circle of casual pals, looking for any indication that you were spilling your guts and making yourself look like a headcase in the process. 

Best case scenario, you’d wind up in an asylum or something. Worst case, you’d end up in a gulag with electrodes inserted in every square inch of visible flesh. Months of his low-key recon suddenly became moot the night of the Halloween party in ‘84. 

Steve had just had his heart crushed by Nancy in a spectacular fashion, when he pulled over on his way home.

He was trying to stave off waves of fresh pain in his chest, sat at the wheel of his car, gulping air, willing the sting of rejection to sink to the depths of his loafers. Toto’s Africa provided the soundtrack to his misery.

He startled at a gentle rapping at his window. He looked up to see you, haloed in the streetlight, wearing a copper lamé dress with a high split in the leg and a dip at the shoulder. Your eyes were smoked out, making your confused glare even more intense. 

Possessed Dana Barrett, you’d explained, offering him a bite of your candy apple. He refused it, so you chucked it out the window into a storm drain, licking your sticky fingers. 

You'd taken Nancy's little brother and his friends trick-or-treating and they'd cajoled you into being Possessed Dana Barrett to round out the Ghostbusters cast. You wanted to be Slimer but you didn't know how to pull it off on such short notice, and Joyce Byers had loaned you this gown from the days of disco, and why was he so long in the face, anyway?

Steve was just desperate enough to ask you to hang out at his, which turned into a request for you to stay over at his. He'd never had his heart broken by someone he’d chosen, and part of him wanted to hide. 

But he knew going home to his empty house and the silence would taunt him. You went along with it easily. You almost didn't even seem confused as to why he was asking you. 

You washed your face and used a spare toothbrush he had. The sleeves of the pajama top he'd long since outgrown still reached past your fingertips. He'd stared at you as you rolled them up your forearms, one leg crossed over the other, hanging off the edge of his bed.

It felt strange but comforting and he allowed himself to wonder if he'd ever get to see a lover or even his wife do those same dainty motions in a bigger bed. In a shared bed, one day. He wondered if he'd remember the sight of you, right now.

You and him were laying in his bed, top and tail - platonic 69’ing, you'd joked, immediately clearing your throat when Steve didn't laugh -, when you broke the silence telling him, “Talk to her. In a couple days. She was drunk, Steve, she didn't know what she was saying.” 

He had to remind himself that you were talking about him and Nance.

“She was hurtfully clear about it,” he retorted. A beat passed before you offered an anecdote about your first time getting drunk at a Christmas party on base. 

You'd snuck a bunch of drinks with some other Air Force brats throughout the night before loudly declaring to a room full of military families that you were going to invent the hoverboard from Back to the Future. 

Steve didn't know what Back to the Future was and you quickly corrected course, telling him to get some sleep. 

That was the night the two of you became something like friends. 

The next day he woke up with the red painted toe nails of one of your feet lodged in the crook of his arm. He didn’t hate it. 

Mere days later, after you'd blocked Lucas Sinclair’s body with your own and gotten Billy Hargrove’s backhand for your trouble, after he'd watched you clutch the Mother Mary medallion around your neck and recite whispered, rushed prayers to a god you scarcely believed in in the back of an abandoned school bus before fighting otherworldly monsters alongside him, and going back into that hell mouth because you'd been down there before and couldn't let the rest go in without knowing what they were up against…

Steve felt ready to let Nancy go. 

He still cared for her, he still didn't like how it ended, but his world felt bigger and less stifling now. And he didn't need to hold onto the last dregs of something that would stay just that…dregs. There were possibilities all around him. He didn't want to cling to someone that didn't want him back.

Yours and Steve's friendship was quietly strengthened over two more reality-rocking apocalypses. One of those included his initiation to the Back to the Future franchise. “Ooooh,” he'd loudly declared in the theater, finally understanding your reference while off his face on Russian truth serum. You’d looked over at him with bleary eyes, shooting him finger guns, grateful for the vindication.

In between, and after the mall fire, there were lots of jokes, cookouts, Midwest adventures and plenty of heretofore platonic 69ing in his bed. Top and tail sleepovers followed by rote, cozy breakfasts at the county’s diners. 

You would mewl a miserable sleep song on those mornings until he reminded you of the very existence of French toast.

 Sometimes it was just the two of you, sometimes your friends joined. But it was almost agonizing in its closeness and familiarity. And it grew out of the impossible.

A shrink could have told Steve that the bitching between the two of you that occasionally oozed to the surface like liquid rock was a trauma response. The shrink would have gone on to explain that Steve was projecting his fears onto you because you were an easy target. You'd experienced it together and he had access to you. And Steve would need to find another shrink because he'd know they were only half-right. 

Yes, you'd become fixtures in each other's lives and had shared experiences out of the ordinary. But the same could be said of Robin or Dustin or Eddie, etc. and yes, he mother-henned them all, but when it came to you, he couldn't be talked out of it. Because as important as Robin or Dustin or Eddie, etc. were to him, it was your ass that he couldn't seem to crawl out of, and it annoyed you as much as anyone else.

You'd been very sweet and mellow about it up to this point, but things were getting confusing between you two. Hence the pool noodle incident and passive aggressive defiance.

You started buttoning your shirt up just for something to do with your good hand and after a prolonged and uncomfortable silence, Steve spoke. “Allen Miles,” he said simply.

You stopped at the top button of your blouse. “Allen Miles,” you parroted back.

You saw the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “Allen…Miles,” he tried again, testing the name on his tongue.

You picked at your cast, tracing the well-wishes in Robin's loopy chicken scratch with your thumb. “Is a person that exists,” you said flaty, as if to staunch whatever shit was about to come out of his mouth next.

“Allen Miles is a douche-dick,” he sing-songed quietly enough that you could have pretended not to hear.

Unbelievable. You sniffed at the insult. “What'd Allen Miles ever do to you?”

“Why'd he give you a ride today?” he asked, dodging the question. “You could have piled in with everyone else.” Ugh. He sounded like Hop.

The simplicity and faux-calmness of the statement took you aback. Was he for real right now? “He works at the rec center on Saturday mornings and I had physio-therapy there today. He offered,” you countered, trying not to sound as defensive as you felt - though the words came out in a rapid stream almost as if they’d been rehearsed (they weren’t). You bit the inside of your cheek. An argument was a-brewin.’

Steve turned off the narrow highway onto the skinny, heavily-wooded trail to the cabin. He was seething and neither of you knew why. “So he waited for you to get done with PT?” 

“No,” you shot back, not fully understanding the anger under his line of questioning. “His shift ended a half hour after I was done. I waited for him.”

A scoff. “He made you wait for him?” He posed the question as if it was the most distasteful thing he could imagine.

“He didn’t make me do anything! He didn't have to drive me in the first place!”

“Well then why didn’t you come to the store! If you were waiting for a ride, you could have waited for me!”

“That would have taken hours! What is your problem?”

“Just-” Steve took a deep breath, flicking his gaze to you briefly as the Bimmer trundled down the beaten path to the cabin. “I just wonder about Miles, ya know? He’s a little sleazy around you, what if he just wants to get in your pants? What if he’d-”

Steve was the Larry Bird of cutting himself off, apparently.

“What if he’d made a move?” you offered.

“Exactly,” Steve said, pointing at you.

“What if he had?” you questioned honestly.

The cabin came into view, mercifully, only a moment later. Your head was swimming. Steve had been acting so short with you the last few weeks. It had ramped up when you’d broken the arm.

It was a stupid accident, really. Max had begged you to take a run on the skateboard, something you’d never done. She’d egged you on and you’d done it and you’d gone flying over a stop skid in the church parking lot. 

She had to run into the church and have the secretary call you an ambulance. In hindsight, you were lucky you hadn’t broken your face open. You knew when to take a W, so you didn’t dwell on the possibilities too much.

Steve had heard you were in the hospital and had a conniption. Granted, he hadn’t stayed on the phone with Max long enough to hear It’s just her arm, she’s fine. 

You’d been hopped up on morphine and called him a fruit loop for getting his panties in such a twist. 

And ever since then, you two had been walking a razor’s edge. Where it had once been easy to diffuse your little tiffs, you seemed to be perpetually living under one another’s skin. 

Steve threw the car in park and whipped over to face you. “What do you mean what if he had?” You did not appreciate the falsetto that his voice had taken on to impersonate you. 

“I mean what I said, Steve! What is your deal?”

“He could be a total dirt bag, Teenie!”

You sighed to yourself and pinched the bridge of your nose. You were suddenly so tired. “He didn’t make a pass at me, Steve. He was very sweet and cordial and I got there in one piece and I really need you to back off right now, please.”

This was it. This was your limit. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. You huffed quietly to yourself before telling Steve “I need you to not talk to me for a while, okay?” And at that, you grabbed your bag from between your feet and got out of the car.

You heard Steve government-name you before you closed the door and skulked toward the cabin. The tears came fast and you were grateful that Steve didn’t follow you. Instead he gripped his steering wheel and internally scolded himself for everything that had just transpired. 

Steve knew he wasn’t always the brightest, but how? How did he always end up shooting himself in the foot? He chanced a look at the cabin and lingered for a moment after he saw the light in the mudroom off the side that served as your sleeping quarters had turned on. 

He gave more than a passing thought to going in after you, but he wasn’t going to fuck it further by pushing you when you’d explicitly asked for space. Plus, he was chastised, but he was still fussy, and he didn’t fully trust himself to not keep digging this hole deeper. 

After a moment, he gathered himself and left the property, turning up the radio and letting Talk to Me by Stevie Nicks rub the salt in as he made his way back to his empty house. 

Inside the cabin, you watched Steve’s headlights disappear as you wrestled your Detroit Red Wings jersey over your cast. It was the only sleep shirt that you could get over your cast at the moment. 

Your tears had subsided, slurped back up into your tear ducts for the sheer fact that you didn’t want to waste anymore tears on Steve Harrington. 

He probably didn’t know it, the beautiful dolt, but over the years that you’d known him, he’d kept pushing on the same bruise, and it had gotten even more difficult for you to cope. 

He'd gone for the throat harping on Allen Miles, whom you were not interested in like that. Steve's over-the-top paternalistic revulsion at the thought of you getting some hurt your feelings and made you feel like he'd only ever see you as a fragile little sister figure that he needed to coddle. Like your having sex was some kind of aberration. 

Having him treat you that way with the way you felt about him twisted your heart.

You were tired of having a big and important part of you ignored. A part that you’d never talked with anyone, especially Steve, in great detail. The sexual part. The (gag) sensual part. You were eighteen going on forty-eight, already whinging internally about how you were a woman™ dammit and you had needs™. 

You weren’t seasoned, by any means. You’d had a handful of secret fumbles with secret partners and you’d made discoveries about yourself. 

A of all- and this one you’d suspected since puberty hit - you got turned on easily. Like sloppy, soppy, pushing down on your vulva like you were hiding a boner turned on. And for no reason.

Sometimes it happened when you saw Eddie Van Halen on MTV or Mickey Rourke in Rumble Fish or LeVar Burton on the cover of TV Guide. 

Sometimes it happened when you had to go to a stupid school spirit assembly and had to look at boys in their stupid, short basketball shorts and/or girls in their cheerleading regalia. 

Sometimes it happened when you watched Eddie’s band practice in Gareth’s garage and saw the young Munson trash around all sweaty, handling his guitar expertly.

Once, it had happened when you saw Robin throw a balled up Dixie Cup into a bin at a considerable distance and she’d celebrated excessively and it was cute. 

You knew you didn't want to fuck Eddie or Robin -it would be weird beyond weird. It's just that you could appreciate them.

The same way you appreciated the nasty smacking noises Nancy and Jon made when they were making out in what they thought was a private moment and you knew they were gonna bang later. 

Your friends did sexy things, and sometimes it turned you on.

Mostly, though, it happened with Steve. At least once a day (usually more), he did something that accidentally got you going. A hand on his hip, and hand through his hair, a smirk, a wink, a smile, a whisper in your ear, a casual touch on the small of your back. 

This was to say nothing of how he made you feel emotionally. How unguarded and at peace you felt when he was around. How physical closeness felt as natural as breathing, and you were not hugged enough as a child, so that was saying something. 

Sometimes you'd give each other long lingering hugs and it made you wish you could fuse your flesh to his. You wanted to be his Kuato, always melded to his tummy. And you knew it was weird but so what? Nobody needed to know.

B of all - you liked being touched. And snogged. And railed. And held tight. Which you discovered on your own and in secret, no thanks to Steve. Because Steve usually had a squeeze waiting in the wings somewhere. 

And even when he didn’t, he was preoccupied either with healing from his first great heartbreak or pondering how to rebound from said great heartbreak. Despite your raging hormones, you knew you wanted nothing to do with either of those. So you outsourced your sexual energy.

As soon as you'd gotten over your hangups about the cheesy, neon, teased to high-hell vomit pile that was the 1980s in America, and you'd leaned into it just a little bit, you started getting noticed. And you discovered, thanks to Francis and David and Chelsea (separately), that you did not just enjoy sex in theory, but also in practice. 

The kicker, though, was that while you physically enjoyed the sex that you’d had, you realized when you were coming down from the high that something might be missing. You could have an orgasm that you felt in your very boots, but you wouldn’t ever ask the person that had just rocked your world to drive you to the airport or buy you French toast, much less trust them with your heart. 

Your stupid, stupid heart. It beat for a boy that seemed to think you had the sex life of a castrato.

You flopped down on your bed and stared at your ceiling. You felt kind of bad brushing Steve off like that, even demanding that he not talk to you. 

You hadn't chanced a look back at his face when you'd left his car, but you knew you would have seen that hardened, confused look that he got when he was hurt. That look that always crushed you and made you want to kiss his face and whisper sweet words until he broke out into that cocky grin of his.

You rolled over and closed your eyes, wishing he was next to you, that you could feel his weight and body heat, that you were holding him by the crook of his elbow and pressing your face into his bicep. That you could somehow transmit your thoughts without speaking them out loud and that he would at least be gentler with you and not infer that you were sexless anymore. Even if he didn’t want you like that.

You settled into that lukewarm fantasy, of the memory of him, and let yourself drift to sleep.

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

Steve was sitting on his floor leaned against his bed, holding one of his most prized worldly possessions. It was a candid Polaroid of the two of you.

It was taken at the fair last year. It was a little overexposed with the lights from the rides surrounding you, but the figures of you two were clear as day.

In the photo, Steve was holding your wrist to his chest with a crooked grin, mouth poised near your ear. It looked like he'd just whispered something to you. Your head was crooked to the side and down, like you were trying to worm away from his grasp, your eyes closed with the intensity of your laugh. Your face was glowing with the fair lights and there was a streak of white on your cheek. You both looked sublimely happy.

Steve smiled at the memory. You'd made a game of forcing bits of funnel cake into his mouth when he wasn't paying attention when finally, he'd caught you before your next “attack” and smeared powdered sugar from the pastry onto your cheek as revenge.

His first thought when Jonathan had presented him with the memento at the end of that night was that he was looking at you like a boy in love and he wondered how many times he'd been caught looking at you like that, without photographic evidence.

The bitter memory of you telling him I need you to not talk to me for a while roared back into his consciousness and slapped him in the face. You'd sounded hurt, on top of being pissed. 

Did you really want to date Allen Miles? You said he hadn't made a pass at you. Did it hurt your feelings because he didn't make a pass at you and Steve had just dug the knife in more? He'd throttle Miles if he'd hurt your feelings. Fuck that guy.

Or were you worried about Steve's opinion of your choice in boyfriends? Was Allen your type? What was your type? He knew Eddie Van Halen and Mickey Rourke and LeVar Burton were your type but that weird trinity did not clarify things for him.

Steve tried to recall what, besides his shortness with you, could have triggered you to react the way that you did. By now, he knew that whatever it was, it was his fault. He would love to pawn the blame off on you but you were usually blameless, especially to him. You were sweet and gentle and always seemed to anticipate and prioritize other people’s needs at your own peril. 

He'd given you space like you asked but it had been a couple days now. He was starting to feel like he was jonesing. 

He was hoping you would have come to visit him at the video store by now, jumping on his back and hugging him like a koala, whispering in his ear that all was forgiven and things could go back to normal, like how they were before you'd broken your arm.

But when Steve thought about things going back the way they were, it made his brain itch. He felt like something was totally different and the two of you couldn't go back if you wanted to. Moreover, he didn't know if he did want to. He wanted…

Steve's thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. He slid the Polaroid of you two back into his bedside drawer and hastily picked up the receiver. Please be her, please be her, please be her. 

“Hello?”

“Steve?” 

Nance. “Nance?” Fuck it all. Steve bit back his disappointment. “What's up?”

“Is Teenie over at yours? I tried to call her but El said she's not home but she's not working today, either. I know Robin was scheduled at the store today. I thought she might be with you.”

Steve's jaw clenched involuntarily. Were you with Allen Miles? 

“Um,” Steve said with a little choke. “No, no. She's not here. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's good. It's just that I was emptying the cooler and I found that Mother Mary medallion she always wears? It must have slipped off her neck. It was her grandmother's and I thought she might be bugging out thinking it was lost forever and-”

“I'll come get it,” Steve interrupted. He was already pulling his sneakers on. “You gonna be home for a minute?”

“Oh.” A pause. “It's no big deal, Steve, I'm running Mike to the cabin tomorrow, I can just drop it off then.”

Steve was pacing now, thinking he might be losing his line back to you. You did love that necklace even though you'd abandoned the Church forever ago. Your grandmother was the only person from back “home” that you were sentimental about - and she'd died not long before you'd ended up here. 

That necklace was the only tangible piece of your former life that you really cared about. Maybe you'd be more inclined to listen or even share oxygen with him if he brought it back to you.

“Uh, it's cool. She actually left her uh,” Steve began, looking around the room then down at his feet, “uh, her shoes, yeah. She left them in my car when I dropped her off the other night.” Lie.

He heard Nancy laugh, a little disbelievingly. “She left her shoes in your car.” It came out as a statement.

“Psh, yeah. They were all sandy from the beach and she hates the feeling of leftover sand in between her toes.” Half lie. You had told him that, once. “Anyway, I'll be by in like ten.” 

“Ste-”

Steve dropped the receiver back in the cradle and made a mad dash for Nancy’s. Nancy was waiting for him on the front step when he arrived. When she dropped the necklace in his waiting palm, he held it gingerly and stared at it like a holy relic.

Nancy cleared her throat. Steve met her eyes and he could see something like suspicion dancing behind them, along with a little smirk. “You better go find Teenie. Poor girl’s walking around without shoes, afterall.”

Nancy was always too smart for her own good - or anyone else’s for that matter. He thanked her as if she’d given him the world and went on his merry way. 

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

Steve decided to make a pitstop back at his house instead of going right over to yours. He’d been planning on going to the cabin and waiting for you if you hadn’t gotten home yet. 

But after he left Nancy’s, he thought that this might not be the move. You were really mad at him and he wanted to show you that he could listen and respect your wishes.

He spent a good twenty minutes pacing around his living room trying to come up with a gameplan on how to return your necklace without ruffling your feathers further. 

Maybe he should buy you an obnoxiously large teddy bear? 

No, if you hated it, he would be stuck with an over-large, cutesy reminder of his failure. 

Or maybe he could hire one of those dorky barbershop quartets to show up at work and sing you a song about how he knew he was a dipshit, but you meant so much to him, please take him back?

 No, no. You would die of embarrassment and probably haunt him for the rest of his days. 

He was still holding your necklace, gripping his hair by the roots when he heard the doorbell. 

Maybe it was Dustin or Eddie. Maybe he could bounce some ideas off them, he thought as he jogged toward the door. 

He opened it and felt the air leave his lungs when he saw you standing there. You were staring up at him, eyes wide, swaying your shoulders a little bit the way you did when you were nervous. 

You were wearing his favorite dress of yours. This beige thing with tie straps and red flowers on it. The first time he’d seen you wear it, you’d been all dolled up in a way that was almost salacious. Now you wore your hair down with barely a stitch of makeup on and Steve thought you looked…

“Hi,” you said shyly. 

“Hi,” he said back, his voice sounding small in his ears. He cleared his throat, hoping that if he found his voice again, he wouldn’t sound so broken. “Come in?”

You didn’t hesitate, thankfully. You walked past him, minding your cast and stopped in the foyer before you turned to him. You shrugged one shoulder bashfully. 

“Nancy said you had my necklace.” Your face scrunched up in confusion. “Also, something about shoes?”

Steve pushed the door shut and walked over to you. 

“Uh, yeah, I might have lied to her and said you left your shoes in my car so I’d have an excuse to take custody of your necklace.” 

The confusion on your face deepened. 

Steve held your necklace out to you and you let him drop it into your good hand.

You both stood there for an awkward moment. “I missed you,” you said.

Steve felt his heart soar and opened his mouth to respond but you cut him off. 

“Will you help me?” you asked, holding up the necklace and then your cast to make your point. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, rushing to your back. You handed him the necklace and bunched your hair up in a fist, holding it out of the way. 

Steve took a moment to appreciate the back of your neck, the downy hairs at your hairline, the little birthmark at the junction of your shoulder. He looped the necklace around you and clasped it, checking that the spring in the clasp was still sound.

“All set,” he said. 

You spun around to meet him and he saw you touch the pendant at your decolletage with a little smile. “Thank you.”

“I missed you too,” Steve rushed out, hands shoved in his back pockets.

The look you gave him back was soft and dazed and he felt his heart kick in his chest. You cocked your head at him. “Why were you so upset about Allen, Stevie?”

Steve didn’t detect even a hint of anger in your question. You just kept staring at him softly. Steve walked over to the couch and perched himself against the backrest. His thumbs rubbed dual patterns on the suede upholstery while he thought up a response. The best he could come up with was “Do you like him? Allen, I mean? Like…romantic-wise?”

He glanced up at you bashfully, dreading the answer he was sure would come.

Your eyes narrowed, but not meanly. You walked over to him and planted your hip against the couch next to him. 

“No,” you said, simply.

Steve released a relieved exhale from deep in his chest. You weren’t done, though. “But Stevie, why…I mean why did you get so mad at the thought of Allen and I together?”

Steve felt his eyes bug out but tried to school his expression into something less obvious. He shrugged when he finally met your eyes again. “Teenie, I just.” He wet his bottom lip. You wore the same soft, contemplative expression but he thought he could see your breathing kick up as you waited for him to finish. 

Steve was right. You were trying to stop yourself from hyperventilating. You hadn’t come over here to confront Steve, not really. You really just wanted to see him again and figure out what he was playing at, purloining your necklace from Nancy in an obvious attempt to get back in your good graces. It would have been a cute gesture if you weren’t so worried about what was coming next. 

But two days of feeling like your brain was leaking for its singular fixation on your Stevie and how much you missed him had finally gotten the best of you. You came round the moment you could. You knew it was time to face the music, come what may. 

“I just want…whoever you hang out with or end up being with…I just want them to treat you with respect. And I want you to have fun and feel safe and…”

God, he was beautiful. Didn’t he know? How could he not know?

Steve seemed to be at a loss for words now, so you offered some.

 “I could have those things with you,” you breathed out almost dreamily.

Steve's eyes went wide again and you felt like your heart was going to break because that look could have meant…so many things. Not all of them good.

You backed away from his side slowly, ready to make a break for it, but Steve caught you gently by the upper arms and stood at his full height. He stared at you like you were a brand new lifeform.

“Teenie?” he said in a too-tiny voice.

You were looking right into the void, free-falling into the hinterworld of your own heart.

“Stevie, do you think of me like a little sister?”

Steve's eyebrows shot up with something like horror before he cleared his throat and shook away some thought known only to him. 

“Ew, no, Teen.”

You bit your lip and stamped your foot just a little bit, feeling a little unmoored. You worried suddenly that you wouldn't get the answers you wanted. 

Steve had loosened his grip on you just a smidge. He was absently stroking your arms with his thumbs.

“One of the kids then. Dustin or Max or-”

“No,” he answered immediately, shaking his head decisively. “No.” 

And you knew. You knew he meant it.

You backed away, feeling singed by his sincerity. You paced the length of the runner behind the couch and slid a nail along your cast making little zipzipzip noises to fill the quiet. You turned to him after a moment.

“So what's happening with us. Why are we being so weird with each other?” 

Steve put his hands on his hips. “You broke your ass, Teenie,” he said sternly. “It could have been your head!”

“It wasn't though, it wasn't my head!” Your voice had a desperate edge. “Way crazier stuff has happened to me, to both of us! All our friends…”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language. He shut his eyes tight like he was willing the memories away. He gathered himself quickly.

“Right, and if things had gone differently, we don't know what could have happened!”

Both of you were breathing hard, tears stinging your eyeballs. It's like you had awoken a sleeping beast by merely mentioning its existence.

Steve gestured into the air and stared into the distance as he continued. He was so fuckin’ pretty, you thought then. Even when he had big fuckin’ feelings that his pretty fuckin’ self couldn't contain in his pretty fuckin' meat prison.

“Every time something happens to you, it's like I can't stop thinking about it.” Steve's tented his fingers at his temples to demonstrate his point, eyes wide and unblinking like there was a movie playing behind his eyes that he couldn't look away from.

You started taking slow, tiny steps toward him, like he was a wounded rabbit and you didn't want to frighten him off. You wanted to hold him. 

“I spin out and I can't stop thinking about you dying.” 

Two more tiny, furtive steps toward him.

“Or being born.”

“Oh, Stevie-” Wait. “Wait, being born? What?”

Steve had pulled at his hair and it was messy in that perfect way. 

“Your birthday, Teenie.” He said it both frantically and like you were dumb for not following. “It's 1986, your birthday is less than two years away and we don't know.” He practically whimpered your name, willing you to understand.

It hit you then. You'd forgotten yourself for a minute, how absurd your life was. The very thing that was whispered among your friends and found family - spoken in a hushed manner for fear of speaking it into reality (or causing you an existential crisis.) You always heard them, though. 

You had almost…almost found it funny how nobody seemed to think that the thought didn't cross your mind at three in the morning most nights.

The question of what would happen when the day of your birth - the one on your original, undoctored birth certificate that you'd left in a banker box back on Nellis AFB - finally rolled around. The day you would find out to what extent you were an actual paradox. If having been evicted from your mother's womb on that day would cause you to be slurped back into the Upside Down…Or if you would blink out of existence.

But the question hadn't woken you up since Spring Break. Because the positive to having a psionic demon vampire picking apart your psyche is that sometimes you got good intel.

You felt so warm all of a sudden, watching Steve watch you with his eyes wide and desperate and his scrumptious lips pushed into a sad pout, looking so young. You'd never been so touched in all your life.

You strode over to him and pulled his collar to encourage him down, closer to your height.

His arms looped around your middle. It was automatic. The half-crazed look on his face dropped away, replaced by an expression that told you he was taken aback but that he didn't hate this.

“I love you,” you declared, firm and resolute, yet quaky with emotion. You hoped he knew that this wasn't like the other times you said it. And that you could table the birthday discussion until after…

You squeezed his face and pushed your mouth into his as you looped your broken arm around his neck.

Steve gathered your hair away from your face and returned the kiss without a moment’s hesitation.

His mouth was warm and soft and a little tacky from how he'd been licking his lips nervously moments before. Your lip balm provided just the right amount of slide for your lips to tangle together perfectly.

Steve stumbled with you in his arms against the nearest wall. You took great care not to accidentally dicknail him in the side of the head with your cast as he hoisted you up, cradling your thighs in his hands.

Through his panting, he managed, “Do you mean it?”

Both of you knew what he meant. Did you mean I love you? Did you mean the kiss? The answer to both was a resounding fucking yes.

“Yes, Stevie. I want this. I want you so bad-”

Steve dive-bombed your mouth with his own, caressing your tongue with his. You opened your mouth wider to let him riff on it. 

You shuddered when you felt his crotch press into yours. The feeling of his hardening cock pressed into the space that was rapidly becoming drenched with your horniness and love for this boy combined with the slipperiness of your tongues moving together was beyond your wildest dreams.

Steve couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe that the only thing standing between you two and your mutual desire to jam yourselves together like you were trying to fuse into a superbeing was that you thought he didn't think you were sexy or mature or whatever the fuck. 

If his blood supply wasn't rushing to his crotchal region right now, he might have done some psychological forensics to figure out how you'd arrived at that conclusion.

And fuck him if you didn't know what you were doing. This clearly wasn't your first heavy make out. Normally, that thought would make him jealous as all hell. But he could feel it. The rightness of this and he knew it didn't matter.

He pulled back from your mouth and let himself stare at you shamelessly. Your mouth was kiss-bitten and -oh - you already had this sexy, flushed glow painted from your cleavage to your cheeks. 

You wore a beautifully profane expression, half-helpless and half-threatening as in I'm going to eat you if you don't eat me first. Your irises looked almost feline.

He stole one more kiss from you before he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He expected you to protest but you just grunted slightly at the impact and braced yourself as much as you could for what turned out to be a short commute to Steve's room. You were too turned on to question his method.

Steve deposited you on the bed and you scrambled up to your knees to pull him forcefully into another kiss where he stood. You started nipping and biting sucking at his earlobes, his jaw, his neck, his chest.

Steve felt almost overwhelmed. This the hottest thing that had ever happened to him. You two were feral for each other and probably would have looked completely insane if you’d had an audience. Unlike his previous encounters, nothing about this felt stilted or transactional or lopsided.

In spite of how erotic it was, though, it also felt tender. Like this thread between you had been pulling taut for god knew how long before it had almost snapped. And as soon as you'd stopped resisting it, it pulled you into one another. He needed to be sure that you felt the same, though. He wouldn't risk another communication breakdown.

He pulled your face away from his neck by your hair and you looked startled but not displeased. Your lips curled into a dozy smile at the show of force. Steve was all business, though.

“How far do you want this to go?” You both chose to ignore the way his voice gave a little.

You swallowed as you stroked his chest. “Um, well, I really want you to make love to me but, like…I'll take whatever you give me.”

Steve closed his eyes in quiet supplication to whatever force was allowing this.

He smiled at you with his tongue poking at the back of his teeth. You returned it with a goofy giggle. God, you two were idiots.

“Game on then, baby,” Steve said.

Steve insisted on going down on you. You didn't strictly need it. You were so turned on that you could already feel that ache inside where you'd opened up to receive him.

You were almost worried that you might end up accidentally waterboarding him with your cunt for how wet you were already, but you needn’t have worried.

After he'd fluffed the pillows behind your shoulders and pulled your soaked panties off of you, he didn't waste a minute exploring down there with little kisses and bites to your thighs before he finally dove in and got to work. 

Within minutes he had you shivering and moaning, letting nonsense fuck language spill from your lips as you scratched his scalp in little circles. 

Steve was painfully hard in his shorts but he would have stayed down here for millenia if you'd let him.

Soon, you were gripping his wrist and writhing. Your legs were bent and rigid like a Barbie doll's but quaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

You let a sharp cry escape from your chest. It was high-pitched and wild and unguarded and it was the most beautiful sound Steve had ever heard.

He looked up at you. Your head was resting at an angle like it was too heavy for you to hold up. He let himself enjoy the sight. 

With your eyes still closed, as though you were in a deep trance, you started groping with your good hand, uncoordinated at your shoulders until you found the tie straps on your dress and undid them.

Without communicating it out loud, Steve pinched the fabric of your dress's bodice while you lifted up on your elbows so he could pull it down.

God, you were beautiful. Not just your tits. Yes, your tits were insane, but it was just you. Every inch of you, every plane on your body and, outside of your physical form, your gravity and orbit. He would never escape them and he didn't want to.

Steve crawled up your body, leaving smooches up your tummy and along your breasts and neck until he got to your mouth. You pulled him into you, kissing him stupid.

“Off,” you said bossily, breaking the kiss. Tugging at his collar. “These, too,” you insisted, pinching the cuff of his jeans between your toes.

Steve chuckled and pulled the shirt over his head. He got to work on his belt, kissing the tip of your nose.

“You want it like this?” he asked, indicating the missionary position you were in.

He got his belt free and shimmied his jeans away and down the bed, not wanting to leave you.

You bit your lip, eyes cast down lustfully, and Steve noticed you were checking out the tent in his boxers. 

He snickered. “My eyes are up here.”

You giggled at him, flicking his nose.

You two settled into a cozy silence and just stared at each other. You cleared your throat. “My favorite is being on top, usually,” you began. “But it might be hard with this.” You lifted your casted arm.

Steve deliberated for a moment. You could have told him you liked it upside down on a hammock and he would have found a way to make it so. But the thought of you riding him was making his dick weep. He would make that so, no problem.

“Teenie-on-top it is.” He gave your naked thigh a couple of light slaps. “Up,” he instructed.

You pushed up onto your knees as he leaned over to his nightstand, extracting a loose condom packet. He stood up and pulled his boxers down. 

When he looked at you, you were sitting on your haunches, knees splayed wide. Your arms were limp at your sides, hair a fucked out mess. You stared at his cock with what looked to him like reverence, mouth agape. 

“Oh, Marone,” you whispered to yourself with a gulp, fisting your hair at the scalp.

Steve snorted. You were so cute it made his chest hurt. He explained his plan as he ripped the condom foil open and rolled it over his cock.

“I'm going to hold you up so you don't put weight on the arm. I've got you, just trust me, ‘kay?”

He didn't know if you'd been paying attention to what he said. You sprung up on your knees and collapsed into him and gave him a searing kiss on the mouth. “‘Kay.”

Steve slid into bed and guided you by your hips to straddle him. You held your casted arm off to the side, balancing like you were getting into a rowboat as you braced your good hand on his forearm.

“Good?” he asked.

You hummed as you began moving yourself over his cock. Steve's breath hitched, but he kept his grip on your hips firm as you acquainted your bits with his. 

Your slickness and his spit had cooled a little but soon he could feel a pool of warmth. He was at your entrance. Your skirt was ruched around your waist, the straps of it hanging limply. His favorite dress.

You locked eyes with him as you reached between you and guided him inside. You sheathed him in inside you completely, pretty much immediately. No adjustment period needed. Your body had waited long enough. 

Both of you had done so much waiting.

You rocked your pelvis against him, getting used to the sensations. It felt like coming home, it felt so right.

Steve’s cock was like a pleasure-seeking missile. It found enclaves in your body that you'd never have discovered on your own. 

Your cunt hugged him, letting you and him both know how rich the landscape of your body was. You could feel everything and everything felt so good. 

Steve was still holding onto your hips but he was squeezing his eyes shut and writhing and moaning. You really fucking knew what you were doing. Or maybe this was just a long time coming. Maybe it was destined.

The sounds of his moans were like a cool drink of water on the hottest day of the year. You wanted the sound bottled. You wanted to bathe in it.

You braced your good hand on his chest and gripped his elbow with the other as you changed up the angle and pace. He was caressing your g-spot now and when you moaned loudly at the sensation, he gripped you tighter, encouraging you to devour that feeling. Your clit found his mons and pretty soon, playtime was over.

You were both panting and moaning and before you knew it, you were right there. Your pussy was fluttering. Steve's stomach was taut, his upper body having gone rigid. His face was red and the veins in his forehead were prominent with his exertion. He was trying to delay his own orgasm until you were ready.

You folded over then, collapsing forward and cradling his head between your upper arms. Electric bubbles of happiness fizzed in every part of your cunt, sending effervescent kisses up your spine and down to your toes. You thought your broken arm might have healed, even.

“FuckStevieBaby,” you whined, pressing your forehead into the dip of his shoulder.

Steve was a goner. He moaned your name pathetically as he pistoned his hips up into you, helped by the wetness of your cum. Heat lightning overtook his body as he felt himself spill inside the condom and he saw sparkles.

Your skin was pasted to his with sweat.

You shakily made yourself up to a seated position and looked down at him like you were getting to see the Northern Lights for the first time. 

He returned the gaze. Except to him, you were the Northern Lights and the Milky Way and a lofty angel with wings of purple fire. Jesus, when did he get so poetic?

He sat up and wrapped you in his arms, kissing you and pulling you into a hug. It wasn't unlike the ones you'd shared before, nudity notwithstanding. 

It was a hug that said hi, I'm here, I've got you, always. 

You let your heart rates ramp down before he lifted you off his softening member, but keeping you in his lap. He drew circles on your sweaty back.

“I love you,” he said into your collarbone.

Your heart did a little dance in your naked chest.

“I love you, too. More than anything.”

Steve pulled you both down and situated it so you were both laying on your sides, facing the other. He clasped your hand in his.

“No, I mean I love you.” It was emphatic despite the sleepiness in his voice. “I'm in love with you and I want to keep you. I want us to do this. I want people to know we belong to each other.” 

If anyone else on planet earth had said those words to you after you'd just fucked, it would have sounded like cro magnon-freshly-emptied-balls possessiveness.

But not with him. It's like you could see tomorrow in his beautiful brown eyes. You two were finally, blessedly on the same page.

“I've belonged to you since…” you rolled your eyes upward like you were thinking, when really you actually knew… “Halloween ‘84.”

Steve smiled at your confirmation. But also in bemusement.

“The night me and Nancy-”

“It was when I was on your bed,” you interrupted. “Right here in this spot. I was rolling up the sleeves of that stripey old man PJ shirt you loaned me.”

“I remember,” he whispered, swallowing the emotions bubbling up.

“I saw you looking at me and for just a second, I let myself think…”

You had let yourself think, this feels so easy. I'm about to spend the night in a boy's bed for the first time and it feels so easy. What if he wasn't heartbroken? What if he didn't think you were a freak? What if you'd done this a before in a thousand and one lifetimes? That's how easy it felt.

“I never stopped being yours, Stevie.”

He scooched closer, ran his index finger down the bridge of your nose, kissing you one more time.

“I hope you never do.”

“I never will.”

Steve got a faraway look in his eye as he looked past your shoulder. 

He didn't want to burst this bubble, but if he felt this way now, what would it be like less than two years from now. Less than two years away.

You clocked it immediately, you little mind-reader. 

You couldn't let him stew in his fear anymore. You hadn't meant to drop the subject before, but you had the pressing matter of showing him how much you loved him to attend to.

“I'm not going back, you know.” 

His eyes shot to you, suddenly way more alert.

“How-”

“Creel.”

Steve propped himself up on his elbow and studied you. You never brought this up. In fact, if any of your family's little misadventures ever came up in conversation, even briefly, you would excuse yourself from the room. Everyone learned to keep that talk to a minimum around you.

Besides that, Steve didn't like talking about when you'd been Vecna’d. It had been in the same manner as Nancy had been. Not meant to destroy you but to show you things. When the group had asked you what you saw, you simply told them “me.”

At the time, you had made the executive decision that what you had been shown wasn't valuable to any fact-finding that would help you defeat your foe. And when you were pressed for more, when Dustin had accused you of a party infraction by withholding, you'd leveled him with a deadly glare and stated “Not this, Dustin. Not now.” You had been so uncharacteristically severe that everyone silently agreed to leave it.

You turned over on your back and stared at the ceiling. 

“Before Spring Break, I was having a really hard time.”

Steve remembered. The recesses of his memory held images of you looking off into the distance, refrains of sorry, what? whenever you got caught out. 

You'd buried yourself in schoolwork, picking up extra shifts at the bowling alley, packing your calendar with babysitting gigs. Like you were trying to erase every moment of idle time, pulling away from everyone.

Steve had worried but when he talked about it with Robin, she'd dismissed it as paranoia. Think about it, Steve, what's she's been through. It catches up. 

He figured Robin might know something he didn't, hurtful though it was. He'd dropped it.

“You were dating around and Nancy was missing Jon. El was gone, Hop was gone. Max was totally checked out. And I started wondering, like..”

Your eyes were wet, now, voice a little choked. Steve brushed your cheek and that seemed to give you the resolve to keep going.

“I started to worry that I would never find someone that could really know me. That I couldn't ever really move on and grow up because the people that did know me were all…” 

You gestured vaguely into the air.

“I felt so out of place all of a sudden. And for the first time since I got here I just wanted to go back. I wanted to go back to where I made sense. Even though I didn't like my life before…”

Steve's heart broke at the thought that you'd felt so abandoned. He could kick himself for being so flip about it back then.

Your story took you over then. It was so cemented in your mind, it might have been inscribed on tablets.

You'd blinked. One minute you were at the mouth of the gate. The next minute you were in some sort of cathedral. But it was in ruins. The exposed sky was red. The air was stale..lightning flashed a deeper crimson across the sky.

There were pews made of shaley stone. What would have once served as a wall was crumbled around the arrangement.

He stood at the pulpit, a stone monument, cracked with angry looking clefts glowing with smoldering fire. He clutched each side of it, staring you down.  

He breathed your name in a dulcet huff. 

“You don't belong. You belong nowhere. You're a reprobate. Abominable. An orphan in time.”

He was hideous. And massive. You hadn't seen him until now. You'd only heard conjecture on what his visage might look like.

He was slimy and twisted and hairless. The sinews of his skin were a swampy gray, eyes ringed with red. For his florid yet cruel indictment of you, he was foul. You could taste him just by looking at him.

You were paralyzed with revulsion and fear. You were worried that you might actually pee your pants.

“You have nowhere to return to. You absconded from your problems, as you've always done. But I have nothing but good news for you.” 

You glanced around, not daring to move your head. You only saw more waste, more nothingness, more anger and despair scratched into the landscape that surrounded you. You wanted to go home.

Suddenly you knew where home was. It had never been so clear. It was with the people that had held and kept you since you'd been sucked through a leak in space-time.

“You can make a home here. You can join my menagerie. You'll never suf-”

“Don't listen to him, Ladybug,” came a sharp, familiar voice behind you, coated in the accent of her mother country.

You spun to meet her eyes...Your grandmother was sitting on one of the rock pews. She looked as elegant and warm as ever. She was wearing the satin wrap dress she wore to Easter mass the last year she was alive.

You stumbled over to her. She stood and opened her arms as you fell into her.

Suddenly you forgot that you were in a red-tinged hell scape with a slimy vampire at your back. Wherever this was, wherever she was, was a sort of paradise.

You held her tight. You could smell her familiar shalimar perfume over the fetid ozone stink of this place. The wings of her upper arms were soft in the crooks of your elbows. She shushed your crying and stroked your hair.

It was her. You knew, beyond what it was to know, that it was her.

You heard Creel growl behind you, startling you out of your grandmother's arms. She held fast to you and tilted your chin to look at her. You heard the air around you twist like warped steel, Creel’s voice laced through it, muddled and distorted to something imperceptible.

“He is a liar. He will lie to deceive you.” Her accent made it sound like “day-seef.” 

You missed her. You missed the way she talked. You missed how severe she was when she wanted to make a point.

She'd found you. Outside of time and space and a living vessel, she'd found you in this hopeless place.

Her eyes burned into yours. “Your father is fine. He knows you are fine. He doesn't know how he knows, but I've seen to it.”

You could hear that desperate argumentative groaning trying to pierce through. Your head was hurting. You had pressure in your ears.

“Your place is with your friends. Never stop thinking of them and you will never lose.”

The world around you started to crumble and fall away. You saw those big spires of rock around you crash into the ground.

You gripped her hands that held your face. “I love you,” you sobbed.

She smiled at you as everything caved in. You closed your eyes and felt her kiss your forehead. 

When you opened them again, you saw Steve. He was cradling you and hyperventilating. He seemed to register that you were back. Relief washed over his face and his breathing returned to normal.

“Did I pee my pants?” 

Steve had the courtesy to glance down to your upper-thigh region.

“If you did, it must not have been a lot.”

You broke into a sob and let him hug you while your friends rallied to get you away from the gate.

From then on out, you heeded your grandmother’s advice. You never stopped thinking of your friends and you didn't fail…You got Hop and El back. 

You had your friends.

You had Steve.

You had shut your eyes while telling Steve the story but you opened them now. You turned your head to face him.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” you told him through tears. “I didn't know how.”

Steve didn't know what to say. He stared at you with gentle eyes. He didn't want you to cry anymore. 

He kissed you lightly and stroked your side. “It's okay. I get it.”

He did get it. He understood all at once why you couldn't tell them back then. You didn't want to make it about you. 

Max was still in danger. The world was still in danger. You'd been gifted a secret weapon that you had to wield and you didn't want anyone to hear what you'd seen and tell you that you'd been bamboozled by Creel and blunt your weapon with doubt. 

You'd known in your heart that it was real. Steve knew now because you knew. 

You were tired then. Well and truly sleepy. Steve accepted you into his arms.

You two fell into silence, breathing in tandem, stroking each other.

You felt Steve's chin wag on the top of your head when he asked “What do you think will happen on your 20th birthday?”

You smiled into his chest. You loved that Steve-flavored curiosity whenever it showed itself.

“I dunno, Stevie. Maybe nothing. But if anything does, you'll be there to find out with me, right?”

He scratched lines up your back as he answered.

“Can’t wait.”

(⁠/⁠^⁠-⁠^⁠(⁠^⁠ ⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠/

#steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington friends to lovers #ao3 fanfic #adopted hopper reader

[friendsdxntlie]

Third times a charm

Jonathan Byers X AFAB!Reader Smut

Do I currently have a request? Yes, yes I do. Did I write this instead? Also yes. Jokes aside, full fics are super draining apparently so I’ll probably do one every while and short blurbs/headcanons more regularly. By regularly I mean like maybe twice a month, I have no schedule. I’ll try to post more regularly but no promises.

Warnings : overstimulation, sub!Jonathan, dom!reader, pnv sex, AFAB!reader but no specific pronouns, crying kink, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), Jon literally can’t shut up and now Joyce knows, Jon is an early finisher, praise kink, lmk if I missed any

Everything had started out normal, just basic vanilla sex. And as per usual, it didn’t take Jonathan very long to cum. He wasn’t exactly known for lasting, and you never minded because he always made up for it after (or before), but tonight you really, really wanted to cum on him, let him feel your gummy walls squeeze and clench around his cock.

So when he came the first time, no end for you in sight, you kept riding him. He was confused, grabbing your hips as he whined. “Baby — baby, I, fuck, came already.” He panted out, hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. You nodded. “I know, I know. Let me keep going, yeah? Wanna cum on your cock pretty boy.” You said, wiping his forehead. “You’ll be a good boy f’me? Let me keep fucking you?” And he was quick to nod, ‘yes’s and ‘yeah’s falling from his lips. How could he say no? He was still hard anyways, he could handle one more.

He thinks it’s gonna be just one more, and by the time he’s half way to his second orgasm he has tears in his eyes. It feels so good that he wouldn’t dare tell you to stop, but it’s also starting to hurt. The mix of pleasure and pain makes his mind swim, his head fuzzy. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you’re shushing him, telling him to be a good boy and let you use him. The fact that you wanna use him, the Hawkins resident weirdo, makes his dick twitch at the thought. Even as the closer he gets the more painful it is he lets you use him.

His second orgasm takes longer than the first, but is weaker too. He doesn’t cum as much as the first time around, but you love the feeling regardless. This time you don’t even slow down, especially since you’re so close already. You have been fighting your orgasm off just a bit, you wanna see how far you can push him. He’s practically sobbing now, whining as he grips your hips so hard you know you’ll bruise. He’s trying to get you to slow down, but you just grab his hands. “Here, rub my clit, c’mon be good f’me pretty boy.” And he’s quick to please. He’s so far gone that it’s almost too sloppy to do anything, and he keeps forgetting to actually move his thumb, but you don’t mind. It’s mainly to keep his hands from slowing you down, and so you lace your fingers with his free hand.

He’s openly crying, a steady pour of tears, and in some twisted way they push you closer to the edge. His dick feels like it’s about to fall off with how sensitive it is, and even as he’s trying to tell you he’s choking on his words and babbling incoherently. But honestly? He loves the pain. It’s a good kind of pain, kind that makes him twitch (both his cock and the rest of his body) and he’s starting to get sore from how long his muscles have been taut.

His third orgasm coincides with your first, and the feeling of you finally clenching around him makes all of this worth it. It took less time then his second, but it hits harder than his first and second combined. He’s so loud at this point you’re sure someone has heard, but you can’t bring yourself to quiet down his lovely whimpers and whines and moans. This time he truly fills you up, so much so you can feel it leaking out around his cock. He looks down at where you connect and it nearly sends him into a fourth orgasm. It’s downright filthy, his cum leaking out into him, strings of arousal that connect you to him being broken by your constant riding, your pretty puffy pussy that he loves.

The second you’ve ridden out your orgasm he tears you off of him, unable to stand any more stimulation. His cock is still twitching harshly, red and purple and painful looking. He’s coated in his own cum as well as yours and your arousal. He looks delicious like this, you decide.

He tries to cup himself, like that’ll help the pain, but it only makes it worse as his hand grazes his sensitive shaft. He tears his hand away so fast he nearly hits you, he doesn’t even babble out an apology because he’s too focused on his dick and how sensitive he is. “N’more, please, can’t take n-no more. Hurts s’bad.” He sobs, and you gently hold his head to your chest. “Hey hey, it’s ok. We’re done, no more baby. Promise.”

He seems to calm down at the promise of no more, and also your chest. It always help him calm down, no matter what got him riled up in the first place. You lay together for a while, give him time to stop crying and be able to talk. When his breathing is mostly normal you talk again. “Too much? Was that ok sweet boy?” His hand is quick to find yours, lacing your fingers together again. “It was good — great, even. Liked it. Felt like my dick was about to fall off though.” He mumbled, tired. You giggle at his crudeness, a staple of sleepy Jonathan. “You did so, so good for me Jon. Always do so good. I love you, Jon.” He cuddles up to you, close as he can. “Love y’too, s’much.”

“Let’s get cleaned up, ok? Then we’ll come and sleep.” He groans but nods. You help him slip some sweats and a shirt on, slipping your shorts and shirt on yourself. As you try and slip into the bathroom across the hallway you can hear Joyce call your names form the kitchen, and you exchange a glance. You both think one thing — fuck.

#jonathan byers x reader smut #stranger things smut #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers smut #jonathan byers #jonathan x reader

[ashleyfanfic]

Oh for the dialogue prompt ask game can I give you Jonerys for the “Still think I’m cute” or “who said that this was a dream?” . You’re writing is always so incredible and I just adore your Jonerys fics so so much!

Beneath the cut is some Jonerys goodness. It’s fluff. Pure fucking fluff.

Daenerys brushed his sweat slicked hair back from his brow, then rested the back of her hand against his skin. He was burning up. She reached to the nightstand and took the bottle of aspirin and removed two white pills. She held them out to him and a glass of water with a bendy straw.

“Yes, Jon, you’re still cute even with the flu. I’m sorry your sick.”

He waved a hand at her, then quickly tucked it back beneath his blanket and gave a shiver. She went to the hall and grabbed another blanket from the linen closet and laid it on top of him.

“I’m going to be here to take care of you,” she said as she sat beside him once more.

“You’ll get sick,” he muttered miserably. Her fingers stroked through his dark hair.

She shook her head even though his eyes were closed. “I’m fairly certain you’ll take care of me if that happens.”

“‘Course. I love you.”

That stopped her. They hadn’t said that to one another yet, and here it happened and he was drifting into sleep with a fever and chills.

She hated herself the way her eyes welled with tears. It was so stupid to cry about that, but she couldn’t help it either. “I love you, too.”

He grunted as she continued to comb through his dark curls. It was only when Ghost plodded into the room and nudged her that she stood. She knew that was a sign he needed to be walked. She leaned down and placed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, then stood from the bed. “I’ll be back. I’m gonna walk Ghost.”

“‘Kay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Get some rest. I’ll be back.”

“Good,” he murmured. “I miss you when you’re gone.”

She chuckled. “As well as I know you, you’ll be mortified that you admitted all of this to me when you’re feeling better. Get some sleep.”

“You won’t miss me?”

“Too much to put into words,” she giggled. “Sleep, Jon. I’ll make you some soup, too.”

“Marry me,” he grumbled.

She laughed. “Sleep.”

Before she’d even reached the bedroom door, his snores echoed in the room. She knew it was just the fever talking, but she couldn’t stop from grinning at the thought of actually marrying him. She could wait, though. Make sure he grew healthy again and then remind him of all the things he’d said while he was in his fever. If he took it back, she’d still laugh and try to make him feel less awkward about it. But if he didn’t. Well, that was a whole different kettle of fish.

#jonerys #jon x dany #jon x daenerys #Drabble #Jonerys Drabble

[fissions-chips]

bite the hand

(day 1: muzzled- ambiguously set in the ‘bad karma’ AU)

“Do you boys need any help?”

Valentine leaned his head back, letting a long plume of pale smoke drift between his teeth, watching it fade into the shadows of the ceiling as the sounds of struggling and scuffling met his ears. An angry shout, a dull crunch- one of the two guardsmen fell back with a howl, clutching his wounded hand to his chest as blood dripped between his fingers.

Rolling his eyes, the billionaire spun his cigarette between his fingers, two wrapped in bandaging. The space between thumb and forefinger sparked with pain, covered in soft white gauze, and Valentine’s lip curled slightly, a note of indignance creeping into his voice.

“Hurry up… we have places to be-“

“Fuck you!”

Another yelp of pain echoed through the room, cutting off the snarl-spat words, though Valentine noted with no small amount of satisfaction that this time, the sound was familiar- Jon hit the floor hard, nose spurting blood as he was dragged forward by arm and shoulder, both hands bound behind his back.

Taking a long drag, Valentine savored the warmth of tobacco on his tongue as he waited patiently, one hand holding his cigarette to his lips, the other tossed behind his head as something dangled over the back of his chair, held aloft by one finger. It was only when the other man was shoved down before him, forced to his knees by one hand on the back of his neck, that Valentine opened his eyes and glanced ahead.

His smile widened.

“Ah- there we are,” he purred, shuffling himself upright- there was a faint clink of metal, and he watched as Jon stiffened slightly, wary of the sound but unable to place it. “Hello, darling- how was your day? Did you sleep well? Get everything out of your system? I haven’t seen you since your little… outburst last night.”

His tone was light, saccharine, dripping with false cheer- the furrow of his brow, however, and the way his teeth were gritted around his cigarette in the faintest hint of a sneer, betrayed his true feelings. When he received no answer, Valentine heaved a sigh.

“Not even a hello, Jon?”

The smaller man’s chest was heaving, the side of his jaw already beginning to marble as a nasty bruise formed- blood had smeared in the space between his nose and upper lip, dripping from his chin and staining the dark tile beneath. With his head bowed, knees bent and dust-colored hair ruffled and sweat-damp, Jon Spiro looked small, all the jewelry and panache that made up his character plucked away and discarded. Red had splattered the collar and hem of his ivory suit in the struggle, and Valentine’s sneer twisted into a smirk.

“I suppose not, then.”

Leaning forward, the billionaire rested his arms against his knees, one hand snatching Jon by the chin when the other turned to look at what he had held in his hand. Digging his nails in, he was rewarded by a hiss of pain as he forced Jon to meet his eyes, shadowed by their lenses and smiling cruelly. “For such a small, spiteful little creature,” he muttered, “You’re quite resourceful, I’ll hand it to you.”

Lifting his injured hand, he passed something to one of the guardsmen, wrenching Jon’s head forward when the other tried to look. “Ah ah! Eyes on me,” Valentine snapped. “I’m still talking.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Jon spat the words through gritted teeth, the sound crumbling into nothing as Valentine tightened his grip, paying deliberate attention to the bruising flesh along the other man’s jaw. Blood welled beneath his nails and Jon balked, Valentine only stopping when he felt the smaller man give up, dropping back onto his knees.

“I’d love to- but I’m a little busy at the moment, dealing with a particularly bitey little bitch.“ Valentine snarled, eyes narrowing. He shook Jon slightly as he spoke, waving his bandaged fingers in front of the other man’s face, tone taking on a note of petulance. “Look at what you did to me! I had to call a fucking doctor for this shit!”

His growing rant was cut short as he suddenly jerked back, dropping Jon and bringing a hand to his face with a disgusted shriek.

Panting, Jon let out a choked laugh as he watched the billionaire furiously scrub the spat blood from his cheek, plucking his glasses from his face to hurriedly wipe the lenses clean. “I’ll do it again!” He crowed, turning to snap his teeth at the hand pressed to his shoulder. The guardsman flinched, shoving Jon forward- he was sent sprawling, head cracking against the floor.

Eyes glittering with fury, Valentine’s chest heaved, the man hurriedly smoothing his hair back and straightening his glasses. “I’m well aware,” he gritted out. “It’s become quite the problem.”

Turning, he nodded to the guardsmen. “Hold him.”

Jon yelped as he was suddenly dragged up from the floor, forced once more into his knees- a hand grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back, the breath knocked out of him by a knee slamming into his back. Jon groaned, sinking forwards- metal clattered in his ear and he froze, a low chuckle beginning to echo through the air.

An arm curled around his neck, pressing to his throat and holding him fast- Jon thrashed, watching through blurred vision as Valentine stood from his chair, something passed to him overhead. The other man crouched, leaning close. His fingers ghosted past Jon’s temples as something was looped around the back of his head- he tried to shrink away, but the hand fisted into his hair pulled, pain rippling down his skull and forcing him to pause.

“Hold still, Jonny~”

There was a quiet click and suddenly, Jon found his mouth pried apart by Valentine’s thumb as it hooked against his bottom jaw. He bit down hard, only to find something strange and stiff instead of flesh, pressing against his tongue. Gagging on the foul taste, he tried to spit it out, only to find he couldn’t part his teeth to do so.

Something was biting into the bridge of his nose- some kind of strap and cold gray metal, fastened far too tightly. Valentine hummed against him as Jon tossed his head as far as he was able, trying to shake the strange object loose. The same pressure circled beneath his jaw and pressed to the sides of his face, deft fingers quickly fastening buckles and straps. The other man leaned back and stood just as Jon’s eyes widened in sudden, stark realization.

A muzzle. He was wearing a muzzle.

Violent fury flooded through him, utterly overwhelming, and Jon tore himself free from the guardsman, crashing into the floor- his shriek of rage was muffled by the leather bit forced into his mouth, and his entire jaw splintered with pain as his chin cracked against the tile, the metal frame thrumming with the shock of the blow.

Valentine watched, grinning, as Jon went ballistic, slamming his head against the tile over and over as he fought to shake the muzzle off. It was a pointless effort- it was a well-made thing, and the straps had been tightened to the point of cruelty. Every blow sent another spike of pain shivering up the sides of his face, echoing below and between his teeth. A stream of muffled, illegible curses dissolved into garbled, unbroken howling, Jon’s body shaking with the force of his fury. His hands curled into fists at his back, the man writhing against the ground as he struggled to free himself and pull the wretched thing off.

After a few moments, his struggling began to slow- Valentine tilted his head as Jon slumped to the floor, sobbing for breath. His head was forced sideways against the tile, the straps digging into the bruised flesh of his cheek.

Teeth bared in a savage smile, the billionaire stepped forward and crouched down, hooking one finger through the metal framework and dragging Jon’s head upright to face his own. Jon’s expression crumbled as he realized the other man was laughing- deep, delighted laughter, smile widening as Jon hissed in pain.

“Oh…” he panted, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “Oh, this is delightful- you look ridiculous! It suits you so well, Jonny, really.” Hooking his other hand around Jon’s arm, he hauled the man upright and forced him against him, arm circling his waist to keep him from pulling away. “It makes you look like the animal you really are, eh?“

Twining his fingers through the mesh, Valentine tugged on it sharply- Jon let out a muffled groan as the steel bit into his cheek, stabbing pain trickling off into a dull ache as he paused. “Do you want me to loosen it, Jon?” The billionaire murmured, breath hot against the back of his neck. “Did I fasten it too tight? I’ll fix it- all you’ve got to do is say the word.”

Jon didn’t answer- he couldn’t. The sound he made was indecipherable, brow furrowing in frustration as he tried to force the words out. All that left him was empty noise, and after a moment, he gave up the effort.

Valentine tilted his head mockingly, as if confused. “No?” He asked, ignoring Jon’s furious huff of breath behind him. “Alright, then- just checking. I’ve got to make sure nothing breaks tonight in front of the guests.”

He felt the other man freeze against him. Valentine tightened his arm around the other’s waist, dragging his hand down the sharp point of each rib- Jon squirmed under the touch, unable to bite back a low, confused whine.

“I’m having a party,” Valentine hummed, letting his hand drop from the muzzle to seize Jon by the hair instead. “A little gathering of some of our criminal friends… and you’re invited. I can’t miss out on the opportunity to show off my new pet- and I’m sure everyone will be delighted to find that your foul mouth won’t be making an appearance.”

Jon paled- Valentine watched as it dawned on him, that this wasn’t only meant to be a punishment (and a preventative- Jon always bit hard)- it was going to be a spectacle. A humiliating, horrifying spectacle. He was going to be paraded around like this, in front of old friends and foes alike for their amusement. Valentine hugged the other to him, wicked smile widening at the thought of Jon forced to kneel at his feet, surrounded by cruel laughter and kicks aimed his way, perhaps fastened by leash and collar.

“If you’re good~” He sneered. “If you behave yourself and do what I tell you, I’ll loosen this ugly thing later, ok? I’ll take it off, even, and you can run your filthy mouth, curse and threaten all you like. But- I’m keeping it. It’s made just for you. So if you ever spit on me, or fucking bite me like that again-“

The fingers tangled into his hair tightened their grip, Jon’s head wrenched back until tears dotted his eyes. He groaned, a shiver running down his body as his teeth grit so strongly that he swore that they’d cracked, the pain across his nose and jaw blistering.

“-I will smash every single tooth in your mouth, and then strap this thing on- and once I do, baby, it’s not coming off again. I’ll watch you fucking wither.”

Valentine’s voice was whisper-quiet and cold. Slowly, the hand fisted in his hair released its grip, Jon sent crashing to the floor.

Wiping his hands against his trousers, Valentine stood and stretched, smoothing out his collar. “Boys, if you wouldn’t mind-“ he gestured idly to his guardsmen, pointing to Jon, trying to struggle upright from the floor. “Get him tidied up, will you? He’s gotten blood everywhere… something nice, please- and no jewelry!”

Jon bristled, suddenly seized by hands once more as he was dragged to his feet- he staggered, the room spinning around him as sudden dizziness flooded his senses. He shook his head to clear it, winced, and then sank back against the hands holding him, struggling to stay conscious.

Settling back down into his chair, Valentine picked up his forgotten cigarette, pulling out his lighter to catch a flame once more. “See you shortly, Jon!” He called, before taking a deep drag of his smoke and letting it ghost from between his teeth.

I’ve got a party to prepare for.

#Jon has a biting problem and Valentine doesn’t take kindly to it I’m afraid. #got a little rushed at the end but BOY this was fun. it’s nice to just toss something out without worrying about refining it or anything #fission’s fics #tw violence #oc: Valentine

[release-the-mccracken]

Masterlist of fics

An updated list of all the fics I've written for bandom so far

Tip Me Over; I Like All Types Of Pressure

"Ryan doesn't see things the way other people do. He's different," Brendon had rambled drunkenly to Gabe one night. And despite all the alcohol in his system, Brendon had been right. When others looked at Gabe, they saw an overly confident flirt. A top who liked to take control and dominate his partners. But that's not how Ryan saw him.

Tonight Give Me Everything Tonight

Pete never considered himself to be someone with a size kink. All of his partners tended to be bigger than him, but that was just a coincidence-or so he thought.

Just Like Holy Mary

Bert had asked plenty of stupid questions before, sometimes there was just no filter between his mind and his mouth. Though, his stupid questions didn't usually end with Jepha in his bed.

A Waste Of Blood And Sweat

Everyone has rituals for after a show, maybe Anthony's is just a bit different from everybody else's.

Starry-Eyed Child

Bert and Quinn finally get to spend some time alone together.

I'm Melting In Your Eyes (Like My First Time)

Bert was used to having sex, it was an act of rebellion after being raised in a Mormon household. However, sex with a bandmate who was also a guy was pretty new for him.

You Could Cause You Can So You Do

Jon knew that people looked at him differently than they looked at the rest of his band. He'd always been a bit rougher, a bit more masculine, a bit less "pretty." And yet, he was the only one Gerard was looking at.

Ready For The Boom

Fall Out Boy decide to give each other a hand and they all have their first circle jerk.

It's Cuffing Season

The thing about Vinny was that he’d never really thought about his height until he met Justin Morrow. He’d always been aware he was shorter than most other guys, sure. When it came to his band, he was even shorter. But when Justin had stumbled into his life, he was very aware of their size difference. Normally, he’d be a bit embarrassed when another man towered over him, but it was nothing short of exciting when it was Justin.

I Was Young And A Menace

Pete knew better than to trust Gabe's surprises. Yet he found himself tied down to the bed with a gag and a blindfold on anyway.

And They Called It Puppy Love

As Gabe grew up and got older, he started to have better control over himself and his instincts. Now, whether he wanted to control them or not was a very different story.

Little Bit Of Poison In Me (I Can Taste Your Flesh In My Teeth)

Pete always believed that he could protect himself, but William Beckett was intent on putting that to the test.

Sending My Love From The Other Side

A collection of ficlets completed, each chapter is titled.

Young Lovers (And They Are Not Sleeping)

It was surprisingly easy to find the man who turned him, but Pete never could've imagined what he'd walk into when he finally found him.

If You Were Church

Pete platonically blows Patrick to help him relieve some stress.

Toy Diamond Ring Stuck On Her Finger

Gabe and William are best friends who just so happen to fuck sometimes.

I Missed Your Skin When You Were East

Things weren't normally so rough between them, but Ryan was quickly finding out that he didn't mind it. (Spencer x Ryan)

I Can See Your Halo, Pray It Don't Fade Away

"Quinn ended up giving me a ride up to my parents' house. It was a beautiful night. I remember the moon was out and there was something different about this person that I'd met and I knew that we were going to write beautifully together."

Touched For The Very First Time

Pete gives Ryan his first blowjob.

December Was The Warmest Month

“Are you still okay?” Brent’s words cut through the thick smoke that felt like it was clouding up Ryan’s mind. It helped bring him back to the moment, giving him something to focus on. He felt himself nodding, but his body felt weird. He felt too heavy, his movements feeling slower than normal and as though it took more effort to simply nod. Brent’s fingers still rubbed his side, mindlessly tracing small circles there. 

Now He Got Me On A Leash 'Cause We Said No Strings

Adam riding Gerard and Gerard using his mic cord like a leash.

As Fresh As A Bright Blue Sky

Pete wasn’t exactly sure how he found himself in this situation. Straddling Patrick in the back of the van, Patrick’s back against the seat to keep himself sat up and his hands all over Pete. He’d always found Patrick attractive, sure. With those big eyes and soft hair, how could he not? He just never expected anything to actually come from those feelings, especially not something so receptive. Normally, he’d question and second-guess himself whenever anything too good started to happen for him, but it was hard to think with Patrick touching him.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme Just A Bit Of Your Time

Everyone gets lonely after a bit of time on tour, Frank decides to remedy that by keeping Matt company.

Can't Help It If There's No One Else

“I’m gonna do my best,” Adam promised and it earned a gentle kiss from Mike. Adam could taste peach rings when he kissed him, smiling into the kiss a bit. Everything was working to remind him that this was still just Mike. The same Mike he played video games with and made fun of, the one he goofed off with all the time and the same one who he had trusted with all of his secrets. He didn’t need to worry.

#bandom rpf #rpf #bandom smut #bandom nsft #rpf smut #rpf nsft #smut #nsft #masterlist #requests #bandom #rossporta #ryan ross #gabe saporta #wentzporta #pete wentz #bert mccracken #jepha howard #jeph howard #jeph x bert #bert x jeph #franthony #gerard way #jon walker #poly fob #patrick stump #joe trohman #andy hurley #wentzross #gabilliam

[dunkzillla]

(I don’t want to be) second best; jon moxley x wheeler yuta

title: (i don’t want to be) second best

pairing: jon moxley/wheeler yuta, mentioned and implied: bryan danielson/wheeler yuta, bryan danielson/daniel garcia, blackpool combat club polycule

rating and warnings: explicit, sexual content (thigh fucking, handjobs) descriptions of violence, language.

word count: 3904

summary: Yuta feels sick, and his hands are trying to scramble for purchase on a belt that’s no longer there.

authors note: I started writing this the day after dynamite on 3 hours sleep and ended up sharing a snippet for a fic meme. @slapofhonor wanted more so, here’s the rest of it!

ao3 link

Yuta feels sick, and his hands are trying to scramble for purchase on a belt that’s no longer there. They’re empty, empty and cold and his waist feels, well, naked.

Someone’s shouting at him from down the hall, but his mind is all fuzzy, his body sore and running on autopilot. He doesn’t turn around to see who it is. It’s probably not Bryan, he’s too focused on parading Daniel around the ring like his shiny new toy to worry about where Yuta’s going, and the way that Regal had looked at him when he walked away, well, Yuta doesn’t think the older man is going to talk to him for a while. He’d done everything that Regal had told him not to do. Don’t use any of your rope breaks, don’t lose your head, and don’t lose. Yuta did all of that in the match, starting with the rope break and then slowly descending into madness, he closed fist punched Garcia because it was all he could think to do upon seeing red, when he just wouldn’t quit, and then he lost, he tapped out. He knows Regal is disappointed in him, and Yuta doesn’t quite know how to deal with that yet.

It hasn’t been that long since Trent cornered him in the corridors after the tag match with Chuck and Mox, and screamed in his face about upsetting Chuck and Orange, about using Chuck’s pin, and about how the blackpool combat club are going to throw him away when he loses his title.

The thought has been stuck in Yuta’s mind since, like a nasty, poisoned dart stuck in his side, slowly releasing its toxins into him every time he thinks about it. And now, well now the losing the title part of it has come true, and with the way Regal looked at him, maybe the throwing him away will be true too.

It’s all Yuta can think about as he makes his way through the winding halls and back to the locker room. It’s empty, and he can’t decide whether that’s good or bad. Did he want someone to be in here, Mox, Claudio, or maybe even Eddie, someone to just put their arms around him and tell him it’s going to be okay? Or is it better that there’s no one here, no one to tell him hey, you gotta pack your stuff up, gotta give your place to Daniel Garcia. It’s probably the latter but Yuta doesn’t know how he’d react if that happened, though.

There’s a heaviness in his muscles that isn’t just from the beating he just took in the ring, and the thumping of his head isn’t just because Garcia stamped on it against the exposed turnbuckle.

His chest hurts from the slaps and the way his heart is thumping under his skin, his eyes are stinging from the sweat that got into them and the tears that are threatening to fall. Yuta strips off his things and throws them into a pile by his bag. He doesn’t quite feel like folding them neatly like Regal likes. He steps into the shower, turns it hot, and stands there. He stands there and lets his mind shut off while his skin burns. Tears run down his cheeks, getting lost in the water cascading down his face. Yuta knew his time would come, he knew he’d lose the belt eventually, he just didn’t think it would be now, this soon, or to Daniel Garcia. He thought maybe some ROH legend would show up some day, or maybe Joe or Bryan would take it from him, Yuta had planned for it in his head, knew it could happen, would have accepted that, but Daniel? The guy he’s essentially been on an equal path with from the start? The guy Bryan’s fucking obsessed with? That wasn’t part of the plan, that wasn’t okay. Because now Bryan, his mentor, a hero of his, a lover, who gave him the pure title upon his initiation into the Blackpool Combat Club and said this was mine once, but now it’s yours, like it was the highest honor he could be bestowed with, was giving it to someone else. Bryan Danielson giving you the pure title? It’s all people like he and Daniel dream of, their hero, proud of them, wrapping a title they held so honourably around your waist and saying hey, you’re good, this is yours. Yuta had felt proud, honoured, smug knowing that he was the only one Bryan had done that for. That he would be the only one Bryan did it for, because no one was going to take it from him, not anyone that Bryan would want to do it for, anyway.

But then he has, now, he lost his title to the one person that Yuta feels threatened by. He feels the sticky white hot fury inside of him. Bryan had come down to the ring, looked at him as if to say well, he beat you, shake his hand, like Yuta needed telling what to do, like Yuta was the disrespectful one, despite Daniel being the one who disrespected him the last time they had a match, Daniel being the one who let his team cheat for him to win his match against Bryan. Daniel Garcia is disrespectful, even to his hero, and yet, Bryan looked at Yuta like it was him. Like he wasn’t allowed a second to collect himself before he swallowed his pride and shook the winners hand. Then he’d watched Bryan parade him around the ring, like a father with his new born son, proud and beaming even as Jericho came out.

Yuta smacks his fist against the tiles, feels the crack of his knuckles and the splitting of skin but it barely registers. He’s not even in his own body anymore. He doesn’t want to be.

x

Mox finds Yuta standing under the running water of the shower when he gets into the locker room. It was stupid of him to think that the boy was going to be anywhere else, but at least the time spent looking for him had given Yuta a little time to cool off.

He’s in his own world, not hearing Mox come in, not hearing Mox stripping down so he can join him. Yuta’s whole body jolts when Mox presses up behind him, skin to skin and wrapping his arms around that soft middle of his.

“Easy tiger, just me.”

Yuta’s body is still a little taut, but he relaxes into Mox’s hold, and he tips his head back as Mox ghosts kisses across his wet skin, stroking the smoothness that is his hips and belly, tasting water and soap on his tongue.

“Moxie.”

“Yeah, Moxie. I’m so fucking proud of you.” He says, and he feels Yuta shake at the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. A bloodied hand comes to rest on Mox’s own, and Mox links their fingers. Yuta’s hands are shaking, wet and sticky and warm, they’re soft against Mox’s calloused own.

“I lost.” Yuta's voice cracks, wet and high.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not proud, Wheeler. You did so good, got so mean, just like me.”

A sob escapes Yuta, and Mox holds him tighter, pressing his chest against his back, squeezing his hands and his arms around his belly. The water rains down around them, a steady pounding on the floor tiles.

“Regal, he said—“

“I know. You did what you had to do. You were surviving, doing what you had to. Don’t ever feel bad for that.”

“But—“

“No buts, baby. How many times do I gotta knock it into your pretty head? He ain’t always right, and wrestling ain’t always about doing it the hard way. You’re not weak, or wrong for using a rope break on a submission that knocked Bryan out cold. You’re not. If it was easy to fight out of Garcia wouldn’t use it. Wrestlings not about how many times you get knocked down, it’s how many times you get back up. And my boy, my boy always gets back up, don’t he?” Mox turns his mouth, presses the words and kisses into his ear. Yuta shivers against him, pushes back against him. It’s a bi-product of having Yuta’s slick, warm body tucked against his own that his dick is hard against Yuta’s ass.

“Bryan’s—“

“An asshole. An asshole with an obsession. He’ll get over it, either he’ll get what he wants or he’ll get his heart broken and he’ll move on. No matter what, Garcia will never be you. Never. He took the easy route and shacked up with Jericho. Not you, tiger. No, you stepped right into the lion's den, didn’t you? Stepped into the cage wearing raw meat. You got eaten alive time and time again but each time you took it, you stood up,” Mox runs a hand up Yuta’s slick chest, his shaven chest is smooth, and his nipples are peaked and hard. Yuta’s got a sensitive chest, pushes into the hand on his skin, back arching and ass pushing right against Mox. He’s sinful, he’s a sick, dirty temptation that Mox can never resist. He slides his hand up to his throat, long, taut, the perfect fit in Mox’s hand. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests it there, his thumb on the curve of his jaw, fingers underneath his ear. He feels Yuta swallow.

“Garcia might have won, might have beaten Bryan once, but he never did it like you did it. He cheated against Bryan. He nearly cried when he bled in the cage at blood and guts. Not you. Not my Yuta. You give until you can’t anymore, even if that means losing. You are stronger than he will ever be, more of a man, more of a fighter. Bryan picked the wrong guy, I didn’t, I picked you. Cos’ I know you’re the best.” Mox strokes Yuta’s throat, skims his blunt nails against the soft pouch of Yuta’s tummy, kisses the base of Yuta’s neck, the expanse of his shoulders. Touching Yuta is like touching a cloud, or at least what Mox thinks it would be like touching a cloud. He’s soft, yielding, moulds against you no matter which way you turn. He tastes like fresh summer fruit, bright, sweet, fragrant. It’s addicting, maddening, and Mox has been hooked from the very first touch. The first touch in the ring, the first touch in the locker room, in a hotel, in a bed. Every single first time that he had with the boy Mox became more and more obsessed each time. Each touch, taste, each little smile, smirk, gasp.

The first time they sparred, their first training session, Mox pushed him hard. He didn’t hold back, he was angry at himself for being so infatuated, for being so obsessed. It felt like Seth all over again, and he couldn’t do it, so he tried to beat it out of Yuta. He pulled at his arms until he screamed, he choked him until he was red, punched his stomach until he was doubled over and wheezing. But then, at the end of it all, Yuta, covered in sweat, a bit of blood from an old scab that had been ripped open, Yuta pulled himself to his knees, and like a starved man asking for food, said, “Again.”

Mox had slapped him, a hard cracking sound had filled the room, a slight gasp from Yuta. But once Yuta had recovered, he looked back up at Mox, and motioned with his hand. Again. Mox slapped him a total of six times, his hand stinging, a red mark on Yuta’s cheek, eyes glossy and rolling into the back of his head. He still never gave up, but Mox couldn’t take it anymore. The boy was a sight, and Mox was hard. It was then that Mox fell head first into his obsession, his infatuation, with Wheeler Yuta. He let it consume him, history repeating itself be damned. Yuta wasn’t Seth. Seth couldn’t take a slap the way Yuta can. He liked pain for sure, but he had his limits, limits that didn’t take much for Mox to reach. Yuta, he’s sure Yuta has limits. Mox just hasn’t found them yet.

Daniel Garcia won’t ever be Yuta either. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he wraps Bryan around his finger, he won’t ever be the kid who knelt in front of him, half dead and bleeding asking for more. He won’t ever be the kid who got in Regal’s face and took the slap like a champ. Maybe he will be to Bryan, but that’s okay, because Yuta is his anyway. Yuta can sleep with who he wants, kiss who he wants, but he’ll never belong to them the way he belongs to Mox. He’ll never give himself to anyone the way he does to him. And that’s just the way Mox likes it, needs it.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Yuta gasps gently, tries to push and pull his body in different directions, back into Mox’s chest and up into the hand on his stomach. He’s hard like Mox, had been slowly stiffening as Mox petted at his belly above his cock and pressed his own against Yuta’s ass.

“Anything, just, something, anything — get me out of my head, Jon, please.” Yuta begs. His voice still cracks, is still wet with tears, but Mox can hear the desperation, the need simmering under the surface.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Don’t I always? I’m here.” Mox slides his hand down and wraps it around Yuta’s cock, warm and slick from the shower.

“Up,” He murmurs against Yuta’s ear. Yuta obeys, planting both hands against the shower wall and going up on his tiptoes. Mox squeezes Yuta’s throat and cock at the same time as he slides his own between his thighs, the water making it slick and easy. He doesn’t have lube, and he’s not leaving Yuta to go get it, and he’s not opening the boy with just water and spit, he likes pain but not like that.

Yuta pushes his thighs together, not tight, but enough that there’s a delicious friction against Mox’s cock as he thrusts between them slowly. “There you go, so good for me, such a good boy.”

Yuta makes a strangled noise, tips his head back onto Mox’s shoulder and turns his face to the side so he’s looking at him. His expression is open, unguarded, and pained. He’s looking to Mox for help, for anything, to make him feel better. Mox kisses him.

“Mox,” Yuta kisses him desperately, like he’s trying to get swallowed whole, like he wants to disappear into Mox completely. Mox would let him, if it was possible, he’d hide Yuta inside of him, protecting him from the world. The only person allowed to hurt him, make him bleed, is himself. “Please.”

“I know. I’m here, I’ve got you, just let it go. Let it all go. They don’t matter.” Mox bites at Yuta’s lip, tugs on it, gives Yuta the pain he needs to remind him who he is, what he can take. Yuta gasps, rocking back on his toes, fucking his thighs down onto Mox’s cock like he’s riding him for real.

“Moxie, please, I’m—“

“Come on baby, give it to me. Show me how good I know you are.” Mox tightens his hand around Yuta’s cock, fucks his cock between his thighs quicker. It’s not quite the tight heat of Yuta’s ass, but it’s velvety smooth, wet, and Mox can feel his own orgasm building.

Yuta shakes, his orgasm taking over him as he clutches at Mox, “I’m gonna, oh fuck I’m gonna— fuck!” He paints Mox’s fist, though it’s quickly washed down the drain by the running water.

Mox is right there with him, and the tight clamp of Yuta’s thighs as his orgasm rips through him pushes Mox over the edge, comes with a growl and a bite to Yuta’s shoulder. He makes a mess of his boys thighs, his release dripping down his legs. It’s filthy, but Mox watches in fascination as they come down together, breathing heavily. Eventually Yuta shifts, and the angle of the water changes, washing away the mess on his skin.

He turns in his arms, pressing his back against the wall and leaning in to kiss Mox. Fresh summer fruits burst in Mox’s mouth and clouds slip through his fingers as he lets his hands grope Yuta’s body. His muscles are still tense, most likely still sore from his match, but he’s better, not as taut or ramrod stiff like he was when Mox found him. He likes that. He likes that he’s able to uncoil him like a spring, put him right and back together, so that he can coil him right back up again ready to be let off on someone.

“Thank you.”

Mox smiles. Yuta’s voice is thick, arousal still coating his tongue, but his voice doesn’t crack, and it’s no longer wet with tears. His eyes are focusing, still a little red, but he’s there, his boy is in there, back from the brink, out of his head. “Don’t have to thank me. You know I’ve always got you.”

Yuta dips his head until he’s tucking his face into Mox’s neck, letting himself be cradled in Mox’s arms.

Mox holds him there for a little bit, running his fingers up and down his spine, whispering sweet little words to him that he can only just hear over the shower water. The water stays warm, but eventually Yuta starts to shiver and shake in his arms, so Mox turns the water off and gets him back into the main part of the locker room. He dries him off, kissing across his body as he does. It gets Yuta to smile; that beautiful, sunshine bright smile that he loves so much. Yuta’s eyes crinkle when he smiles like that, showing his teeth and all the lines in his face. Mox loves that smile, and he loves it more when he’s the reason for it being there.

He dresses him in a clean pair of sweats and one of his own hoodies, Yuta likes to wear them because they smell like Mox, likes the smell of his aftershave and cigarette smoke.

“You wanna stay and wait for the others or catch a cab back to the hotel?”

“We should stay… I don’t want them to think — you know, like I’m running away.”

“No one would think that, baby, but we’ll stay. I don’t got anything to do.” Mox says, and he sits down on the bench, pulls Yuta with him and helps him lay out, lets the boy put his head in his lap and slips his fingers through his wet hair, petting him gently.

The shows over, but the Rampage taping has probably already started, and Claudio’s got a match so they’re not going to be leaving any time soon. Yuta falls asleep with his head in Mox’s lap, curled up in a little ball and breathing deeply. Mox settles in, his own legs perched on a chair as he scrolls through his phone. They’re like that for around half an hour when he hears voices approaching, looks up curiously to see Bryan, still wearing his ring gear, pushing the door open. Daniel Garcia is following behind him, the pure title still wrapped around his waist.

“Get out.” Mox growls lowly.

“It’s not just your locker room, Jon.”

Mox growls again. Sometimes Bryan can be a right prick. He knows that Yuta is upset about the title, he knows that the last person he wants to see right now is Garcia, yet, here he is, bringing him into the locker room like he belongs here, like he deserves to be here. He doesn’t. He never, ever will.

“And I respect that, but considering he is the last person Wheeler wants to see right now, I’d say it’s a pretty dick move bringing him in here.”

Bryan’s face moves barely an inch, but his eyebrows furrow slightly, lips pursing momentarily, “He shook his hand—“

“Out of respect, don’t mean he wants to play god damn happy families five minutes after he just lost his title to him. You’re fucking lucky he’s asleep, go, before he wakes up.”

Bryan thinks about it for a moment, and then he’s turning, putting a hand on Garcia’s back and leading him out of the locker room. The kid had the sense not to say anything, because one wrong word out of his mouth would have sent Mox charging.

Mox makes the mistake of looking down at Yuta. His eyes are open, wet and red again, looking up at him through damp lashes. He wasn’t asleep.

“Baby…”

“Don’t — I just, keep, keep doing that.” Yuta’s voice is thick and wet again, sad, as he lifts Mox’s hand and puts it back on his head, nuzzles into his stomach.

“I got you.” Mox whispers softly, carting his fingers through the drying strands as he feels some of Yuta’s tears dampen his shirt. God he fucking hates Bryan sometimes. He can’t even see what he’s doing to the kid. There’s no harm in wanting another protege to train, they all want to be the best group they can be, safety in numbers and all that, but that doesn’t mean that their first protege has to be pushed out of the way to make room for a new one. That’s the problem with Bryan, he loves so fiercely, but it’s so laser focused, it’s almost like he can’t love more than one person at a time, like he doesn’t know how. There’s no doubt that he loves Yuta, Bryan made him soup when he was sick and stayed up all night finding the best way to unblock a nose without using chemical infused decongestant sprays. But right now, right now Bryan loves Garcia, or thinks he does, and he’s so focused on him that he doesn’t see that he’s forgetting Yuta, that he’s pushing him aside and hurting him. Yuta just wants to be loved, loved by everyone he loves. He hates being a disappointment, in anything, and he feels like he’s disappointed Bryan, and Bryan won’t give him the reassurance he needs because he’s too busy with someone else.

“Sorry.” Yuta whispers after a moment, and he sniffles, trying to dry his eyes with his fist.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry. Just let it all out. I’m here, alright? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours, you’re mine, fuck the rest.” He says, scratching his fingers at the base of Yuta’s scalp.

Yuta sighs softly, cuddling closer. Mox knows he can’t take away what Yuta feels with just words, probably not even his actions, either, only Bryan can do that, but he can help, he can make him feel better, happy, even, and if he can do that, well, it’s a start.

“Love you.” Yuta whispers.

Mox smiles, bringing a hand up to stroke his cheek and run his thumb over his lip. They’re wet with tears, and Mox knows that if he kissed him right now, he’d taste fresh summer fruit, but fresh summer fruit eaten by the sea, skin getting kissed by warm sun and clouds.

He wipes away a tear. “Love you too, tiger.”

#kind of got carried away with mox’s obsession with yoots but oh well #I love them too much #jon moxley x wheeler yuta #wheeler yuta x bryan danielson #bryan danielson x daniel garcia #blackpool combat club #jon moxley #bryan danielson #wheeler yuta #daniel garcia #mox #writing

[bellysoupset]

"Hi babygirl, where's daddy?" Leo overheard Jonah ask JD and he would've smiled and held the phrase over his boyfriend's head forever, wasn't it for the fact he was feeling absolutely wretched.

There was more rustling around and Leo could just picture him, stripping down the coat now that the weather was getting ugly again, kissing JD's head even though he denied that he did that, checking her food and water bowl… Walking in the bedroom, "Leo?"

"Here," he croaked from the bathroom and heard Jonah's steps, before the door was pushed. He hadn't had the time to properly shut it when bolting to the bathroom and had only kicked it ajar so JD wouldn't get in.

Leo could only imagine what a pitiful image he was, still in his tux, draped on the ground and gagging fruitlessly over the toilet.

"What the hell?" Jonah raised his eyebrows, stopping at the door. It wasn't fair that Leo was feeling like a pathetic mess and Jonah looked like he was auditioning as the romantic lead of a hospital drama.

"Hi," Leo groaned, resting his cheek on the toilet seat, hygiene be damned. Jonah frowned, moving closer and crouching down.

"What the hell happened?" his soft hands came to cup Leo's cheeks and he could've cried from the relief they brought against his clammy skin.

"Uhm…" He leaned on his boyfriend's touch, "we had a party…-" Leo groaned, moving his head so he could burp wetly over the toilet. He coughed and spat, taking a second before continuing, "at the office… I don't think the cake was right."

"Amazing," Jonah said, distaste dripping from his voice. He planted a hand on Leo's back, rubbing it up and down and forcing up a small burp, "have you been here for long?"

"Started feeling sick as soon as I left…" Leo answered, his stomach was long empty, but still churning, "threw up- Threw up in the parking lot."

He heard Jonah let out a huff, then he started tugging on Leo's tux jacket, stripping it down. Leo let out a groan, now having nothing to do with how queasy he felt and everything with how gross he felt.

He had sweat through his button up and there was the start of a pizza sweat stain under his arm on the jacket, let alone the shirt. He had managed to dab the puke off his tie, but it was wet and disgusting all the same.

"I look horrible," he whined and Jon let out a chuckle, pushing the jacket fully off and balling it up, throwing it under the sink.

"You've seen better days," he said diplomatically and Leo glared at him, before his stomach cramped again and he was forced to turn his attention away. He planted a hand over the upset organ, pressing it in with a grimace.

"I'm going to fucking sue Sandra," he said darkly and Jonah grinned, grabbing his arms and pulling Leo up easily. The blonde stumbled when the sudden change of position made his head spin, collapsing to the left and against Jon's chest, causing him to let out a surprised gasp.

"Are you sure it's just bad food?" he asked, hand once again coming to cup Leo's forehead and the other man nodded, stumbling to the sink and leaning over it with a sigh.

"Yeah, I was… Feeling fine before-" the memory of the birthday cake had his mouth salivating all over again and Leo let out a moan, grabbing on the sink with one hand, while pushing himself to lean over the toilet and gag.

His stomach was long empty, half of it painting the parking lot, half of it in the toilet, but that didn't stop Leo from gagging for another five minutes, until Jonah grabbed his shoulder and forced him to straighten up, fanning his face.

"You're empty, Leo," Jonah said, pushing him back towards the sink and opening the faucet, splashing some cool water on his face, "deep breaths, baby."

He obeyed, filling his mouth up with water and swishing it around before spitting the terrible sweet taste. Leo glared at his reflection, he was already a pale guy, but now he looked damn near translucent. Jonah caught his eyes on the mirror and Leo let out a scoff, letting his head hang.

"Go away," he groaned, "I can't even look at you."

"You're being ridiculous," Jonah grinned, far too amused for Leo's taste. However, he did get out of the bathroom, causing the blonde to pout and let out a whine. He didn't mean it when he asked Jon to go away.

"Jon...?" Leo stumbled out, exhausted. He fell on the bed with a heavy sigh and attempted to undo his tie, before giving up and falling on his back on the soft mattress, pressing his forearm to his eyes to block the yellow overhead light.

His stomach was still rumbling, loudly, and Leo swallowed the acid back down. He felt like everything he had ever eaten was trying to come up.

"Here," Jonah said softly and then Leo realized he had turned off the lights and opened their balcony's glass door, since the orange haze disappeared and a breeze entered the room, "drink this."

"No," Leo scrunched up his face, rolling on his side and gagging when the change of positions made more acid splash on his throat. He swallowed it back, wrapping his arms around his stomach. It was bloated and pressing painfully against his social paints, his belt digging into it, the sweaty shirt annoyingly scratching it.

"Don't be a prick," the bed moved as Jonah sat on the edge and grabbed his bicep, rolling Leo slightly so he could look him in the face, "this will help."

"I'm just gonna hurl it up," Leo gulped down, nervously looking at the tiny measuring cup Jon was holding, filled with bright pink liquid.

"Well, if you don't take the medicine the chances of you hurling increase regardless, it's a no win situation," Jonah rolled his eyes and Leo glared at him, not one bit amused by the way his boyfriend's lips were curling in an entertained smile.

"Do you like seeing me suffer?" he scoffed, forcing himself to sit up and promptly pitching to the side, to avoid letting out a sick belch right on Jonah's face. When he straightened up, Jon's amused smile had diminished.

"No, I really don't," Jonah pushed the cup in his hand, "but you're being cute, so I can't help it."

"Cute?" Leo made a face as he swallowed the thick viscous liquid in one gulp, stomach revolting immediately. He clamped a hand over his lips, spine rolling with queasiness and gagged, the pepto rocketing up, before he managed to swallow it back down. When he managed to open his eyes again, there were little tears clinging to his lashes and Jonah had jumped from his spot, to avoid being puked on.

"Please, don't puke on the bed," Jonah said and Leo nodded, gulping down again.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice deep and breathless.

Jonah raised a skeptical brow, causing Leo to sigh, wiping the sweat off his upper lip.

"Really, I'm ok. I'm not gonna puke... For now, I guess."

Jon tsked under his breath, moving closer and eyeing him up and down, "you're disgusting," he said and when Leo recoiled in shock and hurt, he quickly added, "the sweat, I meant the sweat, not you!"

"Uhm," Leo squinted at him, not one bit reassured, "don't be a dick, I feel really horrible, Jon..."

"I know," Jonah's voice softened up, "I know, baby, I'm not trying to be a dick. You need to get out of these clothes, wash the sweat away. I promise you'll feel better..."

He didn't want to be a baby, but Leo was feeling really nauseous and he wanted to be cooed and cared for. He leaned forward, forehead meeting Jonah's shoulder and let out a groan, his eyes stinging when tears sprung up, his stomach sloshing uncomfortably and forcing up a hiccup.

"I don't wanna be disgusting..."

"I didn't mean it like that, love," Jonah sighed, rubbing his back, sweat be damned, "I'm sorry."

All he got as an answer was Leo sniffling, his stomach groaning loud enough that Jon could hear it.

"C'mere," he made the executive decision of getting Leo in a shower, "come oooon," Jonah wrapped an arm around his back, forcing his boyfriend to move, heart squeezing when he saw how red Leo's eyes were. He hated the idea it was his damn comment that was making him cry.

Jonah dragged Leo back to the bathroom, turning on the shower, one arm still wrapped around the other man. He turned around while the water heated up, undoing Leo's tie and busying himself unbuttoning his shirt, avoiding his boyfriend's sad gaze. He was already feeling guilty enough.

"Uhmm, don't do that..." Leo mumbled, once Jonah's hands dropped to his pants, unbuckling his belt. Jon felt, since his knuckles were pressed to Leo's now naked stomach, a sickening growl rumble through the blonde's belly.

"Leo?"

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallowly, before he whipped around, throwing the toilet lid up with all force and heaving. Jonah cringed, muffling a gag of his own as he saw the vomit hitting the water, pink and brown.

He moved closer, planting a hand on Leo's shoulder and squeezing it, but didn't crouch down. The bathroom smelt sweet and Jonah gulped down his lunch when it tried crawling up his throat.

Leo let out a moan, snaking an arm around his belly and spitting the thick saliva clinging to his bottom lip, "how the fuck am I not empty yet...?"

Jonah grimaced, keeping his eyes fixed on the falling water of the shower, "done?"

Instead of an answer, he heard another sick hiccup and Leo gagging, more liquid hitting the water. Jonah swallowed convulsively. He really didn't want to puke when he was supposed to be comforting his boyfriend... His stomach turned as he felt Leo's shoulders shake with yet another productive heave.

"I'm sorry," Jon said hurriedly, letting go off him and rushing out of the bathroom. He stumbled into the bedroom, planting his hands to his knees as he folded in half with a heave. It didn't bring up anything - thankfully, Leo would never stop giving him shit if he had left the bathroom just to throw up in their bedroom -, but made his eyes sting.

Behind him, he heard the toilet flushing and then Leo's pitiful voice as he croaked, "Jon...?"

"I'm here, sorry," Jonah forced his stomach to stay put, taking a deep breath and walking back in. Leo had closed the toilet and stripped down his pants. He was sitting on the now closed toilet with one arm wrapped around his stomach, other elbow planted on his knee and hand cradling his head.

"Sorry," he groaned when Jon walked in, "didn't mean to make you sick..."

"You didn't," Jonah grabbed his bicep, "shower now, I promise you'll feel better..."

With some effort he managed to manhandle Leo inside the shower box, the blonde collapsing against the opposite wall and letting out a relieved groan as the water washed up the sweat.

Jonah was about to breath out in relief himself when Leo blinked dizzily, his hand darting out to grab on the wall.

"Jon..." he swayed on the spot and Jonah stepped forward before he could think better of it, groaning when he realized a second too late that in his hurry to stop Leo from faceplanting the ground he had stepped right under the stream. The hot water soaked through his henley and his pants.

"Leo, hey... Are you with me?"

"Yeah," Leo nodded, breathing through his mouth, "just got up too fast..." he planted his forehead to the glass that was already fogging up, "I need to sit down, my stomach is cramping like crazy."

"Okay, love, let me just-" Jonah wasn't sure of what to do first, but eventually he managed to get Leo sitting in the still empty bathtub, turning on the water to fill it up while he stripped of his now drenched clothes.

Leo leaned forward, hugging his knees to his chest, resting his cheek upon them and watching Jonah through his limp, wet bangs, "are you gonna join me?"

"It's big enough," Jonah shrugged, "and I'm freezing."

"Uhm," Leo smiled, before grimacing as another cramp went through him, "how's it possible I'm still so fucking queasy...?"

"You got food poisoning," Jon rolled his eyes, removing his watch and crossing the bathroom, "move."

"Your bedside manners are atrocious," Leo grumbled, moving forward so Jonah could slip behind him. He heard his boyfriend let out a huff, but then Jon's hands were in his shoulders, pulling Leo to lie against his chest and splashing warm water down his back.

"I'll have you know I'm a fucking delight," Jonah scoffed, humid hands wiping the sweat away from Leo's forehead, "you're like a magnet for germs, I've never seen anything like that."

Leo let out an unhappy noise, turning his head so his nose met Jon's collarbone and sighing, "it's not my fault."

"It's a little bit your fault for eating the cake," Jon said lightly, but there was no heat to his voice. He pressed a kiss to Leo's brow when the blonde let out a queasy groan at the mention of food.

"Shut up," Leo moved even closer, all but squishing Jonah against the bathtub and grabbing his hand, planting it on his sick belly, "rub my tummy."

"You're such a little shit," Jonah rolled his eyes, but obeying without even thinking, his hands tracing the now puffed out outline of Leo's abs.

"No one will ever believe you," Leo grinned, then groaned, cupping his mouth to muffle a sick belch when Jonah pressed on the side of his bloated belly, "gross..."

Jon let out a huff in agreement, resting his chin on Leo's shoulder and starting to space out as he continued the belly rub, thumbs working in little circles on either side of his boyfriend's stomach and then meeting in the middle. Working up a string of relieved, sickening burps.

He wasn't sure how long had passed, but the water was cold already when suddenly Jonah was snapped back to present with a noise. He glanced down, "Leo? Are you gonna be sick...?"

Instead of a gag, though, what answered him was a snore. Jonah chuckled, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Leo slumped against his left arm, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Sound asleep.

"Unbelievable."

#mywriting #sickfic #emetophilia #emeto #food poisoning #leo wagner #no excuse just jon/leo brainworms

[sinfulnesxx]

On that farm lived the three Kents. Clark, Jon and Conner Kent. Clark had set up a small home gym, so his boys could work out there whenever they wanted. Conner wasn't there that day; he had left with the Titans, so it was up to Jon to help his father on the farm that day. It was a particularly hot day, so Jon was wearing overalls but no shirt underneath; he didn't even bother to put on underwear underneath. As Jon grew older, apart from gaining his Kryptonian powers, he became quite the stallion.

His body was becoming muscular with all the work he did on the farm, and thanks to working out daily in the home gym, another thing was that he also became hairy like his father. While Jon was helping his father with the cattle and gathering the harvest, he could feel the man's gaze, and when his father wasn't looking, Jon also took the opportunity to look at the man. Watching as his semi-naked body, like his own, became pearly with sweat as his muscles flexed, and what he loved most was watching his father's big fat ass when he bent over a surface.

Father and son gave each other lustful glances and smiles as they exchanged glances. When sunset came and the work was done, his father told him he could go take a shower and he would finish the rest. So Jon returned to the house, stripping off his overalls, getting completely naked and heading to take a shower. However, Jon took a few moments to appreciate his own body in the bathroom full-length mirror, grabbed his phone, and started a recording.

“Fuck yeah. Look at these muscles!” Jon smiled as he spoke into the camera, stroking his beard and flexing his arms and filming his hairy, sweaty armpits. The smell emanating from them was strong, musky, and masculine. He went on to film his hairy chest; the hair covered everything, even brushing the beginning of his neck. “You're a fucking stud, dude.” Jon lowered his left hand to start slowly jerking off as he continued to film himself. He kept lowering the camera down and filming his firm, scarred 6-pack abdomen.

Jon was so entertained filming and touching himself, he forgot that the bathroom door was still slightly open. His cock was already as hard as a brick, looking like a fucking baseball bat, and was as thick as a cold beer can. “Look at this imposing beast, fuck” Jon grinned as he jerked his massive cock and filmed it. The boy was proud of what he carried: a thick clump of pubic hair covering the base, a couple of veins adorning the shaft, and a pair of heavy, hairy balls to go with it.

“Do you want this huge, sweaty, musky cock, slut? Yeah, I bet you do,” Jon commented. And as he looked up, he saw his father, in the reflection of the mirror, come through the door, to which Jon turned in surprise. “Dad! I... Uh...” Jon didn't know what to say in those moments, as he looked at his father with a massive erection between his fingers.

@bistanders

#bistanders

[raisamariannas]

the house at the end of the street (fem!jon x aegon vi)

Summary: A ghost boy walks through a ghost town.

AO3 Link. Patreon.

Length: 6k.

Dark. Half-sibling incest. Modern au.

He moves quietly around the local market, head down as he tries not to meet anyone’s gaze, even though no one is trying to. His silver hair curls at the end of his ears, in desperate need of a cut, and he is wearing clothes that are too big for him, flannel sleeves bunching up around his thin wrists. If it were someone else, anyone else, the market’s owner, an elderly woman by the name of Meria, would be fussing over him. She would be tittering about a young man’s need for sustenance, but since that night, no one really talks to Aegon Targaryen anymore. 

It’s not like he cares. In fact, he prefers it that way. Since that night, there has been no need to pretend anymore. To pretend to be a good person, to pretend that he gives a shit about anyone but himself. Since that night, he quit the football team, dropped out of high school and has been living off of his father’s fortune, which is more than enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his miserable life. He barely even leaves the house anymore, barely talks to anyone but the kids that inevitably come around, trying to dare themselves to ring his doorbell. And he likes it that way.

Aegon drags his meager cart around, filled to the brim with canned corn, preserved beans and anything else that can last through a nuclear apocalypse. When he is finished, Mrs Sand’s youngest grandson rings him up quickly, not meeting his eyes. Aegon hands him two fresh notes of a hundred dragons, his mouth barely moving as he says, “Keep the change.” 

He walks out with three bags, struggling to get the car keys out of his pocket. The sun is unforgivable at this time of year, beating down on him and he thanks his Dornish mother that he can walk the five meters between the market to his parking spot without getting a sunburn. When he approaches his car, a beat up old camry solara that has seen better days, Aegon sighs, shaking his head at what has been written in the dirt of his windshield. WHY DID YOU LIVE?

Nothing new under the sun. Phrases like that appear practically twice a week wherever he goes. Aegon simply shakes his head again and opens the car, unloading his groceries on the backseat before sitting down at the front. He doesn’t even bother wiping it off, simply pressing the button to spray some water as he maneuvers the vehicle, driving away without a second glance. Ever since that night, people have been asking the same questions, questions that will never receive an answer. Why did he live? Where is his sister? Why did she do that?

Sometimes, people ask him outright, the few brave kids that heard the story from their parents to warn them against staying away from him, or the nosy soccer moms that are determined to solve the case. If it’s a child, he will simply tell it to return to his mother, but the few moms that have crossed his way are completely ignored. He will not be a part of their weekly book-club meetings that are more about sharing gossip than actually talking about War & Peace. 

His house is located at the end of the main street, next to a curve that has allowed his family a degree of isolation for decades. He doesn't open the garage, as there are already two cars inside, and parks in his driveway, carelessly opening the door next to him so he can get out. Sweat has pooled at the back of his neck, sliding down his back and he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. 

It's a hard day, with many errands needed at the center of town, and Aegon is tired. Exhausted, really. He wants nothing more than to get home, run a cold shower and get in his bed. But things always must stop him. His life can never be too easy, because as soon as he opens his front door, keys still jingling after unlocking the second lock, he hears a heavy piece of paper fall to the ground. 

“Fuck,” he sighs. Aegon lets his bags at the entrance, bending down to pick up the old newspaper shoved under his door. He doesn’t need to even read it to know what it is about, even though he does so anyway, his eyes moving almost automatically across the yellowed out paper.

FAMILY KILLED IN VICIOUS ATTACK; ONE SURVIVOR

Last night, a bloody and brutal attack was carried out against the Targaryen family, pillars of the community at St Alysanne. Patriarch Rhaegar (43), his wife Elia Martell (45) and the couple’s eldest daughter Rhaenys (21) were pronounced dead at the scene by a mixture of blunt force trauma and multiple stabbings to their chest and face. The family’s second child and only son, Aegon (18), was the one to call the police and was unharmed. Police currently believe the attack was carried out by Rhaegar Targaryen’s second daughter -- who is not Elia Martell's biological daughter. Visenya (16) is still at large and her motives for the killing are as of yet unknown. Visenya was tested in her early childhood for mental disabilities, but no definite diagnosis has been released to the public.

Below is the last known picture of Visenya Targaryen, who has dark brown hair, freckles and gray eyes. She is considered dangerous and citizens are recommended to call the police and not engage with her if sighted. Visenya will be charged with three counts of first degree murder and may face the death penalty if found guilty. 

Her older brother, Aegon, is the only witness to her crimes, but sources say he refuses to collaborate with the police. The family’s lawyer has refused access to the youth, or the possibility of an interview. With his father’s death, Aegon stands to inherit a net worth of 500 million. Police have not yet responded to questions if Aegon will be charged as an accomplice to his sister.

He doesn't continue reading. There is no need. For many months after that day, the people asked the same questions and the newspaper continued to flame their suspicion over him, even after the long drawn-out  police's investigation found him to not be at fault. Aegon had to answer the same questions so many times that he can remember it easily, like the lines of an actor. I don't know where my sister is. I don't know why she did it. I had nothing to do with it.

Aegon drags his groceries back in, quietly placing everything in its proper place. He sets aside five cans of soup, food that can be easily prepared over a hot plate, and an apple. The doorbell rings when he is about to start washing the down dishes, fingers already closed around the dish soap. Fuck, he thinks, what do those damn kids want now?

But, when he opens his front door already incensed, Aegon doesn't see any annoying street kid. Instead, he sees the city's sheriff, a pot-bellied balding middle-aged man, standing in his doorway, hands posted at his waist. Aegon sighs, maintaining the door halfway closed, as he hides the rest of his entrance with his body.

"Sheriff Manderly," he greets, trying to keep his face neutral.

"Aegon," he says, nodding at him, "You must know why I'm here."

Aegon raises his eyebrow. "Someone found my sister?" he offers and the sheriff shakes his hand with a chuckle.

"Not yet, I'm afraid, son," he says. Sheriff Manderly steps closer, stretching upward as if trying to see better. "We received some calls that your neighbors have heard a woman screaming inside." He smiles. "I wanted to be the one to come and check everything out."

"I don't know what I can tell you, sheriff," said Aegon, a white knuckle grip on his door frame. "I live alone." He shakes his head. "Another ghost story, most likely. Did I ever tell you about the Blackwood boys trying to sneak inside to spend the night last week? Could've called it in, but I didn't."

"Teenagers," Sheriff Manderly says, as if the matter is entirely simple. "Do you mind if I come inside, just to make sure everything is ok?"

Aegon frowns. "Why do you need to make sure everything is ok if I just told you that I live alone?" he asks. "No woman was screaming here, I swear to you."

Sheriff Manderly smirks, raising his brow. "Come on, Aegon," he says. "It will be quick, just to quiet down anyone that says you're harboring your sister."

"Who says that?" Aegon asks. He shakes his head. "I was sure your department's latest theory was that Visenya escaped to the woods and died of exposure the night of the murders. That was a very cold night, everyone said. The coldest in a hundred years."

"Aegon," Sheriff Manderly says again, "Come on. Don't make this difficult. Just let me check inside and I'll be on my way."

"Do you have a warrant?" he asks. Sheriff Manderly freezes in his place, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. "Mr Whent told me not to let any cop inside without a warrant."

"Aegon, come on," says Sheriff Manderly, almost angry and Aegon begins to close his door, shaking his head.

"Thank you for coming, sheriff," he murmurs, waving almost patronizingly. "When you reach Judge Flowers' office, let me know." 

He finishes closing the door, twisting the first two locks as he steps back. Aegon waits for a long moment before stepping forward again, pressing his gaze to the magic eye. He observes as Sheriff Manderly hangs in his porch, awkwardly looking around as if trying to find any reason to enter without a warrant. But Aegon has pulled the curtains all the way down after having the windows switched, choosing a new glass that would make looking in even more difficult.

It takes around five minutes for Sheriff Manderly to leave, five minutes in which Aegon stays by his door, staring at him through the magic eye. He doesn't like Sheriff Manderly, the man in charge who asked too many questions, but he is a necessary evil. Another sheriff might be less lazy, less inclined to stuff donuts down his throat. Less stupid, with more theories on what could have happened.

But with Sheriff Manderly out of his field of vision, Aegon returns to his tasks. Washing the dishes, setting aside the food for dinner. Taking a cold shower to wash off his sweat and shaving his beard afterwards. He changes into a form-fitting gray t-shirt and dark jeans, brushing his hair back. When he looks into the mirror, Aegon feels like a different person. More at ease in his own home, more confident. He stares straight ahead without fear.

His family's house is three stories high, but Aegon doesn't go to his old rooms on the third floor. Instead, a bag full of groceries in one hand and a bouquet of blue roses on the other, he goes down to the basement. The door that leads down is at the end of a corridor, painted the same color as the wall surrounding it so as to hide it. His father had many things to keep away from the public’s eye in his lifetime.

The basement is dark, but well-cleaned, maintained by a large system of air-conditioning that also feeds the rest of the house. Aegon turns on the first set of lights, crossing through the large storage room that keeps holiday decorations, old family photos and so much more safe. At the end of the basement, he placed a large and tall set of metal shelves that holds his mother’s old book collection, and it’s a daily occurrence for him to drag it away, revealing the second door hidden behind. This one too is painted like the wall surrounding it, installed so long ago under his grandfather’s orders that no one even remembers it is there.

It’s locked and he needs to fish the keys out from his back pocket, awkwardly moving so as to not drop anything. Although he did his best to insulate the surrounding area, he can still hear some movement inside, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

As soon as the door is open, she pounces on him, long-fingered skinny hands closing around his neck as if about to strangle him. Aegon closes his eyes almost automatically, unbrushed dark brown hair sliding across his face. She tries to climb over him, though the chains wrapped around her ankle prevent her from doing so, movements unhinged and frenzy. He feels her blunt nails, filled down to a safe size, scratching against his neck, her animalistic grunts as she opens her mouth, about to bite his cheek. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says gently, but firm. “I have food on me. You gotta be careful.” Visenya, arms wrapped around his shoulders, leans back to look at him with a suspicious gaze. Her gray eyes have lost some of their hue in the last five years, after so many months away from sunlight, but her face remains just as pale as he remembers, with blood-red lips. “Step back.”

She steps away, long hair hiding most of her face and he takes a good look at her. His sister is twenty-one now, the top of her head reaching his armpits with bloodshot eyes that fly around the room madly. Visenya is wearing a blue gown that reaches her bony knees, skinny arms wrapped around her waist. Aegon sighs, shaking his head as he sets the groceries down on her sole table, pulling out his keys so as to close and lock the door behind him. When he is done, he turns back to her, stretching forward his arm and handing her the large bouquet of fresh blue roses.

Visenya takes it with a suspicious expression. “For you,” he says, making the sign for roses. When they were younger, their father brought Visenya to a hundred different specialists, wanting to understand why she never spoke, and though they all said there was no clear reason, they recommended teaching her sign language to help her communicate. Even though, as far as they knew, Visenya could hear perfectly. “Are you hungry?” He gestures to the food.

She makes a C with her hand, moving it down her neck and to her chest. Hungry. He nods, sighing and toes off his shoes, sitting down at the bed to remove his socks. Her room is as wide and spacious as she could want, the chains allowing her enough freedom to move around within its limits. The walls are painted a soft blue, artificial lamps allowing her sufficient lighting to go about her day. There is a hot plate, a small fridge, and a makeshift kitchen. A toilet, a bed, a wardrobe with her favorite clothes and a tv to entertain her. Air-conditioning, plumbing. His grandfather had intended for it to work as a bomb shelter, but after his death, nobody used it. Until that night.

Visenya examines the grocery bag, setting the flowers aside without a care. She moves slowly, awkwardly, like a marionette. Her hair reaches the low of her back, in desperate need of a cut, and she is too distant to care about tying it away. Aegon leans back on his hands to watch her better, observing her picking up a red can with a suspicious movement. She brings it close to her nose, taking a sniff.

“Soup,” he says and she turns to him with a snarl, angry at having her concentration interrupted. “Chicken noodle soup. Your favorite.” She frowns at him, looking back at the can in her hands. “Do you want it?” Visenya turns away, setting the soup aside so as to continue fiddling with the groceries. Aegon smiles and unbuckles his belt, still sitting in the lonely bed with washed-out pink sheets. 

He sees the moment she finds something interesting, the slight tension in her back, her feet bouncing against the floor as she skips. Aegon leans forward to try and see better, observing the red apple clutched in her greedy hands.

"That one is to share," he tells her. Visenya turns to him with a scowl. "Sharing." He signs the word back to her and she turns around, holding the apple like a lifeline. "Seny," he starts, looking at her offended back, "Don't be greedy. You need to share. I like apples too."

Crunch. She turns around suddenly, the apple in her hand as her wild hair hits him in the face. Aegon barely has time to react before she is pressing her lips against his, opening her mouth and moving her tongue so as to slide the small piece of apple between his teeth. He smiles, the taste flooding his mouth as he leans back, chewing slowly.

"Thank you," he says. With a huff, she bites into the apple for herself and he settles his hands at her hips, pulling her close. She accepts to be coaxed into his lap, placing one leg on each side of his thighs so she may straddle him, the hand not currently holding an apple placed over his shoulder for support. "Is it good?" She nods. "I want another piece."

Visenya gives him more with another kiss and his hands slide up and down her back, feeling the gentle curves of her body. She has always been skinny, soft to the touch and the feeling has not changed in many years. He hopes it never will. When she leans back, she takes another bite, chewing with a small smile. They finish the apple slowly, taking turns and kissing, his hands becoming bolder and bolder, though they never slide under her dress.

His sister is still hungry, though, and she eats another apple completely alone. When she is done, Visenya rubs the side of her arm over her mouth, cleaning off her spit. Aegon tugs her by the hand, now laying down in the bed, head to her old pillows. He thinks she looks beautiful under the white light. Ethereal, with her sharp features and wild dark hair. 

"Come here," he says. "Lay down with me." She curls against him, hiding her face in the curve of his neck. Her warm breath hits his skin, tickling. Aegon takes her small hand and plays with her fingers. She has some bruises around her knuckles from trying to punch through the walls, and her wrist bones seem ready to poke out of her skin. But he still brings the hand to his mouth for a tender kiss. "Sheriff Manderly came by today."

She raises her head to look at him. Her face seems scared, eyes wide. Aegon remembers a therapist when they were ten, or eight, who said that Visenya could understand the world around her. She could grow up, go to school, but she might have a difficulty relating to it. The type of kid who would dissect a squirrel from the woods in an attempt to understand it. 

"He said some people heard you screaming," he continued. Aegon arches an eyebrow. "Have you been screaming, Seny?" She shakes her head and he twists his lips, leaning forward with a hand to cup her throat. Her eyes close, a wrinkle growing between her brows and he knows, even without her signing anything, that her throat is sore. Her vocal chords are used up. "Why were you screaming?"

She opens her eyes. Looks at the door, closed and locked. When she moves to sit up next to him, the chains at her ankle jangle, like a thousand out of tune bells. When she looks at him again, Visenya makes a cup with her left hand and places the fingers of her right hand inside it, removing it sharply. Out. 

"You can't go out," he says, just as she starts signing frantically. Sun, woods, air. "You can't. Not after what you did." She stops to look at him, her mouth scrunched up in anger. "They are still looking for you, Seny. There is no statute of limitation on murder." Aegon wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, wants to make her see things the way he does. Wants her to realize how much danger she is in. "If you go out, the sheriff and his people will get you and send you to jail." He signs the word jail. "It's much worse than here, I swear." He takes her hand, brings it to his heart so she can feel how hard it is thumping. How nervous he is. "I won't be there. You won't see me again. There will be no more kisses, no more tickling. Do you understand me?"

She looks at him, her face still morphed in anger. Aegon sighs, shaking his head.

"Do you remember?" he asks, voice soft. "When mom found us together and said she was going to send you to a sanatorium?" She looks away, eyes shining with unshed tears. "You took the kitchen knife and stopped her. When her screams alerted dad and Rhaenys, you made sure they wouldn't take you away as well." It was scary. That night. When Aegon was half-naked and trying to get his sister off of his mother, stopping her from clutching their dad's head and banging it against the hardwood floor as he bled out. But the blood made everything so slippery, he could hardly work to remove her from them and when she was done, she turned to look at him, trembling. Drenched in blood and scared, as if finally realizing what she had done. And he remembered his grandfather's old bomb shelter, and the money he paid to ensure no one in city hall knew about it. "I promised you I'd protect you. I can't do that if you keep trying to escape."

She looks away from him, biting her inner cheek to keep from crying. Face red, lower lip trembling. He rubs her elbow.

"Hey," he says. "I'm not angry." Visenya looks at him, her eyes flooding with tears. "Come on, Seny. I swear I'm not angry." 

A sob leaves her parted mouth, half pain and half sadness, like the moan of a dying animal. She jumps on him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her own body shaking with tortured sobs. He rubs her back gently, her face hiding in the curve of his neck as she cries. 

"Seny," he whispers. "I will never let anything happen to you." She sits up again, their eyes meeting. Wild gray, with a lifetime of insanity hiding behind its hue, and lilac, heavy with knowledge. Suddenly, their faces meet in a kiss, desperate for each other.

He feels her hands clutching at his neckline, his own hands grasping at her hip. Visenya's tongue enters his mouth, stroking his gently, and she moans against his lips when he sucks the red tip. She tastes like apples, toothpaste and insanity. Her hands slide to his shoulders, fingers twisting around his shirt and she sighs in the kiss. "Aegon��" she whispers, practically breathless.

He climbs over her, settling between her parted legs. Aegon can feel her heat, her damp core against the cuff of his jeans. Visenya can't wear underwear, or pants, or shorts. It would snag on her chains, impossible to take out, so she goes commando. She only wears skirts, and dresses with enough elastic to pull over her head. The house has enough heating to keep her comfortable during winter, and the dresses are a necessity during summer. It’s a nightmare during her period, but Aegon doesn’t have to worry about that now. Not for two more weeks, anyway.

His kisses slid down to her neck, the sharp angle of her chin. Her neck trembles under his touch and he takes her pulsing point between his lips, sucking it gently. Visenya holds her breath, whining below him, her hips rising up to try and provoke him. She is squeezing his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist and he raises his own body, meeting her gentle humps with his own.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, looking at her. Visenya’s eyes are wide, her swollen mouth slightly parted. “So fucking hot. I want you so much, Seny.” Together, they remove his shirt and her blue dress, throwing the discarded garments aside. Aegon holds his breath at the sight of her bare body, ribs poking out at her sides. She has always been skinny, with small breasts that can fit perfectly at his palm, but every time he looks at her, he feels a stirring deep in his loins. Desire, lust, love. 

She squeezes her legs around him and he can feel his hard cock, straining against his pants. Aegon sighs, pressing his mouth to her again and he feels a sharp cut to his lower lip, her teeth running against his flesh. A warm metallic taste fills his mouth and he leans back, almost shocked. Visenya’s lips are wetter and redder than normal, slipping down her chin.

Aegon brings a hand to his mouth and when it comes back, there is blood in his fingers. He looks at her. “You’re a bad girl,” he murmurs, settling over her again. “If you’re a bad girl, you will get no tickles. Do you understand me?” She nods, tilting her chin up for another kiss. “Say you understand me.”

Visenya closes her fingers into a tight fist, her thumb poking out and rubs it over her bare chest in circles. She pouts, morphing her face into a mournful expression. 

“Sorry,” he says and she nods. “You’re apologizing. That’s good.” He kisses her again. Her hands bump into his defined chest, sliding down to grab his fly and he sighs, feeling her fingers inadvertently press against his hard member. As soon as his pants are open, and he is sliding them down his thighs, Visenya slips her hand into his boxers. Her warm and long fingers close around his cock, and he grunts, kicking his jeans away. "You're gonna kill me like this, sis…"

She giggles, licking the blood down her chin. Aegon sits up on his knees, removing his dark boxers.He takes the moment to observe her body, the dip just under her hips that he likes to slide his tongue over. The glistening fluids between her thighs. 

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So beautiful.” He closes a hand around the head of his cock, his other sliding between her legs to rub her swollen clit. Visenya shivers, closing her eyes as a smile curls across her lips. He slips one finger into her tight entrance, then another, as his thumb continues running circles over her point. Her mouth parts open, weak little moans passing through her lips and he chuckles, removing his hand from his cock to run a palm up to her breasts. 

He can hear the wet slide of her cunt at the rapid movements of his hands, the rising eagerness of her breaths, her thighs tightening around his waist. Aegon squeezes her breast, rolling her pink nipple between his thumb and index finger as he watches her face, a flush creeping up over her chest. Her hand closes around his wrist, both to stop and encourage him and he laughs, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he says. “Take it, Seny. This is yours.” She whines, a crease forming between her brows as her chest rises and falls in quicker and quicker rhythms, her nipples twisted into hard peaks. Aegon leans down to take one in his mouth, suckling like a babe and he feels her fingers grasp at his hair, pulling and twisting as she tries to tug him closer. He continues the rapid movements of his hand, the squelching loud and clear as his fingers slide in and out of her tight entrance. He swirls his tongue around her nipple, supporting his weight over her other breast, squeezing and stroking as he feels her entire body tightening underneath him.

“Aegon!” she calls out, pulling his hair as she cums, her entire body shaking. He feels her walls pulsing around his fingers, milking it as if it were a cock spilling inside her. Aegon continues moving his fingers, not giving up as he raises his head, looking at her expression. His palm opens and closes around her left tit, her chest rising and falling still, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

“Come on, baby,” he says. “Give me another one. Just another one.” She clutches his wrist, her legs trembling, her face flushed a furious red. "I want you soaking wet for my cock." The lighting allows him to see every inch of her body, the freckles around her nose from a sunny day long forgotten, the dark triangle between her legs. 

"Aegon," she whines. "Aegon, hurt." Visenya shakes her head, tears brimming her eyes.

He slows down, taking a deep shuddering breath. "I'm sorry," he says. He takes his hand off her breast and slides his palm down, taking the long-fingered pale hand that twists around his sheets. He laces their fingers together, and brings their enclosed fists up, pressing the back of her hand to his chest. He moves in a clockwise motion. "I'm sorry, Seny." 

She nods, pressing her soles to the mattress underneath. Aegon sighs breathlessly when she raises her hips, pressing her crotch against his. He raises a brow. "You want my cock?" he asks and she nods, chewing her lower lip. "Just a minute, baby."

Aegon stretches his arm forward, holding the pillow right above her head for support, as his other hand goes between them. His cock is hard, and warm, velvet-y to the touch as he guides it to her tight entrance. She sighs, closing her eyes and raising her hips to meet his thrust. 

The feeling of being inside her is heavenly, like coming home, like everything being right in the world. She is damp, and warm, her velvet folds closing around him in the most delicious way. His eyes squeeze shut, mouth hanging open as he continues moving his hips forward, sliding down to the hilt. "Fuck…" he mumbles out.

He squeezes the pillow underneath, waiting a long minute to steady himself. Visenya wraps her arms around his neck, the back of her thighs pressed to the front of his, and she stretches forward to press her mouth against his. The kiss is wet, lips swollen and her tongue sliding between his teeth, practically licking his molars.

When she shivers again, restless below, he begins to move, supporting his weight on his knees. She sighs, moaning and grunting as he retracts his hips, fucking her in a steady rhythm. It's easy, far too easy, to bring his body back and forward and then back again, the familiar jingle of her rattling chains wrapped around her ankle filling the room alongside their breathy moans. Visenya squeezes his shoulders, running her blunt nails down his chest as she meets his thrusts, breasts bouncing with their movements.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, hovering over her. "So hot, Seny. I just want to fuck you all day long, love." She smiles, rising on her elbows to press her lips against his again. The kiss is heady, desperate and their tongues tangle together, his hips quickening to an urgent pace. Her breathing is desperate, full of desperate mewls. Hitches, painful sobs as he clutches her thigh with his free hand, squeezing her pert flesh.

He shakes his head, kissing her again, unable to keep away from her. "You're so hot," he mumbles. "So hot, so tasty." He brings his hips back again, thrusting hard against her. Visenya keeps her eyes closed, breathy gasps leaving her parted lips. Aegon feels the familiar tightening low in his stomach, closing his eyes as the warm feeling floods through his veins. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum."

The sensations are too much, heavy and unable to be stopped. Suddenly, while he is in mid-thrust, he feels it; a burst of pleasure, a full-belly groan that starts in his groin, rising up his spine in a warm shiver. He thrusts once, as deep as he can possibly manage, then twice more before spilling, stopping above her. A moan slips past his mouth, a smile curling and he lets out a breath. 

He feels Visenya's hand sliding over his face, stroking his hair away from his eyes. Aegon opens his eyes, looking at her flushed fucked-out face and he smiles, chuckling breathlessly. He turns his face to press a kiss to her inner wrist.

"That was good, sister," he murmurs. "Perfect, even." She smiles, beaming up at the praise. It takes him a moment, but he removes himself from her and she holds a breath at the sensation, pressing her legs together. He taps her hip gently after a moment, when he has regained his breath. “Come on, let’s take a shower.”

She makes the sign for together, raising her eyebrows in a question. He nods.

“Yes, together,” he says. Aegon taps her hips again. “Come on, shower.” Naked, they move together to the shower at the distant corner of her room, which is lacking a curtain to afford privacy. Aegon washes his sister slowly, lathering first soap, then shampoo on his hands. Visenya presses her hands to her eyes when he washes her hair, taking the brush from one of her shelves to untangle her curls. She might not like it but it has to be done, to keep her hair healthy and beautiful. When they step out of the shower, she slips on a pink nightgown and he opens his own drawer, exclusive to his use while down in the basement for a fresh pair of boxers. 

Semi-dressed, Aegon turns to his sister. “Do you have any laundry?” he asks. She looks at him. “Laundry? So I can set it aside for tomorrow.” Visenya points to a pile in the corner and he nods, already moving to place it where he knows he will catch in the morning. “Sit down on the bed. It's time for braiding.” Visenya huffs, upset, but she obeys him, pressing her fingers against her eyes. Aegon takes one of her forgotten ties and slips it over his wrist, fingers around the brush handle again. She doesn’t like to braid her hair, but it needs to be done, to keep her somewhat sane. His mother used to do it herself when she was still alive, because she thought Visenya would be easier to handle without wild hair dragging her down. 

Done, he cooks some chicken noodle soup for them, mindful of taking the can opener from and returning to the highest shelf in the kitchen, where Visenya can’t reach. She watches him slowly, playing with her chains. He loves her, he really does, but since that night, he can’t trust her. They eat in silence afterwards, sharing the same can with two spoons, and he watches her. With her hair tied up and her face clean, Visenya looks almost normal. But he knows she isn’t. She has never been, not since her mother walked out of the hospital when she was born, a single note left behind with their father’s phone number. A hundred psychologists couldn’t say why she never talked, why pre-schools would say she was not welcome back. Sometimes, even Aegon wonders what is going on inside her head. If their grandfather’s madness has passed on to her. 

He remembers that night, when he was over her and she was kissing him. His mom was not supposed to come in. She was supposed to be sleeping, but they must have made a sound. She must have shrieked too loudly, or dropped something during their tumble. For a single mistake, both of their lives were ruined.

She raises her eyes to look at him, bringing a full spoon to her mouth just as her eyebrows arch up in a question. "Aegon?" she asks. 

He shakes his. "Nothing," he says. "I'm merely thinking how beautiful you are." Her cheeks flush and she looks away, bashful.

#izzy writes #aegon vi targaryen #jon snow #female!jon snow #house targaryen

[jellybeanium124]

Dracula Daily summarized through sketches: May 12

image id below cut

[Image ID: A paper and pencil drawing labelled “Dracula Daily: May 12th.” Dracula has his hand menacingly on Jon’s shoulder and is saying “You will stay here for the rest of the month, Jonathan. We have much business to discuss. Be sure to sleep in your own bed.” Drac’s eyes are in shadow but there’s a shine coming off of his right eye. Jon is freaking the fuck out. His hair is all messed up, he is sweating, and has bags under his eyes. He is thinking “oh fuck oh shit oh fuck.” /end ID]

#this is probably my favorite drawing so far #prob because I'm getting more comfortable drawing drac and jon #dracula daily #dracula #jonathan harker #dracula daily fanart #dracula daily may 12 #dracula daily doodle

[romegaketh]

if you are open for snippet requests I would like to humbly ask for any speculation au writing you have 🥺 (esp the conflict of moxbry telling yuta to go off his suppressants and the conflict therein. also danny i love him)

ok this is from wheeler yuta is not a therapist and i am genuinely crushed i did not finish it lol. bcc-typical gore! thanks for the ask ❤️

BOSTON. 

The Best Friends used to do team meetings in a hotel room, around a table packed with preferably-vegetarian takeout, and Fast Five on in the background with the volume turned way down. Chuck Taylor would write up an agenda on his phone, and Orange Cassidy would pretend to pay attention but fuck up by gasping at the big chase scenes, even though Trent was halfway through some long complaint about something or other. 

Surprising nobody, Blackpool Combat Club is different.

"Is that all you got?" Jon Moxley spits. Blood bursts from his cut lip and spatters across his chin. He’s on his hands and knees on a pile of mats in a boxing gym outside Boston. 

In front of him - above him - is the American Dragon. Bryan Danielson’s laugh is low and mean. "You know it's not." The crack of his hand across Moxley's face rings through the air. An angry red stain sinks into Moxley's cheek. 

Moxley pushes himself up onto his knees. His tank top is stained with his own blood. His jaw set with determination and real, clear, rage. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” says Danielson, grabbing the back of Moxley’s neck with vicious glee. His hair has fallen out of the little ponytail, and is loose around his face. He looks - not angry, but not not angry. Like something dark is inside of him and he is grateful to let it out. 

If Wheeler wasn't wearing blockers right now he is sure he would be choking on the scent - even with them, he's breathing in fire and copper, as thick as it would be in rut. It’s a shitty little gym but it’s empty; it’s theirs. It feels like being downwind of a forest fire. And not downwind enough to feel safe, either. 

Wheeler signed up for this. He did it clear-eyed and hopeful. He didn’t know how swift it would be, how immediate. One day he was outside, but today, he belongs. 

"Boys will be boys," William Regal sighs, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped under his chin. It’s strange to see him in a hoodie and sweats instead of the suit, but everything about today is strange. "I'm glad you're here. I think they're behaving better now that they have company." 

Yesterday, Wheeler wrote BCC in blood on his chest. Today, he’s here, watching Moxley and Danielson try to kill each other. It’s supposed to be a demonstration. What, exactly, it’s a demonstration of still appears to be in question. 

Moxley raises his head. His eyes flash to Regal, and then to Wheeler. Hot, sharp, furious. When Wheeler crossed the ramp - when he turned away from his friends and came to the future - he thought, now Moxley will know who I am. Well, he does. But maybe now Wheeler is learning who Moxley is. 

Yesterday Wheeler bled like a fountain, but Moxley matched him. Right now Wheeler is sitting next to Regal, with a protein shake the size of his head and a power bar; right now Moxley is pinned beneath Danielson, while Danielson bends his head so his mouth is against Moxley's ear. 

Normally they're better matched. It feels good to know Wheeler did some damage: Moxley isn't slow but he's slower. Wheeler had to scrape himself out of bed this morning. His head still hurts. 

“How’s he looking?” Danielson asks, looking up for Regal's approval like an alpha half his age. Moxley snaps at him, teeth out, but Danielson darts away with the same easy grace he shows in the ring. 

Regal laughs. "Bryan," he says, fondly. "You're showing off."

Danielson shrugs. Moxley's blood is on his cheek; it makes his grin look feral. "You heard the boss," he tells Moxley. "You want a nap?" 

Moxley growls, a low deep sound, big enough to fill the whole building. He looks like a kid, too. A baby alpha, tussling, for the attention of a bigger one. But Moxley is Jon Moxley. And that's Bryan Danielson. Everyone who's ever watched a wrestling match knows how sharp their teeth are. 

Regal puts his hand on Wheeler's shoulder. Gentle, careful. He's not possessive with Wheeler like he is with them. Wheeler is grateful for it, though he feels like he shouldn't be: he didn't sign up to be treated with care. But maybe he did. Bryan said he would be - under a wing. A dragon's wing, he'd thought, tossing and turning, before the day he made the decision. 

Regal isn't a dragon. Regal is a man. Because only men have power like this: the power to speak, and be obeyed. "Settle down," Regal tells them - both of them, it's clear. "Don't make me come over there." 

Danielson wipes Moxley's blood off his cheek and the dragon recedes. He's just a man on a mat, with Moxley a foot away on his knees. The warmth comes back to Danielson's face, and to his hand as he reaches down for Moxley -  long fingers extended, palm wide and open. 

But Moxley glares, turning his face away, to spit onto the floor on the other side. 

Something flashes in Danielson's face. Not anger, something quieter. Before Wheeler can look deeper, it's gone. "Gross," Danielson says, easily. "I'll get you a paper towel for that."

Moxley rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." It takes him longer to come back to himself. Wheeler is maybe glad. He's not sure how to feel. He knows that - for whatever reason, rightly or wrongly - he fought Moxley and Moxley fought him. And it mattered. 

Danielson is crossing the floor, the bright, easy smile on his face. "How are you feeling, today, Wheeler?" 

Wheeler holds up his power bar. "Perfect," he says. "I even got snacks."

"Fantastic," Danielson says. You wouldn't think he is a predator, like this. He just looks like a cool alpha you'd meet at the gym. Except for the blood. "You were great last night. Really gave Jon a run for his money."

"I did my best," Wheeler says. The cut on his forehead itches. "But thank you. It means a lot."

Danielson smiles. "Good. We're very happy to have you."

To have Bryan Danielson standing in front of you - in shorts and a bloody white t-shirt, with his hair up, with his hands bruised - it doesn't feel like it happens every day. It feels like another world. But Wheeler fought to get here. He did. He earned this. "I'm glad to be here," he says. 

"I'm certainly glad we got you away from the Best Friends," Danielson says, amicable and easy, like he'd say, buddha bowl hold the tempeh. "I hate to think about how you'd have been wasted staying longer under Orange Cassidy." There's a cruel smirk when he says the name. Something uglier. The dragon peeking out from behind the man's eyes. 

Wheeler's shoulderblades prickle. He feels his own hands form fists. Just because he’s not on Orange’s team anymore doesn’t mean Orange didn’t train him.  

"Hey." That's Moxley. All of a sudden he's at Danielson's back, his hand on Danielson's shoulder - the difference in their heights enough that Moxley is looming. His voice snaps through the air. "Cut it out, Bryan." 

"He was a good teacher," Wheeler says, looking at Moxley. It feels like, when he was bleeding, and he almost got that pin, and Moxley looked - Almost. Not quite. "I'm grateful to him. To all of them. I'm glad to be here, now." 

Danielson looks up at Moxley. "Yeah?" 

"Bryan," Moxley says. It's so clearly about something else that Wheeler looks at Regal, whose mouth has compressed into a thin line, and whose hands are curling into balls against his thighs. He can't read it; he doesn't know Regal. He could guess. If he were to guess he would say - nervous, uncertain, and a little remorseful. But that doesn't sound like William Regal. Not William Regal, who headbutted Moxley when he was dripping in Bryan’s blood. 

A conversation passes between them. Not so much a conversation as an unmoving fistfight. Moxley, scowling; Bryan, a contemptuous shrug. Wheeler really did think they liked each other. Maybe he just got used to the Best Friends. Even when Kris was being a jerk, he knew she liked him. 

Moxley wins. Danielson spreads his palms open, shrugging.

Moxley spends a lot of time looking awkward. You don’t realise that when you spend most of your time with Moxley with him kicking your ass, but actually - he’s kind of tentative. Feeling things out. Like he thinks Wheeler is going to say, fuck off, and turn around and go back to the Best Friends.

Wheeler likes it. Maybe he just likes Moxley. Maybe he just has a CD full of Mox matches in a drawer somewhere in his mom’s house. Who can say?

"Anyway," Danielson drawls. "I wanted to say." He taps his fingers against the side of his neck. "Do you wear them all the time?" 

Wheeler's stomach drops through one of those trap doors in Indiana Jones, right into an extremely culturally insensitive pit of snakes. "To the ring, yeah." Regal is looking between them like a sunning lizard, so Wheeler explains, "Blockers."

The patch on his neck doesn't itch. It's only been on for a minute. He slapped it on in a hurry. 

“You’re an alpha,” Regal says. 

“Yeah,” Wheeler says. Maybe it’s generational. Maybe Regal’s actually an asshole - the wrong kind of asshole - and Wheeler needs to get out now. “I wrestle in them so it makes sense to train in them, too.” 

Danielson raises an eyebrow. “Well,” he says. “You might gain some reaction time if you lose them. Usually it’s about half a second.”

Mox says, “Cut it out, Bryan.” His hand moves, but he doesn't grab Danielson's shoulder. He just puts his hand on his own hip and rolls his eyes. "The kid's been here a minute. Let him do some fucking pushups before you completely overhaul his life."

Danielson doesn't move. He keeps his eyes fixed on Wheeler, but it's very clear that Wheeler is not who he is talking to. "Improving his technique is not overhauling his life, Jon."

Wheeler clears his throat. "Company policy," he says. "Everyone's entitled to their preferred presentation." He’s paraphrasing from a lecture he's been given multiple times by Daniel Garcia. "Up to the point at which it encroaches on someone else's presentation." (That's a reference to wrestling in heat. Also rut, but in practice it's only really omegas who get in shit for wrestling under the influence. That's also a paraphrase from Daniel Garcia. Wheeler wasn't the object of the lecture. He was just in the vicinity and it stuck.)

Danielson tilts his head. “Is that a moral stance, Yuta?”

“Kind of.” Wheeler swallows. “Actually, you know what? Yeah. It is. You wore them at WWE. I wear them here.” 

Mox looks at him. A longer, deeper look. Like he did after he got the pin, when Wheeler was lying there on the mat. 

Danielson smiles. The smile is broader, wider. “Okay,” he says. “We can work with that.”

Regal says, “If you’re quite finished, I think now would be a good time to demonstrate some holds for young Wheeler.” His voice shades into calm reproof. “Since he certainly didn’t learn any from whatever you were doing before.”

Mox ducks his head but Danielson just laughs, a big laugh, like a bell. “All right, all right,” he says. “Point taken. C’mon, Mox.” 

It's just Wheeler and Regal on the bench again, both of them watching Danielson turn Moxley into various shapes while Moxley grimly allows himself to be bent.

“To be perfectly honest with you,” Regal says, “I’m very glad you came along. They were about to kill each other.”

“Great, now they can kill me.” Wheeler is only half-joking. It’s not like he knows if Danielson is a good teacher, or Moxley. But he was taught well before. He’s confident in his own ability to figure out what he needs.

“We’re lucky to have you,” Regal says, abruptly. “I hope you know that we know that.” 

“Oh,” Wheeler says. He thinks about Danny and Lee - Danielson wanted them, too. He wanted them so much he’d have bled for it. But Moxley bled for Wheeler, and now Wheeler is here. “Thank you.” 

“I know it’s a lot,” Regal says. “I know -” and he gestures, with a big sweep of that broad, scarred hand, “they’re a lot. But they’re good. They really are. And you’re good. They’ll make you better. And I will, too. We’ll do our damnedest.”

“I never had any doubts,” Wheeler says. That’s not a lie. He could have turned around. So many times. All the times. But he didn’t. He stayed the course. He’s here. 

Regal’s eyes crease. “They’re hiding something from me,” he says, quietly.

“Oh,” Wheeler says. 

Regal smiles at him. It’s a wistful smile; the craggy face of a mountainside, stretching onwards and upwards, despite snow and sleet and spring avalanches. “It happens,” he says. “Sons hide truths from their fathers. I hope one day soon you’ll come to hide the truth from me, as well.” 

Wheeler swallows. “I’ll do my best.”

Regal’s laugh is soft. “Good. I’d expect nothing less.” 

Wheeler lets himself look. Regal is an old man. You can see it here, in this shitty gym, with its bad lighting and the smell of sweat; the lines around his eyes, the tremor in his hands. But there’s something else there too - not just the man Wheeler watched on tape for years, not just the myth - but kindness, too. A deep well. Wheeler did not expect to find that. “They know you love them.” He didn’t mean to say it like that. Abruptly, out of nowhere. Too obvious. Chuck Taylor would say, get it together, kid. Chuck Taylor is very good at talking to people. “They couldn’t not know that.” 

But Regal says, “Oh,” his voice softening a little, with a little joy. “Thank you. I’m glad you see it.” 

“Anytime,” Wheeler says. 

Regal rakes his fingers through his hair, leaning back so he can look at Wheeler with the full force of his gaze. “I’ve got a question for you, young Wheeler,” he says. “Who is the most important member of the Blackpool Combat Club?”

It’s like the slap: it’s a test. There’s a right answer and three wrong ones. Maybe more than three.

Wheeler aced the slap, though. Full marks, gold star. Extra credit. He looked right into Regal’s face, but he didn’t hit him. He stood his ground; he didn’t lose it. 

Stand your ground; don’t give it away. He takes a breath. Bryan is the unstoppable force and Moxley is the immovable object. Maybe it's the other way around. Either way, they destroy each other if left unchecked. So there's only one option. Give me a place to stand and a lever and I can move the earth. Regal is both the lever and the place to stand. “You.”

Regal laughs. It’s a warm laugh; it settles in Wheeler’s chest like apple cider on a cold day. "Thank you," he says. "But not quite. Think about it and get back to me."

#au: speculation #ask: anon #fic: mine

[dixie12]

afternoon thot thought, because there is literally nothing hotter than squirming, humiliated, flushed pink jonny

so pat and jonny have been hooking up for a while. they keep it on the road, and they don’t really talk about it at all. back in chicago, it’s all video games and bro hugs, getting lunch after practice, going out with the guys and picking up. and it’s not that jonny minds that, not really. but there’s something about the way patrick holds him for just a few minutes after they fuck, stroking a hand through jonny’s hair almost absently, fingers light and gentle, before he slings himself out of bed, slapping jonny on the ass as he goes, that leaves jonny wanting more.

so he borrows one of patrick’s jerseys at the end of a road trip, an impulse he can’t explain to himself, so he tries not to think about it too much. it smells like patrick in a deep, grounding way, and he tucks it under his pillow one night, wakes up more rested than he’s been in a while. the jersey becomes a fixture under his pillow, until they have a few days off, and he’s planning to take it easy. he doesn’t let himself think about it too much, but he grabs the jersey from his bedroom, brings out to the living room with, slips it on and then sinks into the couch, surrounded by patrick in a way that reminds him of that space right after sex, before they’re just buddies again.

he’s idly flipping channels when he comes across some softcore, and he figures fuck it, hasn’t had the chance to pick up in a while, so he slides his hand into his sweats, pulls his cock up. he rucks up pat’s jersey and jerks off, painting his belly with it. and in the panting aftermath, the jersey fall back down from where he’d tucked it, inside getting smeared with his come. he wipes some off with a kleenex, figures he’ll throw it in the wash the next time he’s doing laundry, but he keeps forgetting.

he’s jerked off like maybe twice more, and he’s back on his couch, running his fingers over the 88 on one sleeve, stroking himself with the other hand, when he hears his door open and pat’s voice bounce off the walls of his apartment. he is completely frozen, one hand on his dick, the other pressed over pat’s number, and that’s how pat catches him, walking into the living room.

pat just stares for a solid 15 seconds, and jonny somehow gets harder under his gaze, cock leaking into his hand, until pat gives him the filthiest smirk jon’s ever seen. “don’t let me stop you, babe,” he leers, and jonny means to protest, but pat cuts him off. “if you finish giving me a show, i’ll take you to your bedroom and fuck you while you’re in my jersey. i bet you’d like that.” and jonny can’t hide the shiver that goes through him, tries to ignore pat’s laugh as he closes his eyes and keeps working his cock.

pat sits at the edge of the sofa, running his mouth. “look so good in my numbers, jonny. gonna start getting hard in the locker room just thinking about this,” and jonny’s fucking up into his hand insanely turned on. he comes quickly, smearing up his belly with it, and pat grabs his hand, dragging him upright, and he can feel the sticky catch of the jersey in the mess. he doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, because pat is pushing him to his knees and climbing into bed behind him.

pat opens him up quickly, jonny already pretty loose from his orgasm, and pat slides on a condom, presses in slowly. he keeps one hand on jonny’s hip, the other pressed right between his numbers on jonny’s back. he keeps talking to jonny, “you think if i press hard enough, i could mark you up with my 88?” and jonny has a flash of a thought, little tattoo hidden somewhere, marking him as pat’s, and he can’t help the moan that he lets out.

pat reads him well, starts talking about how much he wants to mark jonny up, let everyone know who he belongs to, and jonny comes first, tightening up and pulling patrick over the edge with him.

they lay there in bed for a few minutes, fucked out, until pat gets up and stretches, satisfied like a big cat after a nap in the sun. he pulls jonny up, and he’s too come dumb to resist, letting pat push him around the bedroom, slipping on the pair of jeans pat hands him, watching through lidded eyes as pat gets dressed, too. he starts to pay attention more when pat grabs his keys, bumping jon’s shoulder and hustling him towards the door.

“uhhh, what are you doing?” jonny asks, and pat tells him “your ass is pretty amazing, tazer. almost made me forget why i came over at all. sharpy wants to see us for lunch,” and he keeps walking towards the door. “yea just let me go change, man,” jonny says. he plucks at the jersey that he’s still wearing. “this is all.. messed up.” 

“yea i know. i was there when you messed it up,” pat says. and jonny can’t control his blush as realization spreads on pat’s face. “oh my god, that wasn’t the first time was it. you totally get off in my jersey like, all the time, don’t you?” and jonny flinches. “not all the time,” before he realizes he just totally admitted to it, and pat doesn’t laugh like jonny thought he would, just looks pleased and smug.

“that’s hot, but we’re late. you’re not changing. we’ll just tell sharpy you lost a bet or something.” and jonny is trying to argue that it’s not the jersey that he’s opposed to, it’s the jersey that’s got his own jizz dried on the inside of it, but pat’s not listening, and somehow, he hustles jonny out and they’re in pat’s car before he even knows what happened.

lunch is a special kind of torture. jonny can feel the jersey against his bare skin, uncomfortable and itchy, and he squirms, flushing up when he thinks of just how it got that way. pat is making it approximately one million times worse, talking about how the rookies are just so spunky, right jonny? and how he thinks he’ll order some extra cream in his coffee. it keeps up like that right up until it’s time to pay. jonny has been trying to tune pat out, fighting against himself not to get hard in his jeans, because sharpy would notice, and he would never let it go. it’s difficult, though, with the visceral reminder of excellent orgasms he had, bound up by pat’s presence, and the mindblowing sex they had barely an hour ago.

he’s barely paying attention, trying to figure out how he can get them out of there, when he hears pat say “jonny’s got a big wad, right?” and he double takes, feels the flush even brighter on his cheeks. “of cash,” pat continues. “lunch is on you, right?” and pat is giving him the biggest innocent eyes jonny has ever seen him try. he pulls out his wallet wordlessly, throws down enough bills to more than cover it, and stands up, trying to adjust the jersey to hide his crotch. he mumbles through a goodbye to sharpy, who is kind enough not to call him on his weirdness, at least not yet, and drags pat out of the restaurant with him. they fall back into bed when they get back and don’t leave for the rest of the day.

#1988 #o captain my captain #blackhawks ficlet #why is it so hot when jonny is humiliated #he just burns with it #trying to pretend he's not incredibly turned on #but pat sees right through him