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aerynwrites · 6 months

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Make is Right

Gale x Dark Urge!Reader

A/N: Had this idea come to me when @thedreamlessnights told me that Gale yelled at their dark urge after talking to Gortash in Baldur’s Gate. Hope y’all enjoy the angst and fluff that follows.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR BG3. Spoilers for dark urge plot specifically. Angst, emotional Hurt/Comfort, major character death, resurrection, fluff, happy ending.

You’ve been in a spiral ever since the Nautiloid crashed, your mind a jumble of blankness and confusing violent urges you can’t hope to control. Your sleep plagued with terrible dreams and that infuriating butler. Urges that have made you do terrible things and almost make you do worse.

But now…now it feels as if everything has come crashing down around you. You’d hoped coming to Baldur’s Gate would give you answers to your past, hopefully bring to light memories that are still lost to you.

You never expected it to be worse than you thought.

You never expected to be on the receiving end of Lord Gortash’s cunning smile as he greets his favorite assassin. You didn’t think learning of your past would make your heart drop to your stomach.

But as you stand here, in this grand throne room and listen as Gortash tells you of your bloody past…you feel bile rise in your throat.

You watch numbly as Duke Ravengard crowns Gortash as the archduke of Baldur’s Gate, acutely aware of how your companions shift uneasily behind you. You accept begrudgingly when Gortash offers you an alliance, that sickening smile tugging at his lips as he steps closer to you.

“I tolerate Orin,” he tells you, a strange fondness in his eyes that makes your stomach roll. “But I liked you.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Go get the stone. And don’t come back until you have it in hand.”

You obey his command, not because you want to listen to him, but because you want to get as far away from here as possible. Your feet carry you faster than you expect, and soon you’re out of the oppressive building that is Wyrm’s Crossing making your way across the bridge.

It’s only then that any feeling comes back to you at all, and you’re acutely aware of piercing gaze burning into your back. You stop in your tracks, turning to see Gale as the source.

The look he gives you…The man who you’ve come to love and who you thought felt the same…His eyes are full of nothing but betrayal and anger.

You reach out to him, fear gripping your heart like you’ve never felt before. “Gale, what-?”

He recoils from you, lips turned down wards. “Don’t.” He says, the one word coming out harsher than you anticipate, making you retreat into yourself as he continues. “The absolute, the tadpoles…it was because of you?”

That last word is said with such venom it makes your heart fracture in your chest. You’ve never been on the receiving end of such vitriol, at least not from him, and it makes tears burn at the back of your eyes.

“Gale, please…I didn’t even know-“

He cuts you off with a raised hand, eyes falling shut as he turns his head away from you, as if it pains him to even hear your voice.

“I think you’ve said and done more than enough,” he lowers his hand to a fist at his side, still not looking at you. “Leave me be.”

He offers nothing else as he brushes past you, walking back towards camp with a rigid set to his shoulders. You feel your lower lip wobble, and out of instinct look back to your other companions for guidance, hoping for anything other than hatred.

You at least get that much. Not even Karlach will look right at you, her hands clenching at her sides as she too walks past, uttering something about catching up with Gale. Astarion offers one of his humorous quips, but even that does nothing to help.

Only Shadowheart seems truly sorry, her eyes meeting yours in a knowing way. You suppose she’s the only one who understands being a slave to your blank past and eventually finding out the brutal truth.

But even her…you can see the thin set of her lips, and you know. You know on some level she blames you too.

And as they all leave one after the other, you’re left alone on the wooden bridge, the wind whistling around you, and your mind still infuriatingly blank.

————

No one approaches you at camp that evening, all of them being pleasant enough but losing that usual camaraderie that typically fills the air.

It’s only after dinner has been served and eaten that you move to seek out your partner, your bowl of stew left untouched by your spot at the fire.

Gale is in front of his tent, deep in one of his books as he usually is. Normally the sight would bring a smile to your face, but now as you approach, nothing but dread settles in your stomach.

The man doesn’t even acknowledge you as you walk up, eyes never leaving the pages of his book as you stand in front of him, shifting nervously in your feet.

“Can we talk?” you finally ask, voice soft in the night air.

Not looking up from his reading, Gale turns a page as he answers, “I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the tears welling up at bay.

“You know what.”

Gale scoffs, finally closing his book with a resounding snap as he finally looks at you. His eyes are ablaze with anger but deep below the surface you can sense a sadness. He feels betrayed.

“Oh yes,” he says, “I suppose we do need to address the fact that you are the reason we are all in this bloody predicament. Where would you like to start?” He asks cruelly. “The fact that you’re actually a bloodthirsty assassin set on fulfilling your fathers diabolical wishes? Or should we discuss the tiny detail that you were seemingly cozy with none other than Enver Gortash?”

Frustration bubbles up in you then, and finally the tears spill over - hurt and anger and utter confusion proving too much for you to handle.

“You act like that person is me!” You cry, wavering. “Like I haven’t proven again and again since I’ve met you that I’m not…that. I don’t want to be that person anymore I don’t…I can’t be.”

Gale says nothing, so you continue. “I can’t control who I was but until today I didn’t even know that was my past but I -“ you choke on a sob, wiping furiously at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “We’ve done so much good. That has to count for something.”

You watch as Gale softens ever so slightly, but it’s so slight that if you didn’t know him as well as you do, you would have missed it.

He sighs, eyes clenching shut as he turns his face from you again. “Sometimes…Sometimes our past is not something we can separate ourselves from.” He says simply, hands falling limply by his side. “I…I need time to think. I think it’s best if you go.”

His words feel like a stake to your heart, the pain radiating out to your fingertips and making your knees weak.

You want to scream. You want to fall on your knees and beg for him to understand, for him to not push you away. But you know it would do no good. So instead, you only nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you retreat to your bedroll by the fire.

You avoid the sideways stares the others give you, no doubt having heard your fight with Gale.

The bedroll is cold beneath you, even the fire doing nothing to warm the icy hurt seeping through your veins. Minutes tick by into hours and soon everyone retires to bed.

But you remain awake.

Astarion and Karlach lay on the other bedrolls near you - but the one across the fire is achingly empty.

As the night draws on and the flames of the fire dwindle to nothing but smoldering embers, your mind runs endlessly.

You try fruitlessly to counjure up memories of your past, the past Gortash laid out for you. But there’s nothing. Nothing but blankness and and cloud of black anger bubbling in your chest.

Orin.

She’s the only thing that keeps fighting it’s way to the forefront of your mind. Since you’ve been in the city she’s already made it clear she’s watching you, and after what was revealed to you, you know why.

She did this to you.

She created this vast expanse of emptiness within you. Made you forget your past and took your place as Bhaals chosen, but maybe…

It was for the better. You know this, and silently you thank her for doing it. For orchestrating your fall from grace so to speak. Because now…now you’re someone else, someone better.

All at once an idea forms in your mind. One that would hopefully solve all your problems.

Orin took your place when she got rid of you…what if you could do the same. But instead of taking her place when she falls…you can deny your father his chosen.

You’ll have two of the stones, Orin out of the way and one step closer to righting the wrongs you’ve unknowingly created.

You’re on your feet before you can overthink it. You enter your tent and don your armor and weapons in a mindless haze, only when you exit your tent do you pause, your eyes trailing over to the familiar blue tent across camp.

You approach quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping body inside, and you carefully peel back the tent flap. Gale rests on his side, face lax with sleep as his chest rises and falls slowly.

For a moment you’re struck with a pang of fear. What if this venture ends in your death? What if you never see the man you love again?

These thoughts run through your head as you gaze softly at your sleeping lover, and before you can let the fear control you, you lean in and press a featherlight kiss to his cheek.

He barely stirs, eyes fluttering lightly before he settles once more. You smile sadly before reaching into your pocket, your fingers wrapping around the cool red stone before you pull it out.

You place the netherstone beside his pillow where he’ll be sure to see it. If this does go sideways…they can still continue the mission.

You stand, giving one last glance at Gale before you let the tent flap fall shut and turn to go face your past head on.

———

Orins arrogance is her downfall, just as you hoped it would be.

She could have easily overpowered you. Taken advantage of your worn down state from trying to find the temple. She could have used the handful of cultists around her to aid in her battle against you.

But she was arrogant, bloodthirsty, and ready to end what she had started.

That had been her mistake.

The fight was not easy, there were moments where you thought you would fall, a few injuries too close to fatal for you to be too haughty in your victory.

But as she lay, broken and bloodied at your feet, you can’t help but be acutely aware of the vast emptiness still yawing within you.

You thought killing Orin would make you feel something. Maybe a sick sense of satisfaction, or possibly even trigger some memories of what she did to you or what you’ve done.

But there’s…nothing. There’s nothing but the sound of your own breath as it bubbles wetly in your chest.

Somethings wrong, you’re injured worse than you’ve ever been before but at this moment you can’t find it in you to care.

Will this be enough?

Will Gale forgive you for your wrongs? Or, when you return to camp with the second netherstone, will it just prove that he was right? That you can’t in fact separate yourself from your bloody past.

That you’ll never be more than the spawn of Bhaal, created to do one thing only.

Will you ever truly be free?

Your answer comes in a wave of telekinetic pain, washing over your mind and nearly bringing you to your knees as a voice speaks through you.

There’s a tinge of familiarity as it speaks, and it’s only then you realize who is speaking.

Bhaal.

The god of murder. Your father. The thing that made you who you were - who you are.

You stand there, that pain slowly ebbing away as he offers you greatness. Offers you the title as his chosen once more and showers you with false praises.

You feel that all too familiar urge tug violently at your mind, begging - screaming at you to accept your rightful place.

You almost give in, your despair and emptiness almost winning out. But then…then you remember the way Gale looked at you, the way they all looked at you. With pain and fear and betrayal in their eyes.

And suddenly the emptiness is gone. The vast yawning cavern of blackness in your mind no longer feels like a burden. You may not remember who you were but…You aren’t them anymore. You’re someone new. Someone kind and loving and caring. You’re someone who laughs around the campfire at Karlach’s jokes and teases Astarion about his always perfect hair.

But more than that…You’re someone who’s known love.

Gales face flickers before your mind then, that kind small smile when you ask him about his magic. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The way his hands feel against your skin as he holds you, or the way he stayed with you as you fought your urges.

Your mind isn’t empty. It’s so full. Just as your heart is. Full of love and hope and brightness despite the urges that tempt you everyday.

You’re not his anymore.

You reject his gift as powerfully as you can muster and you feel the way his power reels back in anger and hatred.

How dare you refuse me!

His voice rages in your mind just as you feel the tendrils of pain seep into your bones.

Your name echoes off the cavernous temple walls, and through the pain and the voice screaming in your head it takes you longer than usual to realize where it’s coming from.

You turn to see your companions, your friends, rushing towards you from the entrance of the temple, shouts of your name and other jumbled words greet your ears.

But then you see Gale.

His eyes filled with worry and regret, reaching for you, fingers outstretched towards your quaking form.

They’re closer now, each step bringing them closer and closer to your bleeding body. You reach out your own hand, limbs quaking with effort against the ever crushing weight consuming you.

Your fingers just barley brush Gale’s, his eyes glossing with relief.

But it’s too late.

His hand slips into your own as Bhaal strikes you down.

Bones cracking, sinew snapping, and blood rushing out of you as darkness swallows you whole. The last thing you remember as death surrounds you, is the pain in your throat as you cry out Gale’s name.

————

It feels like mere moments after the pain and darkness that light erupts around you.

Warm tendrils of light wrap around the emptiness that was your life and soul forming you once more back onto the mortal plane. It blinds you, making you unable to see what happens until you materialize and your boots hit solid ground, your knees buckling beneath you.

But instead of meeting the cold hard floor beneath you, warm arms catch you as you fall, your body falling against a much sturdier one.

Your mind is muddled as your sense come back to you, a multitude of faces swimming before you. You see Karlach and Halsin hovering off to the side with Shadowheart. Even Astarion’s face swims with worry.

But what catches your attention most is the familiar face of your lover right above you, tears clinging to his lashes.

Tears?

You’ve never seen Gale cry, never seen him so much as sniffle or whimper. But now…

Small, warm tears drip onto your cheeks as he leans down to press his forehead against your own, his arms crushing you to his chest so fiercely you nearly can’t breathe.

“Thank the gods-“ he chokes on a sob, “you’re alive. You’re alive. I…” he pulls away from you then, reaching a hand up to wipe the moisture from your skin. “I watched you die and all I could think about was what a fool I’d been - how unfair and cruel I was to you.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up cradle his cheek, wiping at the tears there as you furrow your brow.

“What happened?”

Gale opens his mouth to speak, but another raspy echoing voice answers. You turn your head just enough to see Withers standing a few paces away.

“Bhaal tried to extinguish thee, but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew,” the being says plainly, voice lacking any emotion. “The Urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his. But there is a new part of thee that has grown during thy travels.” You swear you see the bag of bones smile. “That part Bhaal could not extinguish. And so, instead of destroying thee, he hath made thee anew.”

He continues. “The heart of a savior hath overshadowed the mind of a murderer” he clenches a fist triumphantly. “Thou hast vanquished thy Urge.”

It's then, when his words truly settle in that you sense it - or, don’t sense it.

There’s…nothing. No primal bloodlust, no violent tug at the edge of your mind.

It’s gone.

Hope swells in your chest as you look back to Gale, eyes swimming with tears of your own now.

“He’s right I - I can’t feel it. The urge. I think it’s gone, for good this time.”

Gale shakes his head, pulling you ever closer as his lips fall to your cheek. “I don’t care,” he says firmly, causing momentary panic to tug at your heart.

But Gale is quick to sooth, pulling away to look into your eyes. “I only mean that I do not care if your urges are with you or not. I would love you all the same and I-“ he closes his eyes, shoulders tense with regret. “I was a fool for making you think I felt otherwise. You stuck by me even when I didn’t deserve it and I…I did not give you the same respect or care.”

His voice is soft and broken as he speaks, eyes opening again. “I love you, more than than even my goddess, more than the stars that litter the night skies and I - I can only beg for your forgiveness, though I would not begrudge you for holding it from me.”

As his words sink in, you faintly recognize that the others have retreated quietly, even Withers has taken his leave, allowing you and Gale a moment of privacy.

Slowly you move so you are kneeling before Gale who mirrors your position, his arms still wrapped around you. You bring your hands up to cradle his cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth slowly.

“I love you too,” you tell him, eyes watering with tears once more. “That’s why I…I wanted to make things right - prove that I wasn’t that person anymore.”

“But you have!” Gale says, voice striken with grief. “Time and time again you showed us who you truly are, proved that the urges you felt were against your will and yet I still-“ he laughs bitterly, “I still let the revelation of your past cloud who I know you truly are. I was cruel. And there is no excuse for the harsh words I uttered. I only hope to show you the error of my ways, no matter how long it takes.”

You smile at him - your lover, your partner, the only person you want to spend your future with - and kiss him.

You pour all of your love and desperate aching need for him into that one action, heart swelling with warmth as he responds in kind.

You only part when you need air, moving to rest your head against his own, your breathes mingling together.

“There’s nothing to forgive, my love,” you whisper. “Just stay by my side until the end as I will you.”

Gale smiles, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“I would love nothing more.”

#Gale dekarios x reader #gale x reader #bg3 gale x reader #gale x dark urge #Dark urge #bg3 #baldurs gate 3

581 notes · View notes

chrollohearttags · 6 months

Text

free smoke • portgas d. ace

content + themes: modern au, black!fem reader (also a firefighter), throat fucking, spit play, hate fucking, breeding, full nelson, spanking, shower sex, backshots, mentions of ovulation and pregnancy, missionary, enemies to lovers-ish, daddy’s used, calls reader a slut, brat taming, squirting

📝: firefighter ace is on my mind so enjoy my depravity until I put a proper fic out. (I’m like a sick dog in heat for this man omg) this is like pure filth, look away if it’s not your thing or if you still have a bedtime. In other words, minors, piss off.

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friends…it’d be the last word you’d ever use to describe the relationship between yourself and Portgas D. Ace. Despite working together day in and day out, fighting side by side to save lives regardless of your own safety and practically living underneath the same roof..you couldn’t stand him! Perhaps, even that was being a bit generous. You hated his guts. Granted, he was the man that you received all of your orders from at Fire Company Eight as he was the Vice Fire Captain and you were merely a rookie firefighter; having only joined the five man crew only a year and a half prior.

“Hey, rookie. Grab those boxes from over there and bring them upstairs.”

oh how you despised the moniker..a reminder of his superiority and ranking over you. Sure, he didn’t purposely wave it over your head like some proverbial flag but he certainly didn’t downplay either. He knew how much it ruffled your feathers so he’d repeat it in hopes of getting you agitated and riled up. Almost like clockwork, it done the trick everytime! “I have a name. Why don’t you try using it, asshole..” Oftentimes scoffing over your shoulder with cut eyes and a nasty glare. Even so, with much vitriol and vengeance in your heart, you’d follow his commands. It was no secret among the entire firehouse that you two were sworn enemies..or rather, he was on the receiving end of a one sided grudge. All beginning when you first started here and he treated you as if you were dumb. And it didn’t help that you were the only woman here. Despite graduating top of your class at fire college. The best scores, highest evaluations…none of it meant a thing to him! Your biggest issue with him was that carefree, lackadaisical attitude. Put simply, he was a jackass! He didn’t care about much including someone’s hurt feelings. Especially when he hadn’t done anything except his job. The way he saw it, until you surpassed him in rank, you could get glad in the same damn drawers you got mad in. “I suggest you watch that fucking mouth if you know what’s good for you..”

a warning you’d certainly heed once the rest of the crew heads out on a grocery run. Knowing that they’d be out for at least two hours, stocking up on food and toiletry items for everyone, that left the vice chief ample time to teach you a lesson. He knew your little charade was nothing more than show for the others because the second they were out that door, leaving you two alone, you were both in the shower..relieving those rising tensions..

“Open…there you go—see, you can follow instructions.”

“Fuck you—“

the words spewing like venom shortly before he gags you get again. The steamy droplets of warm water cascading over your nude bodies as they collide in the stand in bath. Your so called sworn enemy cuffing your wrists with one hand as he slowly thrusts into your mouth. His hard cock sliding between your plump lips and silky jaws, drumming up strings of spit..along with loud gagging sounds. All while his six foot four frame stood above you. Only muted by the downpour from the shower head as you sat fatefully on your knees, being used to his leisure. You may have been pretending to be angry and talking all recklessly but he could tell that you were enjoying this just as much as he was. Ace wasn’t fooled by your tough exterior the way everyone else was. Because he knew the one thing you needed above all else..was a good fuck. To be slutted out beyond comprehension; to have so many orgasms, you won’t even have the energy to be a bitch. And who better than to give you the treatment than your beloved boss? Hell, he had done it before. Many times in fact and although it didn’t shut you up for good, the satisfaction of seeing you sprawled and fucked out with his cum inside of you was enough consolation!

Ooh…fuck. You know something, rookie? I think you should’ve took a career in acting instead. Pretending to hate me in front of everyone else but sucking me off in the shower..you’re a strange girl.”

interrupting his praise to lob more saliva into your mouth in the form of a long string. Only to resume his rapid assault of your throat. Taking it all the way to the base..allowing his balls to slap your chin and his abs to brush your forehead, holding it in place until he saw fit. Taking full advantage of your nonexistent gag reflex. He’d withdraw to be met with your messy face and rewarded you with a kiss amid your heavy gasping. Even after working your mouth over and feeding you a couple faint slaps, you still had plenty to say! “Who said I was pretending? I still can’t stand you.” Which was all fine in theory but again, he wasn’t paying your ass any mind. Rather, he wanted to make use of this free time that you were granted and fuck the shit out of you. Tugging you by your arms, Ace swiftly spun you around so that your thick backside was pressed to his pelvis. He didn’t hesitate to impale you on his cock and begin feeding you deep seeded strokes. Your back bent and frame curved into a S shape as he pulled you back by your wrists..the recoil of your plush flesh bouncing against his own and sounding off. That sopping little cunt seeping with cream and slick each time he pounded into you. Ensuring you couldn’t move unless he granted so.

“You sure about that? Could’ve had me fooled, sweetheart…this pussy’s so wet f’r me, I can barely stay in it..”

drumming up a sheath of sticky membrane and more of your beautiful moans. Even drudging up some of his own. Ace would toss his head back and try not to focus too much on the ripple of your plump ass swallowing him whole. He loved the sound, the contrast..he loved how good you felt for him! “Fuuck! Fuck me…oh my gosh..just keep giving me that dick and shut the hell up.”blurting out and whimpering for him without a single thought. His fingers intertwine and clutch around your throat; bringing you back when you tried to run. Seeing as your hair was covered by the silk bonnet atop to your head. “Shit…ain’t gotta tell me twice….so sexy when you talk to me like that.” Spinning you around to kiss once more. Mirroring that of lovers moreso than a couple of people who were just arguing. The collision of skin and loins making it difficult for either of you to conceal your true feeling. Clawing at the tile walls, (y/n) cried out yet again and begged for him to go deeper. Even holding it open once he freed your hands. “That’s right, spread that ass…let me get in it..” grunting into your shoulder blade before forcing you back down. He wasn’t showing you any mercy. Smacking and spanking your cheeks rigorously..leaving stinging marks. “That feel good? Am I in it?..” “..yes, daddy. In my fucking spot..oh my God!” Bringing forth a hearty laugh and lewd feelings from your vice chief. “Daddy, huh? I was an asshole not too long ago. Wonder what changed.” Either way, he loved hearing it come from your mouth!

“C’mere..grab me.” In a moment of haste, the dark haired, dreamy eyed man would twist the faucet off to cease the shower and instruct you to wrap your limbs around him. Which you did so, seeing as how your legs couldn’t stop trembling. He had already worn a sore spot into the pit of your tummy but he was far from finished. Not when he was still throbbing profusely; leaking from that swollen tip when he pulls out of you. However, that doesn’t last long as he’s got to be one with you yet again. The two of you would shuffle back towards the bunk cabins, where two beds resided on each side; one atop the other. For convenience, he’d take the bottom one but not before pounding you all the way there. Hoisting you up midair and slamming you back down on his cock with sheer strength. Your nails digging ferociously into the giant piece of ink on his back; those clear, manicured nails scraping at his tattoo and he was loving every second. “Right there! Fuck!…gonna come..” whimpering into his ear as your face cradled into the crook of his neck. He knew it was a lot, it always but you took it so well..better than any other girl he’d ever fucked. You wrapped around him as if you never wanted him to let go.

“Damn..you’re close, aren’t you, baby? I can feel it..” whispering into your ear as he placed a kiss to your temple as a means to quell your quivering body. That ecstasy was hitting your body like a freight truck and there was no greater sensation. Bringing you to the mattress, Ace maintained his grip on your legs before standing straight back up and letting another line of spit lubricate your folds already sopping folds. Just to really get you shaking, he’d tap that shaft against them before gliding back in. Something about staring into your eyes whilst deep inside of that heat, was so much more raw and intense. You couldn’t hide or pretend anymore. He saw every emotion all over your face. Especially when those strokes were so rhythmic and beautiful, each one connected to your spot. Stroking that sensitive clit, Ace sucked his teeth and kept pushing forth, prompting you to take over holding your calves so that he could give you the brutal fucking you so desperately craved!

“Yeah..take it. Take this fucking dick..you little slut!” Bearing his entire weight down and through gritted teeth, Ace pounded your pussy until the bed frame underneath you was rocking back and forth. Fucking you with his hands cusping your throat. He knew how much it turned you on; apparent by the rampant twitches against his shaft. You’d claw at his wrists as he kept going…taunting you and talking his shit the entire time. He knew he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t going to let up until his abs and the floor was left a soaking mess. That deep voice causing pangs in the bottom of your stomach when he yelled at you. Hastily shoving his tongue back into your mouth, the vice captain kept going..despite running on the last of his energy, he’d find himself balls deep in you; practically hurled into a mating press now. Still, he wasn’t stopping until you emptied that sack for him and took every last bit of his nut. And you weren’t too far behind..delirium and cock drunkenness was setting in pretty heavily and you wanted to come for him so badly. Despite not wanting to cave. Hell, he was ducking you down so good, you were ready live in his skin and cook him breakfast! Repeatedly slamming into that core and making you cream for him immensely. Not to mention how erect your nipples were..you were sensitive and by the tears streaming down your face, that let him know one fact:

“Ooh..somebody must be ovulating. No wonder you’ve been such a mess, rookie. You just needed someone to come take care of you, huh?”

cooing to you in a manner that made it impossible to resist his charm. Sticking a thumb between your lips to pacify you, he’d get inside of your head..playing on your insecurities and talking you through those feelings. He could always tell when you were in that mood and when that time of month was near. Either you’d be in the foulest of moods and no one could bother you or you’d pick a fight with him just so he could give you some dick. It was almost like clockwork but he’d give in every single time. How a man that you despised knew you better than any partner you’d ever had was beyond words. Holding your face close, he’d cradle you in his palms and let your gazes meet one last time. When he saw your eyes, they were welled full of tears and brimming with lust. His theory was absolutely correct!

“I know, I know. Just breathe..” talking you through that inevitable orgasm. He’d calm you with reassuring words, kisses to your forehead and regressed strokes. Slowing down so he could meet you right there and you guys could come together. “Same time, okay? You and me.” He’d bog down and hone in for the last minute or so, knowing his climax was growing near. That tip prodded and swollen beyond relief as it oozed precum. Leaking and begging to burst. His full, heavy balls smacking against your asshole with a layer of sticky liquid between them. Clutching the backs of his thighs, (y/n) held him in place, begging for him to fill you to the brim. “Fuck! Just come in me.” And with that command, for the first time in ever..he’d follow. Releasing his load and lobbing yet another sloppy peck. One that lasted far longer than the rest. That warm seed spilling into you as he attempted to muffle his own cries. This was pure heaven if he’d ever experienced it. Your hands scaling his back and your limbs fully coiled around him as if you never wanted to let go.

“God, I swear you’re nothing but trouble, rookie. What am I gonna do with you?”

heavily huffing whilst examining your face. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Caressing the side of his face with a gentle hand, you’d bat those beautiful eyelashes before bopping his nose with the tip of your finger. “Well you can start by getting me a Plan B, Mr. Weak Ass Pull Out Game.” Immediately sending him into hysterics. “Shut up, like you weren’t begging for it..damn brat.” The two of you would joke around and cackle as if everything was just peachy between the two of you. Knowing you’d go right back to being sworn enemies. Just then, the sound of footsteps and doors unlocking sounded off from downstairs. Maybe one day you’d settle your differences for real. “Our little secret?” “Of course.”

but for now, it was much more fun to pretend!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@hobiesrockstargf

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tarjapearce · 6 months

Text

Mi Dulce Cereza (Pt. 7)

Ranchero! Miguel O'Hara x Reader

WARNINGS: Telenovela coded drama, emotional distress, Strained Relationships, unexpected visits, mild angst, relationship building, fluff towards the end, Miguel being a softie for his wife.

Summary: Even in darkest times, love shines through.

A/N: Hope you like it :') .

Intro:

"It's your fault." Rosaura's venomous tone didn't go unnoticed by her husband.

"My fault?! I did nothing but raise her well in the Lord's path. I didn't spoil her. If anyone here is at fault is you."

William's voice was ever serene, but his words were vitriolic.

"Me?! How dare you say such things!"

Once back home with empty hands there was nothing but more chaos. Blame turned into a hot potato game of who was the culprit of your apparent rebellious phase. Neither of them wanted to assume that none other than unrealistic and absurd expectations from them towards you had been the spark that started your emancipation fire.

A fire that was shining too brightly for their likings, consuming everything they had known and had taught you. Appearances were unable to be kept any further as your mother was confronted by her friends. Asking her if the rumors of you eloping with the farmer boy were true. It would be always a:

"That wicked man manipulated my daughter. We are trying to get her back, but his lies are convincing enough to keep her by his side."

or a "I'm sure he has her against her will, my little dove would never run away like that. I know her!"

But never a truthful He got her pregnant, claims to love her and now they live in their own home away from this mess trying to live honestly.

The rumors of you getting pregnant had made them another mirror to the single youngsters in town . Rosaura could hear the people talking ill about you and them. How they didn't work hard enough to keep you on check, how they never were firmer and stricter in your upbringing, and how they had been too stupid to actually let the devil in their own home and corrupt you.

It was enough shame to convince her husband and start looking for you. She had been embarrassed enough thanks to your naive games of love. And Miguel.

Her mouth scowled in disgust, heart heavy with resent. He would definitely pay. How dared he to lay his sinful eyes on you? How dared he to lay with you? Even worse, How dared he to take you for himself, impregnated you and call you his wife?

Bold and stupid.

Miguel had ruined her plan of getting you married off to a rich and wonderful man named Sergei Kravinoff. One of the best foreign clients the estate had. He was an avid hunter and collector, that upon seeing your picture was delighted and charmed.

But how was she to explain to him that her only daughter had ran off with the farmer boy? And was now pregnant with his child?

"If you wouldn't pester her with so many dating prospects maybe this... whole mess would have been avoided and she'd be under our roof. Following our rules!"

"Would you shut up?! You let that lowlife to intimidate you. I don't care if he's build like a tree. I want him down, chopped off from the root from her life."

"He's clearly done something to her. Did you see her yelling at us? I'd never seen her like that."

"Hormones make you stupid. And pregnancy hormones make it even worse"

"Just like you when you were pregnant of her. At least he will suffer a little more with that. Once she reaches the second trimester-"

"No no. that's where you're wrong. I won't let her to ruin her life. Sergei wants her!"

"I will have to stop you there, Rosaura. A child life is sacred. Innocent."

"Oh, the wretched child you're always complaining about is now an innocent life?"

"Don't tempt my ire, woman. I know you despise the man. And as much as this situation angers us, that's going too far. That's her punishment for giving in temptation. Let her bear with it."

"You're such an hypocrite. Do you know who Sergei is?"

"I do. Nor care. All I want is my daughter back. There are other ways to break them apart."

"What are you thinking?"

"Confronting them only brings them closer. I fell for her lie of loving him for a minute, but I know it's fear speaking for her. We'll let them be for now."

"No!-"

"And just when they think they are safe, it will be the time for us to step in. Let them have a little sense of security. I'll allow them to finish the place."

"You are waiting too long!"

"Rosaura. Enough. I know what I am doing. I know you hate waiting. But it will be worth it. I know so. Can't let the man that embarrassed me and my family, and tarnished my reputation to go unscathed with my daughter."

"You better keep your promises, William. I hate being lied to."

------

Miguel could barely get a glimpse of sleep during the night. Just when he thought his body would actually give in to the somnolence, he'd startle and remain awake. Pushing the sleepyness away as his mind raced with the many insidious thoughts about last night.

How had your parents found you? With their influence he was sure that they've got the address, they were known through the whole county by their horses business mainly, church was a secondary feat.

His hand ran through his messy hair. You had been put to sleep by Victoria, something he was thankful for. He was no baby expert but it was a commonly known fact that too much stress led up to bad things, and the least he wanted was something else happening. Specially to you or his child.

What had he gotten himself into, this time? He knew your parents were difficult, but this was something completely different from what he expected. He was not only dealing with them, but their direct threats as well.

Not that he wasn't regretting everything that had happened between you two. Had he been too rushed into marrying you? Of course not. He also didn't marry you because you'd be the future mother of his child. He had snatched you away for himself because he loved you. He loved you to bits and pieces and as a whole.

You were too much of a woman to be married to someone else that would treat you badly and wouldn't take his time to actually get to know you. You were too much for the rest of men that never made a step further in their conquer and we're satisfied with little, such as little glances or smiles from you.

He was ambitious, and had wanted it all. He went through so much to get you, still was. But knowing you loved him and even stood your ground against your parents, one of the reasons of his ongoing headache, made it all worth it.

He couldn't quite explain it. At first it was mere lust his body was filled with upon meeting you. The need to corrupt you had proven extremely difficult for him to keep himself at bay. That's why he was always so tempting, so forbidden, so inviting to give in around you.

But you were too sweet and pure. Always being concerned about him, ever attentive and gentle. A stark contrast with his demeanor. He had taken the job since his place needed renovations once and for all. He owed that to himself. He owed that to his old man. Vicky's late husband.

And then he had met you, for real. At first he thought of you another gorgeous spoiled, and dumb city girl if he was honest, but as time kept on passing, he was proven wrong in so many ways he felt the need to apologize to you as soon as you'd wake up later.

You were smart, not a genius but smart enough to be a fast learner and help your father with the finances, heavenly cooking skills and so eager to be more than a bimbo wife, a life most of your old friends had settled for. You had gone to college, just like him. You cared for those around you even if that meant to face your mother, just like him. You both were so alike in so many ways it'd be foolish to let you go.

What got him grovelling at your feet was your innocence and your will to make something out of your life even if your parents sabotaged you. The strength in you, the perseverance and hard work you had shown him even to this very day was the deal maker. And soon enough you'd make him a father.

You weren't only making his most precious dream come true, but were in tandem helping in making your love nest.

Investing all of your energies in building your forever home. Your own sanctuary and safe place with him.

And now it was his time to protect you, to stood his ground like you had done for him.

The room was filled with a warm and golden orange and yellow hues, basking the place in a gentle light, as if the universe was telling him 'Everything will be fine'. A hopeful thought to his already rattled mind. He was exhausted.

Exhausted of hiding and running away only to be harassed later. But that wouldn't stop him from working, no. There was still so much left to do around the hacienda.

With a deep breath he looked your way. A small tug on his heart sent a painful stab kn his chest at your expression. Frowning brows, hands clutched to the sheets and pillows, probably pretending it was him and puffy eyes that served as proof of your cries last night.

Your rage was something else. It made his tired smile to soften into a more admiring one. He hoped to never face it, cause he was sure he'd be on his knees, asking for forgiveness if you wished, even if it was over something so silly and irrelevant.

With a soft croak, you stirred and he embraced you gently. You were scared and asking for him last night, something he regretted to not have fulfilled sooner. But you and his child's safety was the main priority.

He'd have to talk to Joseph and Paco about new rounds done through the day. He couldn't install the safety cameras yet cause his area would take a lot to cover and it wasn't finished yet. If only he'd have some sort of superpower to make everything faster.

But the only power he had right now was to provide comfort to your heart and head. He'd die before something happening to you.

A mental slap came to his mind upon such though. If he died there was none else to look after you.

Even his mind needed a break. Birds chirped merrily, announcing the six am. But his body felt heavier and more sluggish than usual, his mind unclear as a fog came over his thoughts. He wasn't used to pull all-nighters. You turned on your side and curled in his chest, finally taking a hold of him. Eyes fluttered open, relief etched to your features.

Your arms embraced him so desperate it quickly had your eyes all glossy and teary again.

"Hey..." He mumbled with a lip tight smile.

You sobbed in his cradling arms.

"I'm so sorry, Miguel."

A gentle shhh came from him. His calloused fingers ventured through the strands of your hair, caressing with such care he'd thought you'd break.

"Why are you apologizing, cariño?"

"For everything that happened last night. You don't deserve this."

"Last night wasn't good for anyone, you specially, mi amor. But you are safe here. "

"It's not about that... I'm... scared. My father knows where we live now. And he could-"

"Cerecita, mi reina. Look." He sat on the bed and took a hold of your hand, to then kiss softly at the back of your palm, "Your father can make all the threats he wants, hell... He can even tear this place down if he wants to, but he won't take me away from you."

Your hand trembled in between his. You wanted to sit, but he laid back again, draping the sheets closer to you, making sure you were warm. Like a cocoon in his arms.

"It's not about that. You don't understand Miguel. My father is a man of word-."

"So am I." His fingers grazed your cheek softly, "I promised you that we'd be happy. And we will. I don't know how and I know it's scary for us, but as long as we are together, we will."

"I don't want you to get hurt. I... I couldn't stand something happening to you just cause my parents are too petty to acknowledge I married you."

"The only thing that would kill me? Is you leaving through that door and never come back. "

The sheer thoughts brought tears to your eyes. Hormones had also woken up to make a riot on your mind.

"Don't say that, please."

He kissed the top of your head and stared down at you.

"I know this is far from over, and trouble might keep coming. The only thing I am asking from you, is to stay strong. Can you do that for me, preciosa?"

"I can try"

"Good. That's all I'm asking, really. If you're strong, I'm strong."

You gave another silent sob while he peppered your face in gentle kisses. Soothing your worries away.

But he was scared too. Not a childish sort of fear, but something deeper. He knew that your parents were dense, if not denser than water itself. And would try things to keep you on edge, or worse try and mess with his estate.

Fear tactics won't make him lower his head and coward. Not when his pregnant wife was next to him crying, stressing and feeling guilty. Your fingers however traced his face gently, his tired lids drooped, as his eyes stared at you, curious yet fearful.

"Did you get some sleep?"

He chuckled bashfully, "I look that rundown?"

"No. But you do look tired. You're not used to stay up past twelve."

A tired and airy chuckle flared out his nose, his fingers took yours to then kiss the knuckles.

"I know."

Sleepiness had weighed him down completely, body made out of lead and muscles sore. Begging him to catch a break and sleep.

"You'll get grumpy" your hand slipped away from his and went to his face again, caressing and holding onto him. Grounding his wandering thoughts towards you. Anchoring himself in your loving and preocuppied stare.

"You need sleep. I'm sure Vicky will understand. Please?"

"Can't say no to you."

Doting arms embraced his neck, pulling him closer to your chest, it was your turn to protect him. He was always making sure you had everything, that you were alright. A giver by nature.

Just like you. This time you assured he'd cuddle in your chest, sharp cheeks rested on your mounds, ear pressed against you; allowing the steady beats of your heart lull him to sleep while you played with his hair.

Vicky didn't knock the door to awake you.

-----

You both awoke around 11 am, past breakfast. Vicky had instructed the construction workers where to keep building, guiding them in Miguel's absence. Victoria knew the plans her son had, so it was relatively easy to give orders. Some days more and the barn would be completely ready to then move to fencing properly the land.

It was a bit more money, but after much thought, a vynil fencing would be perfect. It not only offered privacy, but the chances of someone sneaking in would be less than 0, unless you knew the property like the back of one's hand.

To your dismay you had only seen the first part of it. If Miguel wished, he could start selling his own produce in the farmer's market. But right now, the soil was covered in weeds, and other invasive plants and thickets. It would be the final part of the renovations.

Vicky knocked the door, Miguel opened to reveal his mother with trays of food and some tea for you. She had heard the retching from the outside door. Stress was making your morning sickness worse and having an empty stomach didn't help either.

"Got you some things that will help you, and you too."

Vicky beckoned Miguel to help her, The little coffee table inside the room was used as support, brunch was served.

"Thank you Vicky" She patted your shoulder gently, as she served some flowery smelling tea.

"Don't you worry about it. You're making me a grandma soon."

The sweet smell and taste of the steamy liquid made your stomach settle gradually. Then you started eating with ferocious appetite. Miguel had his big cup of coffee, and ate as well, but his appetite was little.

Vicky smacked the back of his shoulder softly.

"Deja de preocuparte y come." (Stop over thinking and eat.)

Your hand slid into his and squeezed.

"Miguel?"

"Hm?"

"I'm scared too. But I also know that having us demoralized and afraid won't do good for us."

He pulled you closer and kissed your head for the umpteenth time, comfort and love were words you could use if you'd get asked what his hugs felt like. Despite his rough and cold demeanor he was one of the sweetest and gentle man you had ever encounter, even if his actions spoke volumes for him.

His head remained out of his hat, the piece had suffocated him enough through a good chunk of the previous night.

"That's exactly what those cabrones want. No offense, dear"

You chuckled and shook your head.

"Vicky is right. Whatever comes, we will face it together. As a family."

His eyes softened as you placed his hand on your belly.

"One day I'm sure this will be one of those stories you'll tell your kids when they get older and wanna know about family drama"

Miguel couldn't help but snort at Vicky's insinuation. But deep down he felt grateful. Thankful enough that two of the most important people in his life were reassuring him. His devoted and short tempered mother, a crucial part of his heart and now you and his growing child. All around him, promising they'd all be fine.

He needed to believe it. This wasn't one of the moments he was allowed to flank. He needed himself strong, steady with his head high. Ever vigilant and ready to face everything that came his way. He was an O'Hara. And O'Hara's endured.

That was his own mantra, bestowed and honored by previous generations.

The brunch and Victoria's presence had helped you both to ease the rising nerves and the subtle anxiety that undermined your head with unhealthy and raucous thoughts. Instead, even if a temporary distraction, work in the estate kept going. After all, it would take so much more than just a threat to break your spirits.

---

Miguel had tended to the barn and foresaw the fencing advance. Construction materials would be brought over the weekend to immediately start making his private property even more secluded, away from prying eyes and anyone stupid enough that tried to venture within the hacienda.

And after yesterday's fiasco, Miguel had come up with a new plan about security rounds until the fencing started. Just as he was about to explain, Joseph called him, a bit concern etched into his face.

"What now?"

"It's not the people from yesterday, but they claim to know your wife, Boss."

"How many of them are there?"

"Just three. Two women and a man."

He nodded and put his hand on his neck, trying to ease the tension that refused to leave his body despite the many attempts of cheering his spirits up.

"Where's my Cerecita?"

"Uh, with Vicky in the orchard."

"Right. Stay here in case there's trouble."

Joseph nodded and stood his ground, as he watched Miguel leaving.

Who would be this time? He wasn't armed this time, so whoever that had ill intentions with him would have to face the might of his fists.

But the silent threat remained as nothing but that. The only noises around were him, the gravel crunching underneath his boots, the subtle wind that played tag between the trees, little birds here and there and finally, the voices of people he knew, but didn't remember their names or faces .

A cool gust of wind threatened his hat to be blown off his head, but he secured it with a hand. Upon arriving, his surprise couldn't be hidden.

The two ladies were the one that helped you pack and were deeply saddened at your leaving. He always saw them around you, laughing and sharing whenever your mother wasn't around to shoo them away from you. And the man, one of the helpers back at your parent's barn.

"Mr. O'Hara? Im really sorry to bother, and showing up like this after what happened."

One of the women spoke. Miguel was cautious, and so far his intentions of opening the door didn't ring a bell on him. For all he knew your parents could have sent them to spy you.

"We quit. That Rosaura lady slapped my sister and it was enough for us. We were planning on leaving the estate even before the Miss left with ya."

But that definitely sounded something his beloved mother in law would do.

"I know you have zero reasons to believe us, but trust us. None back at the estate really liked the missus's parents either. We could only hold up for so long before everything came down. But we needed the jobs."

"I understand." With a sigh, Miguel opened the door and allowed them in.

A little rounds of thank yous echoed behind him before he guided them back at the main estate.

"Will you let us stay? Just for the night of course. "

"You'll have to talk to La Patrona." (The boss)

He chuckled upon you coming to his mind, "My wife I mean."

A little of hushed yet excited whispers trailed him along some 'I told you!' 'She did it!'.

The reunion was loud as he had expected. Loaded of hugs, heartfelt congratulations and of course them rubbing your belly.

Mary, the big sister was two years older than you, she had been one of the few that approached you with genuine friendship back at home, her sister, Susan was your age, even though she was on the quieter side, she was disciplined enough to keep herself busy and out of trouble. Always doing something. However her eyes kept wandering to Joseph.

They had asked your permission to stay overnight before returning to their hometown the next day. Of course you agreed.

They helped you to prepare everything, letting Vicky to rest for a bit. Even though they had spark, Vicky observed them with hard eyes, trying to decipher their true intentions. And so far she had found nothing. Not even in the man that quickly established a conversation between Paco and Joseph.

And soon all of you sat down at the table that seemed smaller.

"Like I was telling Mr. O'Hara, you mother was livid after you left."

"She was like a child throwing a tantrum, telling Pastor William to do something"

"Yeah, that's sounds like mom" An awkward smile came to your face as they spoke.

"But after last night, it was enough for us. She slapped Susan in the face when she got her the wrong dress."

Vicky couldn't hold back her gasp and contempt

"Dios mío, esa mujer ha enloquecido" (My God, that woman has gone mad)

"I'm really sorry it had to come to this point."

"Ya can't blame yourself, darlin" Mary spoke, letting her southern accent shine through for a second, "Ever since ya left people have been leaving, only to be replaced within some days."

"No wonder why they came in so pissed" You mumbled with a little giggle.

"How's... Agustín?"

Their faces fell and the man, his old helper James spoke.

"Pastor sold him to a guy. Joaquín is kinda sick and Luis, is the only one they actually pay attention to. You know, Joaquín is old so..."

Miguel could only nod with a saddened yet expected smile. It was a matter of time for Agustín to be sold.

"Do you know by chance who he got sold off to?"

"Some russian named Kravi- Uh... Kravinoff?"

"I see." Miguel’s shoulder slumped for a moment. At least he wasn't sent off to the meat market, "Hopefully that man knows how to treat him."

"He seems into animals a bit too much, sir. A bit eccentric with his fur coats. But apparently the man is a collector and the missus's parents best client."

Of course. Agustín was a purebred friesian stallion after all. His worth was over 20k.

You slid a hand on Miguel's thigh comfortingly. His subtle blue mood contagious. A lot of details you both were missing were spilled in the table.

Even though Miguel wasn't one for gossips, hearing your parents struggling to keep the appearances had definitely put a smile on his face. It served them right after all the unhinged things they had done. But he didn't let go that easy the fact that from all the horses remaining, Luis was the only one that was being properly taken care of.

Your horse.

A little hope shone in his darkened by fears heart. He didn't care if he was called a dreamer, but sometimes he pondered how would be his relationship with your parents would've been if they had a completely reaction to him.

Would they tolerate him? Would they be excited for being grandparents? Would they be happy for you instead of being petty and spiteful about it? He didn't know.

And he was tired of thinking over and over. Vicky's words remained closer to his heart.

If isn't your stubbornness, it's your love that will convince them.

But that was a very distant and utopian thought. All that mattered in his present was you and his new growing family.

The guest cabin was taken by the ladies and James joined Paco and Joseph.

Vicky drew you a warm bath to ease the remaining tension off your body. Miguel had been watching you. The changes in your body suited beautifully. Plump breasts, hips and thighs, gorgeous sudsy skin that had some flower petals adhered to it, enhancing it's beauty. You were the purest form of art before his eyes. The mother of his children. His wife.

He marvelled at the way you smiled upon rubbing your belly. The illusion of being a mother surely took you by surprise, but with Miguel's reassurance, you were excited even to meet your child. The ultimate physical form of love between you two.

Puppy and rusty brown eyes fixed on you as you let your hair down, letting the strands to cover your back to wash them next.

He stepped in. With a kiss on your temple and a bashful smile he sat behind you.

"Mira nomás qué chulada." (Look at that, so beautiful)

He pried gently the shampoo bottle off your hands and poured some on his hands to then lather your scalp with it. The lovely smell of cherries wafted in the air as foam appeared in your head while he massaged your scalp adoringly.

You hummed in approval at the careful and soft movements of his fingers. Inducing a relaxed state over you.

"Miguel?"

"Yes, Cerecita?" His voice matching his fingers.

"I don't ever regret marrying you."

His fingers faltered for a moment before resuming his washing. It was as if the doubts on his heart had secretly found a way to your ears and you were now reassuring him.

"You've the best thing that has shown up into that old house. Still are."

"Gotta be thankful to your parents for creating you, preciosa. Unbearable as they are"

The both of you chuckled, ignoring the looming dark skies that blended within the night's mantle.

"I'll take in Mary and Susan. I'm sure they'd be wonderful help around here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I will pay them of my own money I've saved. So don't worry"

"No, no, let me take them in."

"Miguel, all of these renovations are coming off your pocket. We are a team now, I know somehow it will work out. Let me help you."

He accepted his defeat with a little slump in his shoulders and lazy smile.

"Alright, as you wish, mi corazón."

"What do you love the most about me?"

His hands took the bathtub's head shower and rinsed your hair. Water splashing on his skin, like the sudden question.

"Your bravery, empathy towards others and loyalty. And you're drop dead gorgeous too."

Your cheeks warmed up with a little flush on them as he spoke.

"What about you, Cerecita? What does my wife loves about me?"

"Since you snatched the words off my mouth, I'd say loyalty, honesty and resilience." You took his hands in yours, weaving your fingers between his and smiled, "Many would've given up on me at this point because of my parents but..."

Another kiss, "Hearing you calling me your wife makes me all happy and the good kind of dumb. I know we won't have good days, or that we will be far from perfect but, You've taught me so much about myself is wonderful. "

His hands secured yours as another kiss on your temple was given.

"Thanks for not giving up on me, Miguel."

"Thanks for being my wife, Cerecita."

Your smile disarmed him. And that night your wish of being asleep in his arms came true. There was no horrors that lurked in the shadows.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Ranchero Miguel 🐎#Mi Dulce Cereza #🍒🕷️#La Novela #miguel ohara x you #Miguel o'hara fluff #Spotify

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diejager · 2 months

Note

That room cleaning ask with konig and Horangi was soooo good 😭 I can’t help but feel like if that was me I’d be super depressed if all my things were moved and taken away! How would konig deal with a grumpy avoidant reader? He can’t fuck her if she’s never around right? Like she’s spending barely any time in her room because it just upsets her and more time out with her friends and away from home! How would konig feel about his precious lil stepdaughter not being home for dinner most nights

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, STEPCEST, smut, misogyny, age difference, tantrum, creampie, spit roasting, double penetration, rough sex, tell me if I missed any.

He… doesn’t know where to go from there or how to fix it. You’re always out, gone from the house he was so used to see you, the place that was filled with calmness and comfort that he’d grown to love. Dinners were deathly silent, your seat cold and vacant, your room left almost untouched by your missing presence, and the house loosing its light from your days spent outside. It was awkward, looking at you mope and glare his way whenever he crossed your path.

Neither König nor Horangi could approach you, they could touch you or indulge in your body, drowning you in pleasure and eating you up like they used to. Every step was met with a slap of your wrist or a hiss, your shoulder scrapping his biceps when you pushed past him and Horangi. You were avoiding them, they learned, you putting your foot down in the weirdest way to keep them away from you. König couldn’t wrap his head around your acts. Why would you even avoid him? Going out of your way to physically hit him when you didn’t dare before.

He only understood when Horangi pulled him aside after you went to bed, explaining how he thought you were mad at all of them for forcing you to throw your collectibles and accessories out. You were lashing out at them for it, a long drawn and petty tantrum you were throwing because you were sad and angered. König let you off with it, ignoring your tantrum, assuming you’d grow out of it after a while, bored and tired of your new schedule you forced yourself into. It was - after all - less comfortable and easy than spending time with them at home, taking all the cock both he and Horangi could give and stuffing your stretched cunt and ass with all the cum you’d ever want!

But when you hadn’t, nearing a whole month, Horangi took it upon himself to start the conversation, gripping your bicep and moving you to the living room after your mother left. It started off with you bickering with them, snapping and spitting venom to the towering men, neither of them hands expected you to lash out so violently, rarely seeing such vitriol from you. Fortunately, it was an issue easily fixed: by bending you over the armrest and fucking you into König’s big cock, the heavy and musky girth choking you up whenever Horangi snapped his hips.

All your whining and squirming stopped with the right nudge of his cock, shutting you up for good until you decided to open your mouth. They took turns with you, rolling you back and froth from your back and stomach to look at your teary and dazed eyes when you were split in half, and to watch your cunt swallow up their cock and your swollen clit twitching. König was glad to see that you were back to your usual the next day, pouting and mumbling under your breath while you limped through the house.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @lucienbarkbark @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @223princess @maylovesyousomuch @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry

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loveindefinitely · 5 months

Text

༊*·˚ MIDNIGHTS — track one : lavender haze

summary. you're dragged to a house party by your best friend, and subsequently meet two men that will change your life, all in one night.

featuring. rodolfo 'rudy' parra + alejandro vargas

warnings. nsfw, alcohol consumption, modern au, implied drug use, f/m/m, mutually under the influence, partying, slight peer pressure, public sex (?), bathroom sex, oral, degradation, strangers to lovers

series masterlist.

"Jesus christ," you murmur, wincing at the sudden and overpowering smell of weed, cruisers and sweat. Not exactly an appealing mix, but not revolting, at least. Better than vomit. Too early in the night for that, you supposed.

Valeria mutters something under her breath, and with a roll of her eyes, drags you by the scuff of your neck to the kitchen.

Bodies litter every open bit of room on the floor, grinding against each other, neon lights casting vibrant colours over the sheen of sweat on their skin. It's oddly enchanting.

The glitter littered on your collarbones and cleavage shine in the cascading lights, and you hope that you look somewhat confident, even if you feel anything but. You weren't one for house parties, hell, this was one of your first, but Valeria had convinced you to 'let loose' and 'have fun'.

You didn't say how you knew that this party was an excuse to get business done, but then again, that was why the two of you were so close.

Plausible deniability, and all that.

A drink is slammed into your chest, a little bit splashing onto your skin. You shoot an unamused glare Valeria's way, to which she just replies with a small shrug. "Drink."

"If it's drugged, I'll kill you," you say. ...Only half joking. You knew -- hoped -- that she wouldn't, but again, it was Valeria.

Another roll of her eyes and a scoff. "You can try."

You wouldn't, because at the end of the day, you did enjoy being alive and functioning. Both things were quite useful.

Valeria's eyes catch on something, or someone, behind you, and her glare narrows even further, her mouth hitching up into a hardly discreet scowl.

You turn, but she quickly grabs you by the hair to stop you from doing so. "Don't look," she seethes, venom in her tone.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Valeria," a man's voice chimes from behind you, snarky and impatient.

Your closest friend's lips pull into a cruel, cunning smile, void of any warmth as she glares at whoever's behind you. "Alejandro," she snarls, her voice bitter.

Swallowing, you nervously try and think of a way to get out from between whatever the fuck is going on here. You didn't exactly feel like getting involved in... whatever Valeria did under your nose.

"And who's she?" The man asks, sounding just the slightest bit closer. His tone has taken an interested, more curious tone, not nearly as harsh or abrasive.

You play with the necklace around your neck in nervous movements, trying to quell your growing anxiety.

Valeria huffs a cold laugh. "Not apart of this," is her only answer, accent thickening just the slightest, like it did when she was pissed off, or... scared. Which had only been once, in all fairness, and that was because of a spider.

"Vamos, necesitamos hablar. Sácala de aquí [Come on, we need to talk. Get her out of here]," the man spits out, vitriol heavy on his tongue like some kind of poison.

"Tócala y morirás, Alejandro [Touch her and you will die, Alejandro]," is Valeria's hiss of a reply, her hold tightening in your hair. You squeeze your eyes shut, nervous and completely out of your element, and scared shitless.

The man behind you -- Alejandro -- murmurs a bunch of curses under his breath, before he replies once more. "Rodolfo will keep her safe."

"¿Crees que confío en ti? [Do you think I trust you?]" Valeria's eyes burn with rage from what you can see in the dim lighting, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "Bien. Si ella tiene un rasguño, ambos moriréis [Fine. If she gets a scratch, you'll both die]."

She looks down to you, her hand falling from the fist it had in your hair. "If he so much as breathes at you wrong, yell for me," she mutters in a low tone, before pushing you towards someone without so much as another look in your direction.

Your breathing comes out in short, quick pants, when a warm arm slides around your waist. You flinch in surprise, looking up into warm brown eyes.

"Rodolfo," the man says, an introduction. His head gestures sharply to the man following after a fuming Valeria. "Alejandro."

You nod, albeit with confusion, and pray that your embarrassment isn't obvious on your face when you say your name in a way of greeting.

Rodolfo nods, and there's a calmness to him that settles your nerves and overall antsiness.

"¿Quieres bailar? [You want to dance?]" He asks, and you tilt your head slightly to the side. He raises a brow, taking in your appearance. Your black dress is completely and utterly slutty, but you had wanted to try and be a different person for a night.

...You were maybe, slightly, regretting it.

"I..." you start, unsure what to do or say, before he simply drags you towards the loungeroom, where everyone's packed like sardines.

His chest presses against your own, his arm still around your lower back. Your hands, nervously, rest at his chest, and you have to crane your neck a little to make eye contact.

You are so, so, so screwed.

His mouth tilts into a small smirk, obviously aware of your uncertainty. "I'm protecting you, hermosa [beautiful]. You're safe with me," he whispers, leaning in close to your ear, and you just about melt. His voice is velvety and smooth and so fucking attractive that you can't believe that you're even here right now.

Swallowing, you nod slowly. "Okay. I'm sorry," you tack on the last part, the words familiar on your tongue.

Your eyes go slightly wide when his hand comes up to direct your chin back up to meet his gaze, his eyes almost sparkling in the deep purple lights hung in this room. "No. None of that."

Your mouth is as dry as a desert.

But something else certainly isn't.

"How do you know Valeria?" You ask, because, really, you can't keep your mouth shut, can you?

Rodolfo seems to think for a moment, his features highlighted by the lights. The bass of the music thrums in your chest, and you can feel it from where your feet hit the floor, all the way to your fingertips, where they sit on his chest.

"...She's an old friend," is his response, and you can tell that there's a lot of heavy lifting behind the 'friend' title.

You nod, however, appeased with the answer. At least for now.

"You're not aware of her work?" He asks, wincing slightly at the last word. He's a solid weight at your front, oddly comforting for a man you had met not even five minutes ago, and who is clearly not in a white-collar kind of career path.

"No, um, not really my business," you say, deflecting.

A crease forms between his brows, and the swaying slows down. The two of you are surrounded at all sides, and it's hard to think, let alone breathe.

He's about to open his mouth to continue, when a sharp bark of his name makes his gaze instantly flick from you, to the other side of the room.

"Nosotros vamos [We're going]," The voice from before calls out -- Alejandro's voice. Rodolfo's arm at your waist tightens, if only slightly.

His gaze flickers back to yours, something swirling in their depths. Something that has your thighs squeezing just a bit together. You are so unbelievably parched -- from physical or mental thirst, you're not sure.

"Come with me," he says, voice lilted with an undercurrent of lust and desire. "Por favor, mi niña [please, my girl]."

Valeria had said to have fun, hadn't she? And you hadn't gotten all dressed up just to not get laid tonight, right?

So, like the 'new you' you are, you nod your head.

Rodolfo's returning smile is nothing short of vivaciously wicked, and tingles shoot up your spine as his hand rests heavy on your hip as he guides you out of the thick stream of people.

When your eyes meet Alejandro's, and you're standing mere feet in front of him, the man's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He directs a look to Rodolfo, and although you can't see the man's expression, you can tell that they're silently communicating.

Whatever the conclusion to their voiceless debate, it seems to weigh in your favour.

a/n. a teaser for the midnights series!! i have not forgotten about my plans for this one folks. taylor swift did infact intend for the album to be used as titles and vibes for call of duty fanfiction, in case u didnt know!

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scoupsahoy · 1 year

Text

leaving like a father, running like water

[crossposted to ao3]

It’s 1991 when Steve finally does what his father’s been telling him his entire life, which is: he grows up. Hawkins is stuck in time, a ticking time bomb, a place that’s never really needed him.

That’s okay. People needed him to stay for a while.

Robin needs him. Stuck to his side, constantly over his house, hardly going back to her own. He hears fighting from the inside for a while before he stops taking her back. Violence and vitriol and venom. And he needs Robin, too, needs her to be by his side, needs her to put him back together after the town splits down the middle.

It’s mainly her.

The kids needed him for a while, but they were always stronger. More magical. He was a piece of shit when he was their age, didn’t understand a single fucking thing, and they just knew. They’d lived entire lives right under his nose. They’d fought and won and lost and lost and lost and won, and they were always smarter than him anyway. More resilient.

And Hawkins can hardly be called a place anymore. It’s gray and rotten and barren, and the kids live there because they grew up on its streets and underneath them, but Steve. Steve has only been beaten down by this place, realizes he has to grow up somewhere else.

His parents give him the house and he sells it immediately. No one’s buying land in Hawkins, but it’s land, the town will take it, they’ll take anything they can get, and so will Steve.

They drive west until they hit Las Vegas and they get hitched at one of those sleazy casinos so people stop asking questions.

Steve dips Robin low and kisses her on the cheek behind a veil and the drunk witnesses don’t notice that her cackle is at the ridiculousness of people ever thinking they could be together. And hopefully in a while she’ll be one of those girls on the news wearing a shirt that says Lavender Menace but she could never have been that girl in Indiana.

And Steve. Well.

Before they really decide to leave, Steve gets drunk and hooks up with a guy he’s never met before and never seen again, a drummer in a little metal band playing just outside Indianapolis when he was convinced he was just testing a theory, and then Alexandria Brown, who had a fucking tongue piercing, just to make sure girls still get him off, and then Ronny Jackson, who was in AP Calc and a huge loud weirdo but otherwise gives him the best orgasm of his life. And he otherwise chases what Robin lovingly calls “the Munson High” until it clicks for him.

He leaves because without the kids to take care of, because he can’t play mother hen forever, Hawkins is nothing but a rotting open grave.

So they drive farther and hit San Francisco with ring pop rings and get a nice two bedroom apartment from a landlord who doesn’t ask questions, and that becomes home.

Steve is twenty four when he decides to grow up.

The problem with growing up is the growing part. Stretching his limbs and pounding at his muscles and working long hours lifting heavy boxes onto wobbly shelves for nine hours a day. He sees ghosts in the grocery store and monsters in dogs on a walk and it’s hard out here pretending this has been his only life. But at least there’s beer.

“Steve,” Robin flies through their front door, crumpled flier in hand, right when Steve cracks the can open. “Put that down.”

“Why?”

“We’re going out tonight. This was in our mailbox. I think it’s a gay club.” She smacks her hand on the counter, spread out over a piece of paper, probably too excited to realize there’s no way Steve would be able to read it.

He puts his beer down anyway before asking what should be an obvious question, because he actually isn’t trying to turn into his father, and because he’s a good friend. “Why would someone slip a flier for a gay club into our mailbox?”

“I think Addie and Rose from down the hall put it in there. Doesn’t matter. Go with me.”

And. Steve stares at his beer and the tiny television they got when they moved in so they wouldn’t die of boredom. They were going to watch Turner Classics or something because that’s what they always do on the weekend.

He looks back at sweet, hopeful Robin and sighs. “One of these days I’ll say no to you.”

“No you won’t,” she says, bright and shiny, runs into her closet of a room to get dressed and shouts through the apartment. “Also, for the record, you need to get laid!”

“Say it louder, I don’t think Addie and Rose heard you.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it, because we both know I will.”

So Steve puts on real clothes, nothing too nice, and runs a comb through his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it was when he was a kid, long enough to give him hat hair at work, short enough that he’s not immediately clocked as a freak.

On the walk there, Steve decides his primary goal is to make sure Robin has a good time. His secondary goal is to make sure neither of them get into too much trouble. And the third, if the first two goals go well, is to get head in the bathroom, or, if he’s really lucky, give head in the bathroom.

They haven’t been in San Francisco for very long, considering how long they stayed in Hawkins, but there are regulars in their neighborhood, people he recognizes from work, people he recognizes from the store. It’s like they’re making a life here, almost.

The bartender is a guy who’s jogging route passes in front of their apartment most mornings on their way to work. His grizzled face breaks into pleasant surprise when he gets his eye on them.

“Oh, I recognize you two,” he says, pointing two fingers at them. His voice has a midwest twang to it. Kind of reminds him of home, not that he needs reminding. “That married couple up by that one deli. You guys lost?”

“We’re not.. really married,” Robin says, in that ridiculously un-subtle way she tends to.

Steve shoots her a look. “We’re legally married.”

“Yes, but as friends,” she emphasizes, shakes her naked ring finger at the bartender before leaning both elbows onto the bar and resting her head on her fists. “Tell me, do women frequent this establishment?”

If anything, despite the anxiety burning Steve’s ears red, the bartender at least seems amused. He nods over to a corner of the club closer to the stage and she’s immediately off in that direction, leaving Steve alone on a barstool with a man who knows way too much about him now.

Most of the rest of the bar is empty. Being a club, most people are on the dance floor or in dark corners or against the stage. Steve’s always been the kind of guy to sit by the sidelines. At least, since he graduated.

“She seems quirky,” the bartender says, no malice in his voice, pouring a drink for another patron and sliding it down the bar.

“Yeah, try living with her.”

He heaves a belly-laugh that makes Steve make real eye contact with him for the first time since getting in. “I’m Ricardo.”

“Steve.” They shake hands, firm and friendly.

“Not lost, then?”

“Nope.”

“Thought so,” Ricardo says, though Steve does a quick check of his hair and his clothes, see if anything gives him away. And he must be tense, because he continues. “Hey, relax, let me make you a drink if you want. We don’t bite.”

That shocks a smile out of him, enough to ask for a rum and coke. And Ricardo nods, and Steve tries to remember how to be social again like he hasn’t spent the last five years exclusively hanging out with teenagers and Robin. “That’s a shame. About the biting.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I could introduce you to a friend. He’ll do anything if you ask nicely enough,” he laughs, handing over the drink.

Steve squashes down how flustered that makes him. Robin’s right. He does need to get laid.

“It’s kind of funny, actually. Thinking about it, you’re exactly the kind of guy he usually goes after.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know. Athletic. Good hair. Very normal looking,” Ricardo makes vague gestures at Steve’s general likeness and he tries not to take it personally. “He usually comes by on Saturdays. In case you were curious.”

“What’s his name?” Steve asks, even though he’ll probably forget, by the amount of rum he can taste in his drink and the way a man with more than one tattoo on his neck looks at him from down the bar.

He does manage to remember, because it’s kind of a weird name. And pretty quickly Steve decides that hooking up with someone in a bathroom isn’t too much trouble to get into at all, and Robin is loud and excitable across the club and he shouldn't worry about her too much anyway. So Jacob with the neck tattoos drags him into the bathroom by the hair at his nape and pushes Steve to his knees and the roughness of it gets him off without even being touched.

And his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised and he thinks about the guy named Winn who usually comes in on Saturdays, who likes guys that look like Steve, who will do anything if Steve asks nicely enough.

On the way out Robin has another girl’s lipstick on her teeth so she can’t say anything too scathing, but she does give him the Munson High stare.

He climbs into her bed that night because he has dreams about monsters and bats and open graves. He thinks about Eddie Munson after five years of him being gone, after only really a few days of knowing him, never knowing what he tasted like and chasing it anyway.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson died.

•

It’s 1991, deep into summer, and Steve sweats through his work uniform every single fucking day, takes twice as many showers as he can probably afford the water for, and sometimes it’s so hot in California that he starts to think he might be seeing things.

Robin tells him he’s been hit in the head too many times, which is objectively true, and if he were more self-preserving he’d probably benefit from going to a doctor about it. His father would call him crazy, he knows that, too.

Sometimes at work he’ll see a new-hire with Dustin’s curly hair, the style he had it in years ago when there was a chance he could grow up normal. And Steve will go home on those days and call the Henderson home phone until someone picks up and tells him he’s safe.

And lately, on Friday afternoons after work, when he goes straight from work to the grocery store to pick up whatever he can for dinner, he swears he catches a glimpse of Eddie. Just for a second. Like he’s a ghost.

And there are things wrong, always, the hair, his style, the walk, it has to be a hallucination.

Eddie’s been dead for five years, dead in a different state, in a different universe. And there’s no one to call when he gets home.

The feeling of it sits in his gut and festers like a poison. He doesn’t know why it’s getting worse since coming here. Chasing the Munson High.

They don’t go back to the club very often. They probably should. Robin needs to get laid just as badly as Steve does, but he’s never been the type to let loose when he felt responsible for someone else, not since Nancy. San Francisco is big and gay and new and it’s not quite home yet, and they’re from smalltown Hawkins, Indiana. He doesn’t know how to let his guard down.

But.

“We’re going out tonight,” Robin tells him, sitting next to Steve on their little couch with a sandwich and swinging her legs across his lap as a table.

“We are?”

She nods, smiles, speaks with a mouth full of food. “Yep. We’re going back to the club. And I’m the designated driver.”

“You don’t drive,” Steve blinks. “And we walk there.”

“Then I’m the designated walker. I’ll cart your little drunk self back home. Unless you go home with someone else, of course.”

“What the hell are you going on about?”

Robin smiles her little Robin smile, the one where she’s clearly feeling pity, which she knows Steve hates, and will not apologize for it.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Your nightmares are back again. You’re worrying too much about me and everyone back home,” back in Hawkins, she means, their old home, “and it’s Saturday night and as your wife, I’m forcing you to go out and get drunk and get laid and stop worrying about other people for once.”

“There’s plenty of things to worry about, Robin,” Steve points out, even though it’s a losing battle.

“I’m a big girl, Steve. The apocalypse isn’t coming to San Francisco, and I’m pretty sure if it did I’d be able to handle it until you sobered up.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right.

Fuck. He knows she’s right.

So he lets Robin eat her sandwich and he gets changed into something that won’t make him die of heatstroke (because if he survived the past eight years and throws it all away in the basement of a club, he’s going to march into hell pissed off). And he makes himself look good and he wonders if Jacob with the neck tattoos is coming tonight, or maybe a drag performer, or maybe Winn who knows Ricardo.

They come up with a game plan on the way, because Steve is nothing without a game plan, basically the only thing that’s kept him alive this long. He’s going to get as plastered as he likes, and Robin is going to hopefully hook up with a drag king, and they are going to check in at midnight. And if Steve goes home with someone, he’s going to let her know before he goes, and he’s going to have a good time (this, she is adamant about), and he’s going to call her if he plans on spending the morning in bed.

Robin tells as much to Ricardo when they get in, orders Steve shots before setting his watch to go off at midnight like he’s fucking Cinderella. She looks Ricardo right in the eyes and demands him, “make sure he gets plastered.”

And get plastered Steve does.

“I was wondering when you’d be back,” Ricardo says. “Not really your scene?”

Steve leans an elbow on the bar. “It’s not that. I like to be careful. I know that this is San Francisco, but still. We’re from Indiana.”

It’s a half-truth, at least. Indiana itself was part of the problem, it always was. Not safe for Robin, not safe for him. Steve always had to pick the safe option. Tonight is really the first time he’s not going to worry about it.

The world is a scary place, even without all the monsters. Ricardo must understand that. Steve takes another shot.

“Illinois.”

The liquor burns down his throat this time, hits him like a punch, “What?”

“I’m from outside Chicago,” Ricardo says, which explains the midwestern accent.

Steve breathes, the buzz starting in his chest. “How long did it take for you to get used to this?”

“Kid, we’re all still getting used to it.”

He takes another shot at that. He thinks about the things he’s getting used to, the new place and the new world and the way the world spins. The way the ground here isn’t cracked and rotten and part of hell. The way he doesn’t have to worry about getting an annual concussion, hopefully, if he watches out, if he follows his rules.

He thinks about Eddie, which is a bit funny, because he doesn’t think he’s tried to think about him in a long time. Sometimes it happens like that. You know about someone for years and then you know them for a few days and then.

Impact.

And if he’s being honest, he’s never going to get laid like this. Sitting miserable at the bar. It’s a club. There are people and performances and men that he doesn’t have to be afraid of.

Steve has to do more than just survive, now. It’s been eight years of surviving and he gets to live.

So he gets plastered. Sloppily so, finds Robin and kisses her wet on her forehead and lifts her up for the girls by the stage and wingmans until she’s giggling and slapping at him and threatening divorce.

He gets bullshit drunk, chases his Munson High, grinds against a man with lots of eyeliner, hair so long he’s pretty. He tells him so against his lips and his hips. Doesn’t learn his name before he’s sitting back at the bar, a moment that hardly sobers him.

He sits for a while and breathes and people-watches and talks to Ricardo, and there’s a man with sunglasses down the bar, staring right at him. His hair is cropped short and he’s covered in tattoos, and Steve flags Ricardo down.

“Am I really drunk or is that guy staring at me?”

Ricardo smiles, response sloshing around in Steve’s brain. “He’s definitely staring. I told you that you were his type.”

“Oh shit,” he says, “that’s Winn?”

Steve doesn’t stick around long enough to hear anything other than the confirmation. And if Winn gets tense, Steve is too drunk to notice. He wants to drink and he wants to make out and he wants this guy to do whatever he wants with him. He wants to flirt and get in his pants and go home with him. And he’s a reckless drunk and he’s okay with it.

“Hey,” he says when he sidles up, rests his elbows on the bar.

“Hey.”

His voice is gruff and deep, surprisingly so. And he looks out into the crowd for a bit, so Steve can peek behind his sunglasses to see what they’re hiding. “I was wondering if you were planning on buying me a drink.”

Winn smiles, and it’s bright, even if it isn’t huge. It looks shocked, unused, awkward in the lips like they’ll crack open. Steve wants to get bloody on them.

“Now why would I do that?”

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” Steve says, even if he doesn’t know that it’s true. It’s true enough. “And Ricardo told me that I’m just your type. Was wondering if you’d ever make a move.”

“Wow. And you couldn’t make a move of your own?” His voice wavers a bit, a teasing jolt, something familiar, weirdly.

Steve drags his eyes down Winn’s body, his plain black shirt, and dark wash jeans, and the lean muscle that sits underneath. “What do you think I came over here for?”

“You’ve got me there. But I don’t think I was staring at you.”

“I’m pretty sure you were.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m wearing sunglasses, so I could have been staring at anything,” Winn says, turns his shoulders towards Steve’s, like they’re closing in on each other.

“You’re looking at me now, at least.”

“That’s true.”

“Any chance you’ll be looking away any time soon?”

It’s fun. Their back and forth. He can tell Winn likes it too, cheeks red, even when the lights change to flash yellow and blue and green. His voice cracks higher for a half second. “None.”

There it is.

“Good,” Steve says, curls his fist into the front of his shirt and pulls Winn down to him. He can feel the snag of chest hair in his hand, swallows the little groan he lets out into his mouth. He wants to get drunk on that, too.

He knows how drunk he must be, out in the open like this. He knows how selfish this must be, and he couldn't give less of a shit about it. Steve wants.

Winn hesitates for a fraction of a second, the kind of second that drags on when you’re drunk, and then kisses back the kind of kiss that empties your entire mind. His tongue is hot, licks into his mouth like fire, and he doesn’t taste like liquor. It’s just cigarettes and sweat and Steve wants to drown in it.

It turns out that Winn is the take control type. The do whatever you want if you ask nicely enough type, if he’s remembering correctly. He’s solid and bone-crushing and not nearly close enough. Steve is desperate and hungry in a way he hasn’t let himself be in years, doesn’t care about the consequences, wants Winn to make a mark on him that won’t go away.

And Winn gets them both drinks, gets Steve just what he likes, takes his own shots like they’re nothing. He downs them like water and Steve stares at his throat like he wants to build a home inside of it.

There’s a little bit of talking, but mainly making out, and a lot of touching hip bones and exposed biceps and the tender skin at the juncture of Winn’s neck, and ordering drinks and feeling reckless and not giving a shit.

And then his hands are in Steve’s hair, pulling, kissing him again and again, and his knees nearly collapse right there.

“Take me home,” Steve finds himself saying. “Your home. Take me to your place.”

Winn laughs, a sharp sound, “You’re a little drunk, buddy.”

“Sober me up then,” Steve says, slides his free hand up Winn’s leg. He tests a theory. “Please?”

And that does something.

He is pretty drunk, and otherwise his blood isn’t particularly focused on his brain function as much as his dick, honestly. But still, Winn makes Steve dizzy with it, with want and need.

It’s quick and reckless. Steve tells Robin he’s going home with Winn, that he’ll call a cab in the morning, and she salutes him on his way out.

The air outside is just as stale and hot as the club, and Steve leans into Winn’s arm while they walk.

“I hate how hot it is here.”

“You might have come to the wrong place, big boy,” Eddie says. Or, well, Winn says it, but Steve stops short in his tracks, feeling like a tape getting rewound, cranked slowly. It’s five years ago all of a sudden, just for a second, and Winn catches Steve by the bicep and if Steve were feeling more like himself he might have flexed or flirted or something. “You alright?”

And he’s back in the present, skipped ahead with a scratch. “Yeah.”

“Don’t die of heatstroke on me. I have water at my apartment. It’s not far.”

It really isn’t far. Winn keeps his sunglasses on even though Steve can hardly see a foot in front of him as it is. He wonders for a second if Winn has real eyes, or if he sees through his lenses like screens. Or maybe he can’t see at all. That seems unlikely.

He wonders if Winn has Eddie’s eyes, too. Big and brown like he’d never seen before or seen since. The real Munson High: not a guy with long hair and rings and tattoos and weird interests, but a guy who looks at him like that, like Eddie did. Intense and sure and determined and unafraid.

“You remind me of someone,” Steve says, sloshed, uninhibited.

For all accounts, he should keep his mouth shut. Steve is actually trying to sleep with this guy, and he can’t imagine that comparing him to his admittedly life-changing but violently dead friend from five years ago is going to be appealing.

And this guy is cool, Steve tells him so. His style and his walk and his demeanor and how he tastes like cigarettes, the kind you roll yourself.

He thinks, maybe, keeping it lighthearted will be best. If this is the final destination of the Munson High, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Or scary the way seeing the ghost of him in his grocery store is.

Winn keeps him talking, though. “Someone nice?”

“Oh,” Steve blinks. He isn’t quite sure, which seems unfair, but he doubts Eddie thought Steve was all that nice either. “Maybe. He was nicer than me, maybe. He was good, I know that. We had a lot going on back when I knew him, but you have the same kind of smile. And manner of speaking. All that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Steve is too drunk really to read into the way Winn’s posture changes, maybe it has something to do with the fact that they’re at Winn’s apartment already. It’s not far at all. In fact, Steve could probably make it back home in fifteen minutes if he wasn’t so far gone.

His apartment is small and a bit messy, and it’s quiet and a little impersonal. Not much on the walls, no pictures of family around. And sometimes it’s like that here, he’s learned. Not everyone has a Robin. But at least Winn has a Ricardo.

The entry space isn’t too warm. It’s actually nice and cool. Cooler than the club, certainly cooler than the outside. Like, Winn must have good air conditioning. “Jesus Christ, are you rich or something?”

“I can’t believe that you of all people would ask that,” Winn says. Steve doesn’t bother asking what that means but he wonders. He looks for hints in Winn’s sunglasses or the familiar weight of his hands.

“I feel like I can breathe,” Steve takes a deep breath and spins, almost topples over, and Winn catches him by the shoulders. Firm hands. Familiar. They’re familiar. “Woah, thank you.”

“Not a problem, dude.”

There it is again. That tone of voice. Steve has got to be fucking hallucinating, honestly, all of a sudden overcome by this pulling in his chest.

“Is dude really an appropriate thing to call someone you’re trying to sleep with?” He flirts, the only cylinder in his brain that’s firing like this. Everything else is fighting drunken confusion and Eddie and trauma. And it’s not fair that this is happening now.

Winn’s sunglasses are still on. “You’d be surprised, Stevie.”

He stumbles and trips over a cable and it feels like 1986 again and 1985 and 1984, and it’s a black and slimy vine, something that will slither around his neck and ankles and choke him out. And the next few hours are a confusing haze, because he collapses in Winn’s arms. He gets taken to the couch, a fucking ugly thing, and he can’t breathe and it’s humiliating.

It’s been a while since an episode like this. The first few weeks in San Francisco were like that, peeking around every corner, distrustful of every shadow. And the feeling of being back there mainly sticks to nightmares, something he can blame on his dreams.

But he got used to it. He got used to San Francisco and normal problems like being broke and hating your parents.

Steve knows what’s real and what isn’t. He’s smart. He hasn’t gone insane. He’s not crazy, except, he definitely looks crazy to this guy. This poor guy. Not-Eddie. Eddie’s not real. Or, not anymore.

He never should have come here. He should be with Robin. She knows what’s real too. She can talk him down. She’s good at it.

He can’t see for what feels like an hour or what he knows is realistically only a couple of minutes, and then he can, because Eddie or not-Eddie rubs circles into his back and puts a glass of ice water in his hands and tells him how cold it is. He narrates the droplets of condensation that track down his skin and into his watch, which still hasn’t gone off yet.

This is the longest night of his fucking life and that’s saying something, it’s saying too much.

“You’re okay, man,” Eddie or not-Eddie says, calm like he’s used to this feeling, when nobody could be. Nobody but the group of them who fought monsters in alternate dimensions, who were nearly killed off and then paid off by government organizations. It’s why Steve and Robin came here in the first place. To get away from it. Somewhere where no one would know. So they wouldn’t have to see the effects of it every day and breathe the awful polluted air.

A chill runs up his spine. The air conditioning whirrs. A thought comes to his mind: he likes it cold.

And he thinks he’s hyperventilating again, he must be, because Winn is concerned and takes off his sunglasses and Steve gets a good look at his eyes and they’re Eddie’s. Like he took them from him. Like the world is fucking with him, like they never won at all and this is Steve’s fucking ticking clock. Like the last five years weren’t real, like nothing is real.

By some grace of God, that’s too much for his brain to handle, and he passes out right there on Eddie’s couch in Eddie’s arms in San Francisco in 1991.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson almost died.

•

It’s 1991, and Steve wakes up hungover in a room he’s never been in before. It’s dark still, and his head is pounding, and he’s sure it’s from the alcohol. But it centers around his eyes like he’d been crying, something he doesn’t let himself do all that often, and it floods back.

His eyes barely adjust and there’s an old Metallica poster on the wall and a stack of books in the corner of the room and a guitar pick necklace hanging from the corner of a mirror and nothing else.

Nothing else recognizable, at least. Nothing else personal, not that Steve can really say he knew Eddie personally. It’s nothing like Eddie’s room at home five years ago, the one he had to clean out because Wayne and Dustin were too heartbroken to do it themselves. With his guitars and posters and fliers and lyrics and chord progressions. With his drugs that they threw back into Rick’s house. That he and Nancy made sure to keep far away from the kids, because God fucking forbid they touch them.

It’s too dark to tell if this is the Upside Down or one of those clock hallucinations or if it’s just night.

There’s no reason Eddie Munson should be alive.

There’s no reason, really, that Steve should have been thinking about him for so long, anyway. For thinking of Eddie as this special thing to him, a high he’s chased for years, a person he recognizes pieces of in strangers on the street. That must be what this is. Punishing him for not letting him go. When he hardly fucking knew the guy.

But that’s not right, either.

He’s shaking, and the bed creaks with it, and the door opens slowly, and he holds his breath until Eddie walks through.

Because Eddie walks through. His hair is cropped and his neck is scarred and his face is older. There aren’t rings or patches or buttons on leather and denim. He looks different and exactly the same, and the light from the other room floods from behind him like a halo, like he’s a ghost.

Steve knows that this can’t be his imagination, though, can’t be the effect of some spell or hypnotism or post-traumatic stress, because he’d never imagine Eddie like this. Barren.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Eddie says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like this is a normal thing to do, and Steve kind of wants to kill him again.

The light flickers on, bathes the room in an ugly yellow. “What did you do?”

“What?” Eddie stops short. Water spills over the rim of a glass Steve didn’t notice he was holding. “You had a panic attack and passed out. I brought you to a bed.”

Steve shakes his head. “You died! You died five years ago! What did you do? Did you make a deal with Vecna? With the guys at the lab?”

“Jesus, no!” Eddie steps forward and Steve tenses. His eyes flash, and they’re just as big and swirling as Steve remembers, but they’re dark, and he holds his other hand out, placating. Is he a vampire? Is Vecna even dead?

“Was any of it real? Is any of it over?”

Exdie crouches, and he takes off his shirt, and Steve must still be a little drunk because he stares at his chest and the curls of hair scattered around. But behind that, more clear now than it was in the club, is scarred, discolored patches of skin, poorly stitched together, healed but slowly. Painfully. The scratches and scars run lightly up his arms and his chest, up into deep pinks and reds at the base of his neck.

“I didn’t die,” Eddie says, patient, practiced, like he’d been prepared to be found out. Which begs the question: what was the fucking point? “I nearly died. I thought I died. But I didn’t.”

Steve fumes and he tries to follow and he stares at Eddie’s skin, thinks about all the people he couldn’t protect.

“We mourned you. Dustin was,” Jesus Christ, it hurts to think about, “torn in half. You let us all think you died, but you let him think you died. We would have helped you.”

Eddie stares like he’s brokenhearted, and Steve is done talking. His throat hurts and his head hurts and he’s too fucking old for this. He dares Eddie to explain himself.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson didn’t die.

He really did think he was going to. He’d already accepted it, and if Dustin got to live, he would have done it over and over again indefinitely. He would have relived the pain forever, and he knew it even when it was excruciating and he tasted blood and venom and whatever else.

The only thing he wouldn’t relive was Dustin’s face, dirty and tear-tracked and sobbing.

Eddie faded out and faded back in. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he heard the others come back, heard them tear Dustin off of him, heard the rumbling of thunder and the splitting of earth.

One thing Eddie learned when he was young, when his dad put his mom in the hospital, was that hearing goes last. The last moments wrapped up in loud silence.

He didn’t know if he believed in heaven, but the screams and the cracking and the laughter from Vecna sounded a lot like hell, especially when it didn’t stop. When it kept going. When he thought he was dead.

But hell seemed to spit him back out.

Didn’t want him. Go figure.

He was hardly alive, though. Alive in the sense that he was sometimes conscious and his heart was chugging, pushing blood around his body.

And eventually, in Hawkins, real Hawkins, he crawled until he ended up in the Hendersons’ backyard. He’d heard a story once, right before he died, that Dustin had taken in a little monster until it could live on its own.

It was a long shot, but he was hoping the kid would be willing to do it again.

He was.

Eddie bled sludge onto the concrete of Dustin’s cellar, and Dustin stole antiseptic and gauze and painkillers from where they were keeping Max in the hospital and from the donation drives and wherever else, Eddie never knew. He soaked needles and string in hydrogen peroxide and sewed him up in the really gnarly gashes that wouldn’t scab over, placating Eddie with whatever was in his mother’s liquor cabinet.

And it was fucking hell.

He will never remember most of it.

But as soon as he could stand upright he cut his hair short and hitchhiked to Indianappolis and took a one-way bus to California and didn’t look back.

There was no way he could. Every step was a miracle. He was a man on the run.

But nobody except his uncle knew that his name was Edwin, that his mother’s maiden name was Langley. Nobody except Rick, who’d made him a fake ID before he got sent to prison so he could run off to San Francisco after he graduated, or after Wayne got sick of him, or after shit got really bad.

And well.

It killed the poor kid, he knew it, but he hoped that knowing he was alive would lessen the blow. Even if he swore him to secrecy. The kid was loyal. Could keep a secret.

Dustin is nothing if not stubborn. Packed Eddie’s bag with a note with his home phone number and a radio frequency and a threat, a promise, to tell the police exactly where he was if he didn’t confirm proof of life at least once a month.

An extremely charming scribbled note on a piece of paper he would keep in his bedside table that read: I WILL MAKE ELEVEN FIND YOU. LIVE.

So Eddie Munson – if you asked his ID, Edwin Langley – if you asked anyone else, Winn the Mechanic – didn’t die in Upside Down Hawkins, Indiana in 1986. He laid low for five years in San Francisco, a place where people run to all the fucking time and don’t ask questions, didn’t make too much money, didn’t make too many waves.

He got rid of anything that would identify him. That was the hard part. All Eddie Munson had was his identity. Was his band and his music and his club and his loud personality. And he’d never held himself back for anyone.

He figured, though, if he was going to hold himself back for something, it would be for the teenagers who fought monsters. Maybe, he thought, this way he’ll win. There’s no other way for them to win.

Eddie knew his odds. Every day was a stealth check. And for five years he rolled high enough. It helped staying mainly sober and playing the new performance of being mysterious and quiet. Like that was a new game in itself.

And then, one day, a drunk and traumatized Steve Harrington rolled high enough on investigation to crumble the whole thing down.

•

It’s 1991. And Eddie Munson didn’t die.

He was alive when Wayne and Steve organized a pathetic little funeral for him with sticks and pins and guitar picks buried into the ground on the right-side-up of where he got attacked by the bats. He was alive when Steve and Lucas spent nights in Dustin’s room, giving them a break from the hospital room and making sure they were doing okay.

For Christ sake, he held Dustin while they mourned.

Eddie was alive when Steve sort of pieced together why he was so heartbroken. When Robin asked why he kept Eddie’s jean jacket hung on the back of his desk chair, why he didn’t bury it or give it to Wayne. He was alive when Steve was confused and tired and drove out to Indianapolis and went down on some drummer with long hair and big eyes who called him baby and pretty and gave him a warning before coming down his throat.

When Robin coined the term Munson High.

And Jesus Christ, Steve is exhausted. He’s nauseous and dizzy and hungover and his mouth tastes like shit. He’s only pretty sure this whole thing isn’t an elaborate mind game.

“I don't understand, dude,” Steve says, running the palm of his hand flat down his face.

“What don’t you understand?”

Steve kind of wants to kill him again. “Why did you have to be dead? Why didn’t you tell the rest of us? Why didn’t you tell me? We were friends!” He clears his throat. “And why the fuck did you take me home tonight knowing damn well who I was?”

Eddie counts the questions off on his fingers, formulating his thoughts, and it’s infuriating to watch. Knowing that Eddie has had five years to think about this, and Steve is falling over on himself like a fucking idiot. Blindsided.

He speaks, and for some reason it sounds the exact same as it has in Steve’s memory, and it hurts. “The town wanted me dead, man. There were people coming after me with pitchforks, no questions asked, there was no saving me. Not after Jason died. Not after it broke national news. I couldn’t be missing or sent to jail or any of that shit. I had to be dead or they would kill me. And if they couldn’t kill me, they’d kill you guys for keeping me alive.”

Steve clenches his jaw and it sends the violent sting of a migraine into his eye. “We would have done it. We needed you–”

“That’s why you guys couldn’t know. You would try to fix it. If you knew I lived, you would patch me up and take me to your magical girl’s friends with the government and they would wave their wands, but I would be public enemy number one, and that was never going to change or get better,” Eddie says, a crack in his voice like he’s frustrated, like he has a right to be. “I’ve been public enemy number one since the kids in Hawkins found out who my dad was. It never fucking changes.

“I told Dustin because I knew he wouldn’t ask me to stay after I’d already made up my mind. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would. You would have asked me to stay and I would have done anything for you back then. And now, too. I just can’t say no to you, Stevie.

“But,” he finishes, “you needed to focus on the bigger picture. If you thought there was any shot I would make it, you would have taken it, and you would have gotten yourself killed.”

Steve breathes. He can’t do much to argue with that, but the parts of it that were personal, that made Steve feel like stained glass or the open mouth of a cave, like he was something Eddie could really see, those parts are hard to swallow.

“And?”

“And,” Eddie says. “I haven’t seen you in five years and I never got to kiss you back then, I never even thought of it as a possibility. And my cover was broken and I was drinking even though I don’t do that anymore, and you asked to go home with me, Steve. I already said I can’t say no to you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Eddie relaxes into a position more familiar, barely. The ghost of a posture Steve recognizes from five years ago. He wonders if he’s still the same or different in Eddie’s eyes. “And I wouldn’t have slept with you under false pretenses, I just figured you’d rather not be in a dark little gay club when you realized I was Eddie.”

He’s a little too tired for this. A little too broken. It’s a little too much.

Steve wonders if he would feel his heart stop if it did. Or if it would just feel like the same dull ache he’s been feeling for five years. More than that. Since his world turned upside down.

“You’re stuck with me, now. You got that?”

Eddie smiles, and it’s something so massive and heart stopping and sickening that Steve worries if it’s real at all. It’s just different enough. Five years older. Relieved and real.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, waterlogged and broken and also whole.

Steve would hate to break this, but he glances at the clock and feels a tension about a fifteen minute walk away. “You’re going to have to deal with Robin, though. And Dustin is going to have to deal with me”

•

In 1996 there’s a wedding in Hawkins, Indiana.

•

It’s 1991. Steve unlocks his apartment, cramped and kind of ugly, and full of life.

“Hey Rob?”

Robin calls from her little closet room. “No honey I’m home? Where has our love gone, Stevie?”

“Uh,” he shifts by the door. “I ran into someone last night.”

“I thought you went home with that Winn guy. Did he fuck your brains out? I should have told him about your history of concussions before I let you leave…” Robin trails off when she turns one of the snug corners of their apartment and makes eye contact with them.

And Steve can only imagine how they look to her, considering everything. Steve bringing home a man who looks more like Eddie Munson than is probably healthy for him. Looking exhausted, his eyes are chapped and red from last night. And Eddie looks kind of terrified, which he should. It’s a blessing that Nancy is on the other side of the country, because Eddie would be dirt in the fucking ground, probably.

“Hi,” Robin looks Eddie up and down with so much intensity that Steve can feel the heat of it. “I’m sorry. I’m Robin. I need to steal Steve away for just one minute.”

“Robin,” Steve manages. She looks away from Eddie and gives Steve a scathing Munson High stare. It quiets him.

Eddie speaks, though. That same old voice. “Robin.”

It’s pleading, almost. And it works. Steve and Robin joke about being able to read each others’ minds, but it’s like something really happens then. Exactly how he thought she’d react: confused, and then suspicious, and then almost angry.

“What is this?”

She doesn’t give either of them a chance to respond, just walks up to Eddie and pulls on the collar of his shirt. Steve looks too: the smattering of scars, years healed over but still gnarly, raised, skin crawling over itself like veins.

There’s this little quirk in the scars on Steve’s stomach, marks that never faded, speckles of black, like shards of venom from the bats stuck inside him. They play just underneath the pale scars on Eddie’s neck. And Robin’s face breaks.

“What the hell is this?

“I’m–” Steve thinks there’s going to be an apology from Eddie, half-formed, scared and desperate in a way that tears Steve’s heart in half even though it’s only just been mended. But Robin launches forward, unsteady on her feet, wraps both arms around his neck.

“You were gone,” Robin croaks into his skin. “I saw it.”

Eddie rubs her back, and Steve’s heart lurches at the memory of her and her brave face when they found Dustin hovering over his body.

“I’m sorry.”

“How are you here? Did they–” the government, the Lab, the Russians, the creatures, “did they take you away? Are you under witness protection? Who’s Winn?”

Eddie’s voice shakes while he explains it again, and Steve shakes while he hears it again, and Robin watches and listens with her usual intensity, careful and horrified and spinning cogs in her brain while she puts the pieces together. She’s always loved a mystery. A puzzle. She asks the right questions, gets the right answers.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?”

Steve watches Eddie’s face. This beautiful thing. It crumples the tiniest bit, and Steve’s always been attuned to these non-verbal signs, these warnings. So for a second, there’s a wet anguish in his eyes, and Robin’s fingers curl hard into his shirt like a threat, and Steve worries that whatever comes out of his mouth will be a lie.

It’s too much like 1986 and Eddie’s smiling at him, curly and beautiful, promising that he’s not a hero. Like it’s 1987 and Dustin is sitting at Eddie’s grave like he doesn’t know where he is. Like it’s 1988 and Steve on the phone with his parents, telling them things are fine. It’s 1989 and Steve is telling Robin that he’s fine. 1990: this town isn’t sucking the soul out of him, he can stay for the kids, he deserves one more year as a kid himself, he still has something to offer.

It’s 1991, and Steve knows how to lie, and he’s never been afraid of being lied to. He’s only ever been afraid of the truth.

–

In 1996 there’s a wedding in Hawkins, Indiana. There’s no big white spectacle event at the town’s once-gaudy now-dilapidated church, no priests or preachers. The bride never believed in all of that, and the rest of them haven’t bought into it for at least a decade.

It’s a small ceremony. Steve walks Max down the aisle. He whispers to her that Lucas started crying the moment he saw her, Max says she knew he would, and Steve laughs, delighted.

He drops her off and falls back into Lucas’ groomsmen line, punching him in the shoulder on the way, lands his hands on Dustin’s shoulders and squeezes.

He catches Robin’s eye on the other side of the aisle. She’s still wearing their wedding ring, but she’s playing with the lace on Nancy’s shoulder, and Nancy’s smiling in a way Steve’s never seen from her.

It’s been a decade free of evil in this town, and Steve doesn’t often come back, but it’s moments like this where Steve remembers that this was his home, once. There aren’t towns like this in California, smattered with woods, filled with people who have always known him, who he doesn’t have anything to lie about to.

Eddie’s there. He hasn’t been to Indiana since he crawled out ten years ago. He’s sitting, playing with hair he’s been growing back out for five years.

There’s a tattoo on his ring finger, now, black and sprawling.

Steve stares at it the entire time.

–

It’s 1991, and Steve is back in Eddie’s apartment. There’s a nice radio in the closet, and the two of them sit on the cool ground in front of it.

Steve hasn’t taken his eyes off of Eddie in hours, what’s felt like years. He edges closer, like Eddie is a stray, like he’ll scamper away. And Eddie at least seems to understand. Press back, knowing there’s fear that he won’t.

He’s warm. That’s one of the most jarring things.

He still remembers how cold he felt, years ago, bleeding through his clothes, through Steve’s hands.

And now he’s warm and alive and Steve wants to be burned by him. Seared. He wants Eddie so close he leaves a mark.

Eddie turns to look at him, raises an eyebrow, “ready?” And he waits for Steve to nod before he turns on the radio and plays with the frequency.

“Obi-Wan to Luke checking in…” His eyes flicker up to Steve’s. “Over.”

Steve smiles. Of course Dustin is Luke. He’s almost surprised he isn’t Han.

It takes a few seconds for Dustin to respond, undeniably him, attempting to hide his excitement in the way he’s never been able to pull off. “Luke to Obi-Wan, confirming check-in. Is everything alright? We just spoke last week. Over.”

“Just peachy, young Skywalker. Though I do have a visitor. Over.”

“Are you compromised?” Dustin’s voice crackles with his natural intense panic. “Over.”

“No,” Steve leans into the microphone, keeping all points of contact with Eddie like he’ll float away. “But you are. Over.”

There’s a bit of amusement that Steve can see in Eddie’s eye, a smile that he can’t look away from. It makes this whole thing feel less massive. Everything’s felt massive for almost ten years, and Eddie just dissipates the whole thing. Like magic. Eddie’s fucking Houdini.

“Shit.”

“You didn’t say over. Over,” Eddie says, voice light.

It’s ridiculous, all of a sudden. Easy. Even though everything is an awful disaster, it’s easy.

“Shit… Over.”

–

In 1996 they stay at the Motel 6 on Cornwallis after the reception. They slow dance in the little space next to the bed, entirely sober, both of them. Drunk off each other, almost.

They don’t sleep, because they fuck like rabbits, and because Hawkins is still a little too haunted to get real rest, and because the Motel 6 is still a piece of shit even after rebuilding it in the 90’s.

The sun rises and it stays there.

#steddie fic #steddie #stranger things #stranger things fic #tumblr fic

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queen-haq · 8 months

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Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 7)

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Part 7

“You’re the one who crawled into my bed.”

“And you’re the one who almost kissed me just now.”

A cocky smile covered Billy’s face. “Wishful thinking on your part, sweetheart?” Like the arrogant jackass that he was, he moved away from the bed and strolled over to the bar. Pouring himself another drink, he leaned back against the furniture to face you. “Any other fantasies you have in mind?”

“This is so fucking pathetic. You don’t even have the guts to own up to what you want. Instead you hide behind mixed signals so you don’t have to risk anything. You’re a fucking coward, Billy.”

His eyes turned cold as ice. “Watch your fucking words.”

“Or what?” You taunted. Sliding off the bed, you stormed towards him. “What are you gonna do?” You pushed him, and his drink splashed all over the place but you didn’t care. “Punch me? Smack me around?” His eyes grew volatile as you backed him against the wall, aggressively invading his space. It was a stupid thing to do, he could easily beat you to death. Yet none of that mattered, because all you wanted was validation that all of his antics – the teasing, the touching, the constant fucking stares that played havoc with your thoughts – was real and not just something you imagined. “You’re a fucking marine. You killed god knows how many people but you can’t even admit-”

In a fraction of a second your front was crushed against the wall. Billy had your arm twisted behind you, his body tense and rigid as he held your other arm trapped above.

“Just had to provoke me, didn’t you? Couldn’t just fucking leave it alone.”

His voice was ragged and harsh, growling in your ear. You struggled with him, tried to fight back, do whatever you could to get out of his grip but he had the upper hand – literally – and was too strong for you. If anything, you pushing back against him only made his hold on you even tighter. Weak and out of breath, you finally stopped struggling, feeling exhausted.

“You done yet, sweetheart? Or you want to play some more?”

That’s all it took for you to gain your second wind, his smug voice so cocky and arrogant it made your blood boil. You stomped on his feet hard, which he wasn’t expecting, and the suddenness gave you the advantage you needed. Or so you thought. Just as you began to ran he picked you up and threw you down on the bed, climbing atop you.

“Stop moving!” he barked, using the weight of his body to hold you down.

“Fuck you!”

“Is that what you want, sweetheart?” He licked your face with his tongue, biting your cheek. “You want to be fucked?”

“You wanna be killed?”

Harsh laughter escaped him. “You had your chance.” His hand captured both of your wrists in an iron grip, holding them over your head. At the same time he used his knee to pry your legs open, leaving you vulnerable and pinned underneath him.

“Get off me-”

“Isn’t this what you wanted, sugar? Someone who’ll rip your clothes off and fuck you? That show you I’m not a coward?”

“Shows me you’re a fucking rapist!” You spat out venomously.

Jaw clenched, eyes burning with vitriol, he stared down at you as you squirmed underneath him.

His grip on you was tight, his weight heavy, everything about him suffocating you. You wanted to claw his eyes out, to destroy him, but you couldn’t do anything because he held you defenseless under him. Fear flooded over you, you turned your head slightly to see what you could use as a weapon-

“Sucks, doesn’t it? Feeling helpless? Out of control? Everything spiraling around you and you unable to stop it?”

It was the shift in his voice that drew your attention. Before his words were permeated with rage, but now there was something forlorn in his voice that made your stomach twist with emotion.

“That’s how I feel. All the fucking time. Powerless.”

You met his gaze to find his dark eyes affixed on you. The same pair of hands that held you hostage now trailed down your arms, cupping your face.

“Except when I’m with you.”

The softness in his eyes was unfathomable to you. How could he be so pissed one minute and so tender the next? Maybe this was all a game to him, maybe he was playing you – so you waited with bated breath, anticipating his next move. It took you by surprise when he slid off your body. He didn’t move far, lying down next to you, both of you staring up at the ceiling.

Silence ensued, minutes ticked by. Your breath eventually returned to normal but the coiled knot in your stomach didn’t release, your heart still pounding from his proximity to you. His hand was right next to yours, close enough to touch but not quite touching you, emblematic of your relationship with Billy.

“Why is everything so fucking peaceful when you’re with me? Like I can just will the bad stuff away and breathe around you?”

You didn’t respond, still staring up at the white ceiling. Your heart drummed louder, the feeling of anxiety surging through you again. Desperate to calm yourself, you closed your eyes.

“Why are you so sweet to me?” His breath hummed against your cheek, he was unbearably close – but you refused to look at him. You couldn’t. You had no idea how to react to his words and it was the only way you could stay in control.

This was your fault. Why did you have to push him to speak? All you wanted was validation that it wasn’t all in your head, that he was giving you strange signals – but you weren’t ready for… this. Whatever this was. The feel of his stubble on your skin when he placed a kiss on your cheek, the tender way he nudged your face towards him after.

“Look at me.”

Not a demand or an order, but a plea. Your heart lurched, your body tensed. It took every bit of resolve you possessed to open your eyes, and stare into his that were deep pools of emotions ready to drown you in them forever.

“You want the truth?” The raw honesty in his voice scared you, but you couldn’t run, couldn’t move, you were spellbound. “There is something between us.”

You expected to feel relief but it was a combustible mix of elation and fear that coursed through your veins.

“Wish there wasn’t though, this complicates everything,” he continued.

Stunned, you stayed silent. Your heart was thundering in your chest. How were you supposed to respond to his words? You hadn’t thought that far ahead when you demanded the truth from him.

“What? Nothing to say?” A playful smirk curved his lips as he bent forward to kiss your shoulder. A tremor ran through your body, making you shiver. Though you tried to hide your reaction from him, the knowing smirk on his face made it obvious he was aware of your physical response to him. “Who’s the coward now?”

“Whatever.” When you tried to move away, he curved his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him.

“I don’t think so, sugar. If I have to confess, so do you.”

You glared at him defiantly. “There’s nothing to confess. I don’t feel anything for you.”

He placed a feather-light kiss in the corner of your neck, his knee nudging forward so it was pressed tightly between your legs. Through the silk fabric of your shorts it was blatantly obvious you were wet, belying your words of denial. “Nothing, huh?” His thumb brushed across your nipple, idly playing with you over your top and the nub hardened under his touch. “Liar.” He laughed against your skin, making you shudder.

His mouth, hands and knee was brushing against you in the most tantalising of ways, slowly driving you crazy. “Not gonna fuck you…”

“Sure about that?” His lips trailed up to just below your ear, his tongue swiping over that achingly sensitive spot and immediately your body arched up in response.

Taking a deep breath so you could gather some courage, you grabbed his shoulder and forced him up. Not only did the gesture put much needed distance between you, it also gave you a chance to confront him directly. “I’m not gonna fuck a guy who called me a pig.”

Confusion swirled over his face, like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“A pig in makeup is still a pig,” you mimicked his words from the night of your wedding.

Realisation finally dawned. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“That was a really shitty thing to say.”

“You think?”

Pursing his lips together, he sank his chin into your chest. Big, beautiful brown eyes regarded you intently, regret looming in them. “I didn’t mean it.”

You raised your eyebrow. “Yeah you did.”

“I was pissed.”

“So you thought it was okay to insult me?”

Exhaling a resigned sigh, he moved off of you so half his body was laying beside you, balanced on his elbow again. Still perched above, eyes locked with yours, his voice was filled with a sincerity you weren’t used to from him. “I’m sorry.”

You regarded him silently. While his apology seemed genuine, you didn’t know how to respond to it. Were you supposed to forgive him? It’s not like his words hurt, you’d heard worse over the years, but it was a fucked up thing to say and you wanted him to know it wasn’t acceptable. “You can’t throw insults like that at me again. I don’t care how pissed you are. I’m not gonna put up with that shit.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Again, his tone was laced with earnestness which you found surprising. It was so much easier to deal with him when he was being sarcastic or quippy, but this side of him left you feeling tongue-tied and nervous and you didn’t like it. “But still not gonna fuck you tonight.”

That cocky smile of his returned, making your heart beat faster. “Fine, we can just make out.”

“Whatever.” To distract from his gaze, you started playing with the buttons on his shirt.

“Guess I’m the only one putting myself out there,” he surmised, eyes twinkling with mischief.

You undid the buttons on his shirt slowly. “What do you want me to say? That I’m in love with you or something?”

“Are you?”

“Of course not! We don’t know anything about each other.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What’s going on with you and Maria? Why were you looking at her like that?” Your hand rested on his throat before languidly caressing down the length of his chest. His skin was hot to the touch, peppered softly with chest hair.

“So I’m supposed to spill all my secrets but you won’t give me anything?”

“That’s how this works. Take it or leave it.”

He leveled you with a scrutinizing stare, like he was trying to read your mind. “I don’t trust you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, musing over his words. It’s not like you could hold that against him, he was right.

“We don’t need to share our deep, dark secrets with each other. Just because I admitted there’s something here doesn’t mean I’m looking for a fucking soulmate,” he said.

The hardness in his voice was familiar, and in an odd way comforting. Because it meant you knew how to deal with it. “Neither am I.” You reached up to play with his hair, brushing your fingers through the strands, “I don’t believe in soulmates. That’s all crap.”

“I don’t either.” As your fingers wandered down his bare chest, he glanced down at them before looking back up at you. Eyebrow cocked, he gave you a slow, languid smirk. “For someone who doesn’t want to fuck me you sure like touching me, sweetheart.”

Your hand teased the clasp on his trousers. “Want me to stop?”

He leaned forward, his forehead grazing yours. “Do I get to reciprocate?” His fingers dipped underneath your shorts, your lace panties, your pussy aching to be touched –

-when the sound of your phone ringing startled the both of you.

“Who’s calling you so late?” Billy asked, pulling away to grab your phone.

The flirtatious smile on his face immediately dissipated when he saw Calvin’s name displayed on the phone.

To be continued...

#billy russo x reader #billy russo #the punisher #ben barnes #grudgingly yours

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