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formulaforza · 8 months

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💐 hi my wonderful birthday girl !! so i was thinking about a dress coded lewis blurb (because i was born a lewis and ts girl) where they just get drunk together and there’s teases flying and stuff. keep it as brief as u wish <333

—you can take it off

lewis hamilton x merc!reader summ. thank you stephy i love u bad <3 inspo from... ur never gonna believe it... this. hope it's up to your standards my love. 2.7k (kind of got out of hand)

You were half-asleep and half-drunk the night of the Belgium Grand Prix. The air was cool, recycled like all air seems to be in hotels, smelled of too-strong perfume and was filled with the dull noise of elevator jazz. What had begun as a before-we-go-to-bed night cap in the hotel bar with Bono had turned into a seemingly never ending addition of guests.

Valtteri was first to join—never could pass up the opportunity to give you shit, to offer you job postings at Alfa Romeo that weren’t job postings at all—and with him around, there’s no casual drinking. You don’t try to keep up, not really, because you know you don’t stand a chance, but also because he would never let you. After all these years of being just a few months younger than him, he still calls you kiddo, still promises to call your parents when you’re out after dark, and always sends you a text after a race with some… questionable strategy decisions you’re catching flack for online.

A brief appearance from Toto and Susie, just long enough for them to know they had no business trying to go drink for drink with Valtteri, and then they’re wishing all three of you a wonderful summer break and retreating to whatever room is considered prestige enough for Motorsport’s it-couple.

And then there was Lewis, the last to arrive, who never called you kid, who never viewed you as one. He sits adjacent you in the red, high back leather booth and takes up a seat and a half, the toe of his shoe brushing against the side of yours, flashing you apologetic puppy dog eyes every time he bumps against yours.

It’s somewhere between drink number five and six that Lewis gets his first, insists on a toast to the summer break that officially began… six hours and fifty-three minutes ago. For a long season this and a too-short summer break that, you lot had a mouthful of things to complain about, but a million more to be grateful for. “To not having work for a month,” Lewis proposes, clinking his glass against yours, offering a quick wink and holding it up properly over the table.

“To no racing-talk for a few weeks,” Bono adds, clinking his glass against Lewis’.

“To summer-fucking-break,” Valtteri chimes in, laughing at himself before the rest of you get the chance to match it.

“To summer fucking break,” you repeat because you know there’s no better way to sum it all up.

Unlike the other two, you slowed down when Lewis joined, wanted to give him time to catch up, to give yourself time to meet him somewhere in the middle. A glass of water and a virgin rum and coke and another water and the night is still young.

“First summer break as the big boss, kiddo,” Valtteri remarks, and you have to squint to hear him through the alcohol-induced thickening of his accent.

“That’s right!” Bono laughs. Your cheeks run hot at their mention of your title, of your promotion following James’ departure earlier in the season. Lewis smiles against the rim of his glass, bumps his foot against yours and doesn’t give you apologetic eyes. No, he raises his brows so slightly you think you’re the only one that notices, which is probably exactly the way he intended it to be. “Little miss queen of strategy is making the big money now, got any big travel plans?”

Lewis clears his throat, and your eyes dart over to his almost instinctively. “You’re staying in London, yeah?”

He’s right. Your summer-break plans consist of four weeks of trying to remember what it feels like to do nothing, failing at that task pathetically, and spending the rest of the time meticulously picking apart every call you’ve made all season and imagining the million and one things you could’ve done differently and their billion and two outcomes.

You pick apart the drink napkin, tear it into tiny little pieces. “Yeah, yeah. Just staying home, catching up with friends and family,” you clarify, try not to sound as pathetic as you feel. It’s hard not to when you’re sitting next to the guy who spends his offseason snowboarding in Antarctica with his celebrity friends and his weeks off traveling to Paris fashion week for front row seats next to supermodels. Anything you say would sound pathetic to someone who makes thirty-five million a year.

“I love it,” he nods, stares right through you and into your soul so you know he’s being genuine. “That’s awesome.”

You nod, swallow hard, purposely angle your body away from his, to the rest of the group. “What about you guys?”

Lewis laughs, soft, quiet, completely under his breath. The kind of laugh that deserves to be bottled into a jar and kept on a shelf for safe keeping. You know he’s always laughed like that, even before he knew you, but in the last few months it just feels different. Good different, like he’s laughing just for you now instead of everyone else too.

You know you’re crazy, that he’s just Lewis being Lewis and you’re just single for the first time in a long time and also drunk. Not half drunk anymore, just drunk—even if you do think you’re meeting him in the middle, you’re not. He’s just chasing after.

“Back home, too,” Bono concludes. “Take a breather, might head up to the country with the family.”

“You’ll take pictures, yeah?” Lewis asks, starts to pick up the pieces of your napkin tear pile and move them in front of him like a kid who isn’t patient enough to share or destructive enough to rip up his own. You watch in your peripheral, the way he fiddles with the wet paper, gets it stuck to his fingertips. You can’t laugh, so you don’t, but you want to. You think he knows you want to.

Bono scoffs, nods while swallowing a sip of his drink—something dark, something pungent. Not what you would have pegged him for ordering, even after knowing him as long as you have. “So I can compare with the likes of you lot and,” he turns to Lewis, leers around you to emphasize the eyeline, “your million dollar vacations or,” and then the other way, back to Valtteri, “your olympic cycling events?”

Valtteri smiles, swirls his drink—gin, you think. Expensive. “Yes.”

“No chance.”

“I’ll be sure to send you a picture of me having a meltdown when I think about our side pods from the beginning of the year,” you chime in, because it’s not like they all don’t know you well enough to know exactly what you mean by spending time with friends and family at home.

“What sidepods?” Lewis chuckles.

“Fucking exactly,” you add, mirror his mannerisms without even realizing it, all the way down to readjusting in your seat when you’ve had your laugh.

“Could be worse,” Bono offers. “Could be last year.”

Lewis nods, holds his drink up in the direction of Valtteri across the table. “We never should have let you leave.”

He smiles, weak, lips pursed. “I could have told you that.”

The night continues on, all drinks and laughs and yawns, occasional remarks that it’s about time I head up, followed by another round, another joke, another comment about this, that, or the other thing.

You’ve always liked Lewis when he’s a little tipsy. He lightens up a bit, you can actually watch the stress drip from him like sweat, all the titles and the wins and the losses, they all just fall away when he’s relaxed like this. You’ve always liked him like this. Always. Before he was king of the world and before he was the prodigal son and every moment in between.

After every joke he makes—or, after every comment he makes that he thinks could be considered a joke—you find yourself laughing, because it’s Lewis and you have a crush on him and of course you do. And, without fail, everytime you laugh, he winks, like you’re in on some inside joke even though he’s making it to the whole table, like there’s some double meaning to all of his words that are meant just for you, just for the two of you to understand.

Somewhere in it all, it comes back to Lewis, because, well, it always does. “Is your back still bothering you?” Bono asks, and you think you already know the answer. You think you know, because you can’t remember the last time you;d seen him take careful consideration of his posture when he sits. Not even now is he sitting up straight, with his legs perfectly spread a shoulder’s width apart and his feet flat on the floor. Instead, he’s taking up more room than he needs to, all relaxed and comfortable on the leather booth bench.

He swipes his thumb over the condensation of his glass, looking up from the action at you, and then to Bono. “No, no. All good there.”

“All good?” Bono prods, because he was on the receiving end of a year and a half of complaints from Lewis.

Lewis nods, clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “No Paracetamol in a month.”

Across the table, Valterri chimes in. “None?”

“None for my back,” Lewis says, and the whole table laughs. You just watch him, though, because who laughs better than he does? You could wax poetic about it without a second thought, the way that his lips upturn and his cheeks round and his eyes crinkle and go soft in a way that makes you feel like you’re the funniest person in the world even when you’re not making a joke. The way that his smile is brighter than anyone’s you’ve ever seen, and the way that if you look at it for too long, you think about how it would feel to run your finger along the gap in his teeth.

“That’s what I thought,” Valtteri mutters off the end of his laugh. “You're getting old.”

“Not too old to make half a million.”

The entire table’s heads fly to him. You gasp, an embarrassingly wide smile on your face. “You didn’t!” You almost yell, smacking his upper arm with a weak hand.

He mocks your gasp, makes it somehow more dramatic and over the top and laughs sweetly, shrugging your hand off his arm and letting his hand fall to your leg, bumping your foot with his again. “I didn’t.” The table chuckles, you pout, and then you realize that his hand is on your thigh, that it’s staying there quite comfortably, and that you mind it less than he does.

“Don’t be a tease,” you sigh, take a swig of your drink. Your knees are suddenly weak, like you know you wouldn’t be able to stand up if you wanted to. It’s like he can sense your change but can’t quite read it, because then he’s moving his hand back to his own lap, interlocking it with the other and resting it there.

He nods, suddenly shy, suddenly guilty. “It’s as good as done.”

Valtteri laughs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” You hear what he says, but you’re not listening, not really. Lewis stares into you like he wants to look anywhere else—apologetic eyes and a fear he’s taken a misstep. He hasn’t, you want to tell him. You haven’t, put your hand back, please. Silently, you try to convey what shouldn’t dare be spoken. “I’ll believe it when pen is on paper.”

He snaps his eyes away from you, back to Valtteri. You don’t follow suit, stay fixed on him, on trying— hard—to get your message across. “I’m telling you, they’re announcing it after the summer break.”

“Whatever you say, Mate.”

Bono nods around a mouthful of alcohol, sets his half-empty glass down with an incidental thud. “Who’s to say we still want your geriatric ass?”

Lewis raised his interlocked hands from his lap, to the tabletop, resting his elbows on the wood grain and rattling the empty glasses when he does it. He leans in towards the center of the table, even though the only person separating him and Bono is you. “Would you tell Schumacher ‘no?’”

“What was that?” You ask, your words a convenient excuse to lean in closer, to settle into a spot that much closer to him without raising any brows. To brace for the shift, you leave your hand on his thigh with less subtly than your original movement, but it’s okay. It’s okay—only Lewis knows where your hands are, and you don’t want it to be subtle, don’t want anything to be lost in translation. “I can’t hear you over your ego,” you smile, and your fingers dance up his leg just a few, careful inches.

He drops back into his seat, drops his hands back into his lap. Under the table, he grabs yours and laughs, but it’s stifled, stunted, not quite relaxed. “Very funny,” he humors, and moves your hand back. His stays too, though, and he crosses one leg over the other under the table. His thumb moves over the fabric of your slacks in shudder-worthy circles.

“Someone’s gotta check you,” you smile, nod in the direction of your tablemates without ever looking away from him. “These two won’t.”

Bono scoffs.“Are you kidding?”

Your smile grows. “How do you want me to answer that, Peter?”

“Damn,” Lewis laughs so hard he coughs. “She Peter-ed you. That’s cold.”

“You’re the one comparing yourself to Michael fucking Schumacher,” Bono scolds.

“I didn’t say that, but,”

“But!” You interject.

“But,” Lewis laughs, threatens to continue even though all at the table know he won’t, knows that no matter how often the media and the girlfriends and the friends and the family tell him he should put himself up there with the greatest, he’ll never quite see himself in the same light. “But it’s about time I head up, I think.”

“Ah, see,” Valtteri chuckles. “Old man Hamilton can’t hang.”

“No, he can not,” Lewis remarks, pulling his phone and his hotel keycard from his pocket, setting the latter on the table and if you were feeling a little crazier than you are, you’d swear he nudges it ever so slightly out of his bubble and into yours. He types away rapidly at his phone, and you try to pay attention to the jokes Bono and Valtteri throw around, the pokes at Lewis they make, but suddenly you’re feeling like it’s a good time to head up, too. You try to shake the crazy, to leave it with your backwash in the final sip of your drink, and you do. You do.

You do, but then he’s slipping his phone back into his pocket. He’s leaving his glass just beyond his keycard and telling you to feel free to finish it. He’s saying his goodbyes while he moves out of the booth and his hotel room key is still sat on the table next to you. It stares at you—the hard, thin plastic. Stares at you in its white paper pocket with the intricate printing of the hotel label and dares you to look at him when he walks away.

You do, begrudgingly, subtly, and his eyes are already on yours. They’re expressionless, and yet, say so fucking much. You hold the remainder of his drink in his direction before downing it in a single gulp and then he winks at you. He looks at his keycard on the table, and then to you, and then he winks, and you’re sure you’re absolutely crazy.

You swallow.

“Oh, fuck,” Bono says, reaches over you to grab the keycard from the table. It’s like you were zoned out and he snapped in front of your face, the way it pulls you from Lewis to the table. “He forgot his key.”

“Oh,” you squeak, and then louder, “I can take it to him.”

“No, no, It’s okay,” Bono says, and he makes you stand up to get out of the booth. “I should be heading up anyway.”

“Really,” you half-insist, trying to convince him you can handle it without letting him in on why you’re convincing him. “It’s no problem.”

Bono pulls out his wallet, flips through the pockets of it and fiddles with his bills. “Our rooms are right by each other,” he insists, tosses his share onto the table. “I got it.”

“Okay,” you nod, accept your defeat. “Yeah, I should be heading up, too, I guess.”

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morallyinept · 3 months

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 1

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 3.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: We meet Frankie and Jude. Setting up their stories. Mentions and descriptions of infidelity and drug use. Some very mild Frankie Spanish. Translations are provided.

Enjoy! 🖤

Prologue

One Month Prior...

It starts with heartbreak; the way all of our stories inevitably do.

Not fictional stories, but our own real life stories. Man, that shit’s too real, too visceral. It’s like a disease and at some point in our lives - or several points if you’re unlucky enough, you poor bastard - it will infect and spread.

He’s trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out if he really is this guy that she so often accuses him of being; distant, unloving... absent. Trying to figure out if this is all life has to offer him now. Eternal uphill battles. Flashbacks. Scars that run deep in the trenches. Nightmares that break him out into cold sweats at night.

They always say that when your work life is going well, your personal life is going to shit. And it rings true right now. Francisco’s personal life has been teetering for so long and he’s unsure if he has the will to hang on to it any longer; out of harmony and sync, travelling a journey all of its own.

His thoughts race like a never-ending storm; each one a torrential downpour of anxiety and just getting through each moment. One foot in front of the other, Frank. That’s what his sponsor says. But it’s akin to walking through drying concrete most of the time.

He stands in the doorway of their Floridian home, a small two-bit apartment not far from the beach, with peeling paint and scuffed tiles, that’s more cramped and suffocating as the days go on.

An apartment which he seems to be spending less and less time in, and realises something; something that strikes him hard across the greying fuzzy jaw with such a brute force sucker punch, it would knock that Standard Heating Oil cap right off of his crown of chocolate curls.

He simply can’t do this anymore. Something has to change.

And it’s somewhat of a relief to acknowledge finally, but the hard part isn’t over yet. Nor has it even begun. It’s there right in this moment on pause waiting for him to unravel it all; to take that tentative step off the proverbial ledge to change the stagnant quicksand of the status quo that he’s been stuck knee-deep in for an indeterminable amount of time.

He knows he’s let her down so many times. Fallen off the wagon when he promised over and over that he wouldn’t this time. That it would be different this time. That he doesn't need the coke anymore.

That he can get through it, if she just gives him one more chance.

Francisco can hear her in the house somewhere; the sound of her yammering on the phone to a girlfriend and dissing him aplenty no doubt, and despite knowing he probably deserves it, it grates on his skin as it resonates with a sickly jab in the stomach. He has to put a stop to it now because it shouldn’t feel like this.

A relationship shouldn’t be hard fucking work, right?

He hasn’t got the strength anymore, or the will to fight. He has to pick his battles wisely these days. Remove anything that adds to his stressors, his triggers to reach for the baggies of white powder.

Step four, take personal inventory.

He doesn’t want to seethe or roar or resort to petty name calling or one-upmanship. He doesn’t want to get so angry that he’ll have to take his rage out on inanimate objects which she feels the need to decorate their home in dramatically. The mantra of less is more clearly doesn’t exist in her world as he looks about the place with rooting disdain.

She’s everywhere, like a damned parasite.

Francisco tosses his keys loudly on the scuffed counter top and the murmuring upstairs ceases immediately. She knows he’s home. He braces himself, inserting a pod and flipping down the lid on the coffee maker; a cool spoon twiddling around his thick, dexterous fingers.

The shake is still prevalent in them and he breathes out slowly with his sponsor Eddie's voice inside of his head, find the root of your calm, Frank... but they still hold that subtle tremor.

He’s absentmindedly checking his phone for non-existent messages from Benny over and over. He messaged him two days ago and still no response.

Growling, he tosses his phone on the counter and sniffs deeply as the creaking above him moves across the ceiling over his head. Delaying the inevitable and basking in those few calm moments before the storm of insults and verbal bitch slaps ensue.

It’s been so long since they merely talked like adults and didn’t yell at one another.

His long term partner Carla soon makes herself known to him; an anxious opus follows her with the steady pitter-patter of her shoeless feet on the stairs and the tinny jangle of the stack of silver bracelets around her wrist as she begins the search party for him.

He makes it easy for her - no point in hiding or delaying the inevitable any further, is there?

“Estoy en la cocina,” (I'm in the kitchen) Francisco calls out in a gruff, Spanish tone. He doesn’t mean to be snappy, especially when she hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s his entire fault and she likes to remind him of that whenever she can.

“Qué pasa?” (What's up?) Carla greets, pausing in the doorway and regarding him like he’s a foreign invader in their home.

“Hey.” He replies flatly through tight pink lips.

The awkward lingering carries on for far longer than he would like. He tries to remember what it was like when they first met; what she was like. What the sunrise of her smile looks like because it’s been so fucking long since he’s basked and been burned by it.

Clinging onto any glimmer of affection that he felt back then for her to convince him to stay and work this out and put in some more effort, but it’s evident this can’t be saved anymore. Everything about her irritates him now; including everything he must have loved about her at one point.

“How was work? Missed you,” she looks at something just past his head; she never looks him in the eye when she tells him something heartfelt anymore. The same as she can never look him in the face when she lies to it either.

It’s hard to tell them apart now; they both contain the same emptiness about them.

“Was fine. Busy.” Francisco simply nods once and the tension inside his gut unkinks itself, if but for a fleeting moment.

He turns to the coffee machine feeling sick, and watches as it pours out the brown, richly inviting aroma into the chipped mug which he probably won’t drink anyway. It’s all for show, just like everything else these days.

Strip it away though and what have you got? Absolutely fuck all...

“I need to tell you some-” Carla begins.

“I think we’re done.” He cuts across her; a quick knife to the gut before he’ll pull it out and wipe it free of her blood.

He stares across at the counter top with his back still to her; a cowardly response to not look her in the eye as he says it, he knows this. But it’s all he can offer her right now.

She doesn’t respond straight away and he despises her for it.

“I’ll go pack a case.” She breathes out eventually. Her voice is deflated, like a saggy balloon that’s being trampled on by drunken party goers at the end of a night of jubilant celebration.

Francisco hurls the spoon in his hand across the counter top, and she flinches at the clamour, stopping to look at him momentarily like he’s lost his damn mind. And perhaps he has; it’s so full of loud fuzz these days.

“That’s it?” He questions with a thin line for his usually plump mouth and glowering brown eyes the colour of mud pools.

“So you want me to fight for you now?” Carla asks languidly with no emotion in her face whatsoever.

It’s possible that she’s aged with the anxiety of it all. It’s like looking at a stranger’s face each time he sees her until one day she’ll be completely unfamiliar to him; a ghost just haunting the veins of his body and shitty apartment alike, merely somebody that he used to know and occasionally fuck.

He doesn’t say anything whilst grinding down on his teeth.

“I’ve been fighting for you - for us - for a long time, Frankie. Fat lot of good it’s been doing.” She remarks.

“Have you? It’s been sounding very much like constant whining, hermosa.”

“¡No seas un idiota ciego!” (Don't be a blind idiot!) She snaps.

“Fuck you!” Frankie seethes, stepping forward. “You’ve done nothing but blame me for…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m tired of you secretly resenting me behind my back. At least do it to my fuckin' face for once.”

That was the crux of it, he was certain. Addiction is a costly price for everyone around you to pay. It’s been evident for a long time that Carla’s pockets have been running empty.

“I’ve always supported you.” She corrects, rolling her eyes. “But you’re too busy playing the martyr; you think you can do this on your own. How’s that working out for you?”

“You knew things were going to change when I started recovery-”

“But I didn’t think you would change with it!” Carla cuts back at him. “I don’t even know who the fuck you are anymore, do you?”

Frankie runs his tongue around his teeth and sighs. This isn’t what he came for.

“You’re never here! Even when you’re not working all the hours. I’m sick of being in this place alone whilst you go off and act like I don’t exist, leaving me to pick up the pieces. Waiting for you to call, to even bother to think to message me first. To see how I am or how I’m doing. It’s like I’m in the way; an inconvenience to you now.”

Frankie folds his tanned arms defiantly.

“I’m not the one who changed, Frankie. You did.” Carla concludes.

She was right, he did change - he was engulfed, swallowed up and had just been keeping his head above water for a long time. Most days he didn’t have time for a decent shit, let alone focus on the things that really mattered to him the most.

They all got swept along with him, tossed simply in his back jeans pocket to sort out or call later and he wasn’t sure when or how he had let go of that control of being able to balance everything equally. Wasn’t sure how long he’d not noticed that it had all slipped away out of his big hands into a messy scatter at his feet.

“I know things haven’t been good between us for a while.” Frankie confirms looking up at her from under the visor of his cap.

“So what did you do to fix it, hmm?” She shakes her head defeated.

She isn’t even upset anymore. That time had long since been and gone when she’d spent many a lonely night crying into the pillows in their bed whilst he was AWOL doing God knows what with God knows who. All the worst case scenarios kept her company each night in place of his strong, reassuring arms.

“You did what you always do; nothing. You just bury your head in the sand and run hoping it will all go away. And when it doesn’t, you cave. You turn to the coke. Drugs are more important than I am, more important than anyone you say you care about.”

She’s bombarding him with emotional kryptonite. A hundred million little truths all with sharpened points, and he has no excuse for any of them to offer her, not really, as they pierce one by one and he bleeds out in front of her. Suffocating. Dying.

“You wonder why Benny doesn’t call anymore? Why hasn't Will come by? Hell, Santi can’t even bear to be on the same continent as you! And you can’t see it. Poor Frankie, woe is me. You’ve done this to yourself. And I’m done trying to carry you.”

He had pulled away, he had put his addiction first, above everything and everyone. Suddenly being sober for six months feels pointless, a useless feat that means nothing. He’d done it all, pushed them all away without even realising it. And she knew.

He was pretty sure she knew about the one time he had been unfaithful in the early days of his drowning too, but she was a trooper not to throw that up in his face now, although it was more than he deserved.

“I’ll pick the rest of my stuff up later this week.” It was evident Carla was just done too. There was nothing left to fight for anymore between them.

He scratched his elbow listlessly. “I won’t be here. I’ll be heading back up to New York in the morning; work’s got me on a service repair.” He reminded her.

“I know. But then, why break the habit of a lifetime?”

Carla’s absence in the house around twenty minutes later left a harshly confronting moment of how life had just given him an epic kick in the balls.

But it was short lived when his phone rang; it was Eddie, his sponsor.

Instead of answering it, Frankie simply watched it ring off, rapidly despising everything he was and had amalgamated to thus far in his bleak, shitty life.

At the same moment where Francisco Morales is standing like a lost boy inside his tiny, gloomy kitchen and trying to talk himself down from getting a much coveted fix, further north, approximately one thousand, one hundred and fifty-four miles away in New York City, Jude has just walked into utter carnage.

It's been a trying time getting back home; her flight was delayed resulting from a crick in the neck from dozing on the hard terminal seats overnight, and the handle on her trusty camera equipment bag had finally snapped resulting in a broken lens.

But they always say bad luck comes in threes...

It’s cruel; the blood pounding in her ears is resolute, the shaking of her hands as she tries in vain to steady them through the shock, anger and sheer indignation of it all, becomes more apparent as the seconds wear on.

There are clothes on the floor that aren’t hers, and the sinking feeling rises to the back of her throat as the squeaks from the mattress springs echo out of the bedroom and into her ear canal.

It’s a ghastly symphony of putrid sex, make no mistake, as she pushes the bedroom door open and is met with the horrific sight of her fiancé Nate, balls deep in some other woman she’s never seen before.

It’s as if the ground has opened up, revealing a threatening, desolate chasm where once stood the solid ground of her convictions, but now she’s tumbling head first into the dark unknown pit.

The echoes of his infidelity reverberate through her; a haunting melody of pain and disillusionment that threaten to drown her in a rabid onslaught of tears. Jude has no words, instead a noise similar to a toad escapes her mouth and it’s that little croak that interrupts them both from their feral fuck.

The woman squeals and tries to hide herself when she spots Jude frozen in dumbfoundment, but Jude’s already seen way too much - seen enough.

Nate finishing over her face wouldn’t improve her looks - that’s the one comforting thought cutting through the brewing red mist that she’ll remember later - but it’s a miniscule comfort that the woman he’s cheating on her with isn’t that attractive.

But then, there must be something about her that he likes or desires if he’s got her spread eagle in their bed, right? Something he must like more than Jude now, and it cuts too fucking deep.

He’s never tried that position with me before... It’s odd what your brain tells you in the moments of sheer panic and devastation.

Jude backs out of the room, stumbling as her foot gets tangled in the woman’s wayward bra, and even that’s more pretty than anything she owns, as Nate tries to clumsily protest - to say that he's sorry.

How can you be sorry for fucking someone else whilst you tell another person to their face that you love them? That’s the epitome of stupid, surely.

But Jude has to get out, get away. She’s going to vomit, she’s so mad and hurt and angry that her skeleton is trying to rid itself of the binding skin that keeps it in place. But she swallows it down despite her heart thudding and her stomach lurching, ready to spew like Mount Etna.

She’s not sure how she doesn’t fall down the stairs as she jostles down them quickly.

Nate’s shouting after her; his hand cupping his traitorous, sticky dick as he follows her out the front door as she gets back into her car with no idea where she’s going to go. Autopilot is running the show and she’s just a passenger along for the confused ride.

He bangs on the window and muffled words of ‘babe’ and ‘sorry’ filter through the white noise of her ears ringing.

Jude reverses out the driveway fast; tires screeching, and knocks over the neighbour’s mailbox - they’ll understand.

She zooms away choking on hot tears that she refuses to let the cheating bastard have.

Once at a safe distance, she pulls over and sobs into the steering wheel unable to see past the hot salt of her tears as they blind her vision. It’s the embodiment of ugly crying at its finest; snot laden and howling at the moon over the son-of-a-bitch who has well and truly stomped on her heart that never fucking learns.

She shakes her head at her own imbued ignorance, realising that it’s never bliss.

So many whys float around the air above her head and she has no answer to appease them as they grow in size and weight, crushing her skull into a mushy pulp. All she has is that vile image on repeat as she pushes open the bedroom door to be met with her worst nightmare.

And she lives in that moment over and over again, and has done on constant repeat since it happened, only mere minutes ago.

It’s man’s prerogative to be a massive dickhead, and Nate’s clearly the biggest one she knows right now.

The usual, steady rhythm of her heart is beating a little faster, ever since Nate had let the meaningless words spill out from his lips and dumped them into her lap, and now she’s floundering with what to do with them. A bit like having someone's baby passed to you despite your reluctance, and it won't stop screaming in your face.

Babe, I’m sorry!

Nate’s a piece of shit, but utterly gorgeous nonetheless. And that’s why she lets him chip away more pieces of her backbone. Why else would she tolerate this? He’s a flirt, she knew it the moment she'd entered into a relationship with him, but a harmless flirt can be different to someone who takes it up a notch.

Nate had simply ramped up his flirting to bedding plenty of women before, during and certainly after their relationship; she was certain there were more than he would ever let on - more than Jude probably ever caught him with. And she was an idiot to think he would ever change. They never change.

I’m sorry babe, I couldn’t help it; her vagina was whispering to me. Yeah, of course it was, you fucking jerk.

Jude was also certain she’d leave him the first time he cheated on her, but we’re all full of good intentions, right? There’s this saying, better the Devil you know then the Devil you don’t...

But if that Devil is killing you, then what?

It sucks to be alone; to be single in a world where you’re not meant to be a single. Humans are wired for love after all. But better to be alone and crying into your third glass of cheap grocery store wine whilst watching Bridget Jones on repeat than be cheated on by this no good, handsome piece of shit anymore.

Why did I let myself get into this situation? Why didn’t I leave the first time? Why do I fucking love him so much? More killer whys take aim before they’re shot at her head.

This is it. No more. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

But then images of Nate's face cut in through the swamping doubt about facing the world alone. Flooding with those bottle green eyes of his that would regard her when she said something funny and made everyone around her laugh; those lips that would perk up into a chirpy chuckle as he roared alongside them all at her sardonic quips and punch lines.

His smile was a disease; one glimpse at it and you would be infected too. That was it, it’s that fucking smile; women can’t help themselves by tripping over it and falling face first into his cock.

The way in which he would pull covert, weird and creepy faces at her whilst she’s trying to watch a movie together surges her mind; the thought of seeing him naked... Fuck!

Jude looks down at her hand through the streaming tears and catches the sparkle of the small, moderately sized rock on her engagement finger.

In absolute disgust, she tears it from her digit, exits the car and throws it with all of her might as far as she can.

The last she saw it, it was flying through the air, much like her heart and its tangle of ventricles, into the dank roadside shrubs, never to be seen again.

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PROLOGUE | NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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victimeyez · 8 months

Text

Professional//Victim

Darwin

CW: captive whump, drugged whump, graphic depictions of torture, intimate whump

Taglist: @lonesome--hunter

The nausea starts when they roll off the highway. An unfamiliar town lies here, sporting lots of fancy diners and shops for wasps.

“It’s coming up. Get ‘im lively.”

Tommy had been awake for a while now, but a bump of coke made him “more lively” for clients. The bitter taste didn’t help his stomach when he rubbed it into his gums. Sure, it was more direct up the sniffer, but one time he sneezed blood into the passenger window, so they switched strictly to the oral route. He didn’t like the taste or the buzz, but it helped with the pain a little. Not that it mattered.

His stomach drops to his knees when they turn off onto a long side street and begin passing houses. Only a few down and they turn onto a long, neat driveway that slithered into the woods. Finally, a house emerged from the foliage.

(Brown, drab. Not a mansion, but expensive. Groomed lawn. Driveway, maybe a quarter mile. Isolated. Definitely not a client we’ve seen before. New clients are always crapshoots.)

Caius dragged Tommy up the path to the door. He hesitated before ringing the doorbell, making Tommy face him while he fixed his curls and looked him over. He pinched his cheeks and his lips to give him a flushed look, pinching some of his eyelashes between his fingers and tugging them painfully. He repeated it on the other side, making Tommy’s eyes water so they were tearful and moony. He then pressed the gold-framed button next to the door. A twinkling classical piece played inside in lieu of a standard bell.

A middle-aged man answered too quickly, surprisingly well dressed in a tortoiseshell suit and matching glasses. He looked like a professor. He smiled kindly at the two of them.

“Please, come in.”

Caius put a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder and pushed him through the doorframe into the house, while the client politely held the door for the pair. He closed it behind them and activated an electronic lock, hidden from the outside. A heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud chink. It resonated with an ominous finality that made Tommy’s stomach clench.

“I am Darwin. I take it this is Tommy?” He gestured to Tommy.

“I’m Caius, and this is Tommy.”

Darwin nodded, and then hesitated as he began to turn.

“Forgive me if I’m new to the etiquette of these…arrangements. Could I offer you a water, or maybe some wine?”

“Don’t worry about formalities, you’ve paid for us to be here. Let’s not waste your time.”

Darwin's eyebrows raised just a touch, but he seemed relieved to dispense with niceties. He began up a flight of stairs, which Caius ensured Tommy followed close behind. His heart was starting to pound and his feet felt heavy. Upstairs rooms were less common than basements. They somehow felt so much more intimate. Tommy had long since learned you can’t tell what a client wants based on appearance. He wasn’t sure what he feared more - a dungeon, or a bedroom.

He could feel himself starting to shut down already, and he embraced the dissociation.

(Left, right, left, right, keep walking, just follow. Don’t feel anything, just exist. There’s nothing you can do now. Just breathe. Disconnect from the feeling of desperation. We don’t have to remember this part.)

He walked robotically behind Darwin until he was led into a room that looked like an enormous study, with a fireplace at one side and rows of nice bookshelves and displays lined the walls. The display closest to him looked something like fireplace tools, but not like ones he had seen before. The floors were of a rich hardwood.

“Remove your shoes, Tommy.”

He hated it when they used his name. As if they knew him. As if they were friends. All it took was a warning look from Caius and he peeled off his tennis shoes, setting them awkwardly to the side. (Avoid eye contact. Makes it easier.)

“Are you wearing underwear?”

Tommy didn’t like where this was headed. He despised the romantic ones.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Strip down to them.”

Tommy mechanically removed his shirt, and then more hesitantly, his sweats. He was down to plain black boxers, a stark contrast to well-dressed Darwin. He handed them off to Caius while his eyes scoured the room.

The center of the room was filled with precariously placed items that looked very old and worn. There was a big lumpy looking chair made of wood, a kind of bench-like table with three rolling pins attached in the middle, and a big sort of horse-shaped wooden structure. It looked badly built, and had a big triangle for the saddle.

(Don’t panic. Don’t run. You don’t have to know what’s happening. Don’t think about it. Don't think at all. Turn your brain off. It makes it easier.)

“I curate for the museum here, and over the years I’ve become a bit of a collector of sorts myself. When the museum here wasn’t interested in these pieces, I knew I just had to buy them up. Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten the chance to play with them, and they’ve gone without use. Then I found a video of Tommy here online, and I thought I found the perfect person to try them out.”

Thomas felt like his body was moving without his will as he was led to the chair, which upon closer look, was more than uncomfortable. It had no open slats but was made of uncut pieces of wood with a high back, wide arm rests, a flat seat, and another solid plate between the front legs, almost to the floor. Every inch of it was covered in neat rows of small, wooden spikes.

“Which video?” Caius asked conversationally.

(Market research.)

“It was some kind of flogging scene, with Mistress Alice. A few months ago now.”

Tommy’s head swam before he realized he was holding his breath. He felt a little shaken by the mention of Alice, and struggled to stay adrift from his feelings.

“It looks like he’s healed up marvelously though,” Darwin appreciated, looking him over hungrily.

“He cleans up well, and we have excellent doctors on hand. We cannot allow certain things that will damage him beyond repair, so I will be staying with you for our time. Most nerves can be fixed, but no severing of central tendons or arteries, and go easy on the spine to keep basic motor controls intact.”

Darwin nodded. “They shouldn’t puncture too deeply. Everything is antique, but sanitized.”

Without ceremony, Tommy was shoved back into the chair.

He took a sharp breath in when all the points sank in at once, biting into the sensitive flesh of his ass and thighs. The shock of It was like being submerged in icy water. He instinctively leaned forwards away from the back of the chair, but he could feel beads of blood forming where he had knocked into them initially.

Hands appeared from nowhere, wrapping a leather strap across his throat and pulling him flat against the back of the chair. The shock of the pain winded him, and he gasped for breath as Darwin fastened his restraints. His ankles were locked with leather and pulled taut hard to force his legs into the spikes, and his arms were pulled hard down on the spiked armrests. Thick leather cuffs bound his wrists in place, and slight sides built into the back ensured his outer arms were also penetrated.

The best he could do was try to arch his back away from the back of the chair, but with his neck fastened it only seemed to drive the ones in his shoulders deeper. The awkward position made his back start to cramp immediately, and he doubted he could hold it for long. The urge to fight the restraints was overruled by the pain that the slightest movement caused, and he found himself paralyzed by it. Even breathing agitated the punctures, and on instinct he started to breathe shallowly to avoid it. A muted thought came to him, of the sharp wooden skewers used for shish kabobs, and he suddenly related to being a piece of skewered meat.

He vaguely registered that Darwin had stood back and was watching him, a great grin on his face.

“This piece is called the ‘Armchair of Inquiries’ - a bit of a cheeky name, in my opinion. This one was actively used a bit longer than most, with the last recorded use being May 8th, 1868. I’ve had it thoroughly cleaned and disinfected just for you.”

Tommy tried to pull his head away from the pins, only resulting in choking himself against the leather collar.

Darwin smiled. “I had that strap attached as an extra, from a heretic’s fork. I think it makes a good addition, even if it wasn’t the original.”

There was something deeply sickening about the pride in Darwin’s voice, while he gladly explained history that hardly mattered to the butterfly he had pinned.

The initial shock was starting to wear off, but the pain was blooming. He doubted there was enough coke in the world to shield him from this. His shallow panting took on a whine to it on every exhale as the pain began to steep.

Darwin had walked away, and returned with quick steps holding some sort of miniature harness. It consisted of metal bands arched and connected, with an adjustable leather strap. Tommy couldn’t identify it, but the glee with which Darwin presented it made him think he would find out the hard way very soon.

With a surprisingly gentle hand, Darwin guided his head forward as far as it could go against his neck restraint, and slipped the harness over his head.

“This one has many names, and many forms. It was the first piece in my collection. There are other ones that are shaped like pigs, or fools with long noses, or even a cone coming out from the mouthpiece. Just to name a few.”

At being masked, Tommy started to panic and struggle, shoving hard against his restraints only to have the spikes impale him again and again, agitating the wounds with every movement.

“Wait, wait, wait, fuck, fuck, wait you don’t have to do this-”

Tommy finally begged, which Darwin only acknowledged with a soft smile as he worked the cage mask on. There was a metal band that ran down the back of his head, parting his hair, but pushing him off of impalement on the spikes there as the metal band rested atop the points.

The other band came down the middle of his face, forking into a triangle around his nose. Right below, it connected to a thicker metal band across his mouth, and a sharp obtrusion from it pressed hard against his lips. He clenched his teeth against it to try to keep it out, abruptly ending his ability to beg with words. His pleas reduced to panicked keens of fear and pain.

“It’s called a bridle mask, a scold’s bridle, a mask of shame…” Darwin rattled off idly. He tapped a finger against the metal bit against Tommy’s lips.

“If you can’t feel it yet, there’s another spike in here. I’m about to fasten this tight across your jaw, and if you don’t let it in, it’s going to puncture through your lips and cause you quite a bit more…discomfort. Open up for me, Tommy.”

Darwin’s hands cradled his face with a disturbing intimacy, stroking over his cheeks. His fingers found the hollows of his cheeks and pushed into them sharply, forcing his jaw open. A long metal spike followed by a thick metal bit pushed in, and he had to curl his tongue to keep it from skewering straight through. The metal bit held his jaw slightly open, but if he tried to speak, he would pierce his tongue.

The strap at his jaw was pulled sharply taut and secured. Darwin’s hands returned to his cheeks, stroking his face gently between the gaps of the mask.

(Don’t spiral. Just another - just ignore it - the pain is - how much -)

His best guards against the pain were failing, easily overwhelmed by this unfamiliar torture. A new hysteria was building deep inside of him, and he was starting to grow light-headed from his shallow panting around the gag.

Darwin’s lips were parted and he was panting a little too, his face so close, hungry eyes roving over Tommy’s own caged face. His thumbs tenderly stroked comforting circles over the apples of his cheeks, and Tommy felt a wetness there. (When did we start crying?) His eyes felt so heavy as they spilled over without relief.

Darwin closed the gap between them suddenly, pressing his lips intensely against the outside of the gag. Tommy tried to turn away from him, but Darwin’s gentle hands became restraints holding his head in place. He slowly kissed and tongued and licked the dark metal there, and Tommy couldn’t help the harsh whimpers escaping his opened mouth.

Darwin finally pulled away, his lips wet. A strong urge to wretch boiled in Tommy’s gut.

“You look so beautiful.”

His stomach lurched.

“I have one more piece for you,” Darwin murmured, mostly to himself.

Tears ran down the sides of his face, wetting the metal harness as it started to warm against his skin.

“But before that…can I take a picture?”

Tommy was confused for a moment until his brain finally caught up to the fact that Caius was still there, sitting off to the side and witnessing his agony with a look of profound boredom.

“Sure. I have a camera in my bag if you’d like me to take some nice ones for you. It doesn’t cost extra if you let us also use them for promotional materials.”

Darwin licked his lips. “Of course.”

Tommy let out a miserable moan of protest, with heavy tears of humiliation and pain dripping down his face and cooling uncomfortably at his neck.

Caius kept a calm demeanor of cool indifference while he circled Tommy, collecting photos with his camera. Tommy was only addressed with a sharp snapping of fingers, directing him to look one way or another. He could see a dark reflection of his face in the wide lens of the camera, and he closed his eyes with a sob.

Darwin emerged to be front and center again, holding one of the metal tools that Tommy had noticed when he entered. It was a crude, thin piece of metal, with two fork-like tines on each end. He held it up so Tommy could see it, and then playfully tapped one side of tines against his cheek.

“The heretic’s fork. It fits right in here,” Darwin offered, and slipped it into a leather buckle of the collar around his throat. Tommy tipped his head back to try to avoid it, but yelped when he felt one pronged end pushed shallowly into his neck behind his collar bones. This firmly locked the fork vertically against his throat, the tines on the opposite side baring threateningly against the soft flesh under his jaw.

“If you can keep your head up, this won’t hurt.”

With this last attachment, Tommy suddenly felt entirely overwhelmed with helplessness. He couldn't move an inch, couldn’t even breathe without disturbing the bed of thorns beneath him. His tongue was cramped in the back of his throat, and he was starting to drool around the gag. Lowering his head at all would impale him on the tines of the fork, driving it both into his jaw and into his sternum. He couldn’t think of a time he was held in such strict binding, and his brain was starting to short circuit with the horror of his situation.

Darwin seized this opportunity to lean in and press another kiss over his gag. Tommy whined impotently, hyper-aware of his inability to pull away.

Darwin stood back and took a long, shuddery breath of excitement. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“P-pictures, please,” he called breathily. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas could see Caius toss his cellphone aside and get back up to take pictures.

Tommy stared at the ceiling, blinking tears of terror. He always hated the feeling of something stuck inside of him, the gnawing urge to pull it out only growing with the many barbs penetrating his skin. He thought his regular collar was bad enough. He could no longer see anything around him, and he had no idea where Darwin or Caius were in proximity to him. The anxiety made him tense, agitating his wounds.

“This doesn’t quite fit in with the others, but, well…we only have so much time. I think this will speed things up.”

He sounded close. There was a popping, crackling sound Tommy couldn’t quite place.

(How much time do we have? How long has it been? It felt like an hour, at least. Maybe. It always feels slower than it is.)

Something touched him, two dull points maybe an inch or two apart. Pressed to his diaphragm. He braced himself for it to puncture him, but for a long minute it just rested there. Darwin was breathing heavier. (Psyching himself-)

His body was on fire.

It almost felt like relaxing. He lost all control while a painful, hot tingling went through his body. He spasmed, shuddering violently until it stopped as suddenly as it had started.

He sagged back into his bindings, but the damage had been done. There were a thousand points on his body that throbbed in urgent pain. It was a full-body pain like he had never experienced before. It was terrifying not being able to look down at his body to see how bad it was - he felt like his skin must be shredded, vivid imaginings of his flayed corpse pinned to this throne.

A touch against his diaphragm, heavy breathing in front of him. Excited sounds from Darwin. He was lit up once more, for a longer time. He could feel himself tearing around the spikes. This time he was vaguely aware of the sound it pulled from his, a deep, guttural cry as the breath was knocked from his body. It was a unique sound he didn’t recognize as his own voice, but a deep wail of anguish. It felt entirely disconnected, like the sound was coming from the prod pushed to his stomach, not his body.

When it ended, his vision was swimming. Everything was black, gray, yellow, dancing shadows. He blinked a few times as he slowly started to come back to his senses.

This time, he noticed the foam in his throat. He coughed, and blood burned on his lips, long dried from the gag. He finally registered the taste of blood on his tongue, the pain in his mouth. His tongue had been speared on the spike inside of the gag. His brain couldn’t process where or how his tongue was pierced, but he drooled blood out the corner of his lips and struggled to swallow the rest pooling in his throat. He couldn’t identify an exact moment when, but the fork under his chin had been driven into his jaw, and judging by the burning pain in his chest, it was up to the hilt on bottom as well.

Darwin let him stew with the tip of his device pressed to his stomach again. Tommy sucked in a breath, his only chance at pulling away from it, but his movement was easily followed.

He writhed in his restraints as he was electrocuted again, spasming uncontrollably even as it tore him open. Everything was pain, every breath, his nose burned, his eyes rolled back into his head. It let up again and he shuddered to stillness. He could still feel the tingle, and he continued to twitch in spite of his best attempts. He dry wretched, blood in his throat, in his stomach, making him sick. The still room reeled around him.

“Next time…you can call me Arthur.”

It felt a bit like sweating, an intense sweating across the entire side of his body. As the blood trickled out underneath him, he was starting to feel very cold. The shocks left him feverish, and he felt quite sick, like when he had the flu and felt hot and cold at the same time. He hoarsely barked out sobs that wracked his body. Every surface he touched pooled blood, making his seat feel wet and tarry underneath him. He was limp in his restraints, his heavy head supported solely by the prongs driven into him.

He numbly felt a prodding against his naked torso, and unconsciousness took its mercy on him.

pictures of tools used: x

series masterlist: x

prev: x next x

#captive whumpee #intimate whumper #sadistic whumper #medieval torture #professional victim

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bubuslutty · 1 year

Text

Day 4: baked salmon

this is part 4, all parts

pairing: demon/angel!fem reader x 141

word count: 2.3k

tags: no use of y/n, 3rd person pov, proofread by me so sorry for any mistakes

warnings: none

summary: Angel accidently falls asleep under the sun and gets saved by a knight in shining armor, or an angel, it's the same thing in her head, both glowing and glorious. + imagine getting cockblocked by potatoes 🧍‍♀️

a/n: I know the chapters are called day 2, day 3, ect but it doesn't necessarily mean they happen one right after the other, it's just days of her interacting with the boys.

Two days in the office as a sex therapist wasn't too bad. Angel actually likes working with clients because she gets to see humans and how they react to their environment and relationships, with others and themselves. Of course, she had to do a bit of homework and study to be qualified, but it’s nothing a couple of days of intense learning and superhuman intelligence couldn’t fix. All she had was to tap into her powers and suddenly, she knew everything she had to know.

How convenient it was to be an angel, or a demon in her case.

Angel’s usual wish assignments are more often than not related to earthly desires such as money, fame and lust, maybe love too, but she always had to realise wishes that were considered a sin in many religions. Greed, gluttony, lust. She has worked with all of them. And whether those wishes were good or evil, it doesn’t matter to her, because fate takes care of that, her job is to realise the wish and nothing else.

By human standards, she would definitely be considered a demon, a succubus even, especially now.

“I should get a tattoo…” Angel mumbled, lounging on her messy bed, laptop on her stomach, looking at images of succubus womb tattoos. Kuromi meowed, removing the woman’s attention from her laptop’s screen.

“Hm?” Angel hummed, looking at her cat, standing by her bedroom door. Kuromi meowed again, making Angel gasp, “Yes! You’re so right!”

The woman immediately closed her laptop and ran to her phone, checking the weather. It looked like today was going to be hot and nice, even though it was cold as shit the day before.

That’s typical British weather for you.

“You’re so smart, Kuromi.” Angel said and sent a flying kiss to the cat, who lifted her tail and walked out, completely unbothered. Angel opened one of her drawers that had multiple bikinis and swimsuits. She started getting naked on the spot, excited to change and go downstairs to sunbathe in her garden. When she changed into one of her bikini sets, she dug for one of her hats and got a random green bucket hat for the sun, shades and a bottle of suncream.

If there’s one thing she’ll never forget while being in this realm, is that the sun is unforgiving and harsh, unless you want to look like a baked salmon or get skin cancer, you have to protect yourself.

Angel hummed while walking down her stairs, going straight for the fridge and getting herself a small water bottle and a Coke in case she got thirsty, and then a random magazine that was left on her counter, a Bluetooth speaker and a yoga mat.

She happily started getting settled in the middle of her garden, where there was no shade. Angel could hear some of her neighbours hanging out in their gardens too, low music, people chatting, children giggling and dogs barking and elderly people complaining about the noise. She sat on her yoga mat and started rubbing sun cream all over her skin, making sure to not miss a spot, and struggled to get her back but ended up giving up, “I’ll do it later when I turn around…” She grumbled.

After setting up her music and lowering the volume, she laid down on her back, sunglasses and bucket hat on. Angel took a deep breath, loving the heat of the sun and closed her eyes.

“I’ll do it later when I turn around…” She, in fact, did not turn around.

Angel ended up falling asleep with her mouth open, right under the sun, in the process of baking. However, earlier, the sky was not the only thing that witnessed her stupidity in real-time.

Her very sexy neighbours all decided to hang out outside, to enjoy the sun like normal people when they saw her asleep in the middle of her garden. John came out in shorts and sandals, wearing his very stylish bucket hat and sunglasses, a book in hand when he saw her. Of course, he saw her, they literally had the shittiest, lowest fence ever, and it practically gave no one much privacy. But it’s not like they're going to complain when they get to see her looking like that.

“Steaming Jesus…” Johnny said, lowering his sunglasses so he can get a better look.

“What sort of shitty cliché film are we in?” Gaz laughed in disbelief. Not only did they have a nice house (minus the shitty garden fence), but a very hot, very friendly, smart and funny neighbour.

“Are you complaining?” Soap asked the man.

“Me? Hell no, that’s one beautiful woman.” Gaz said with a nod.

“Stop staring, you creeps.” Ghost came up from behind them and grabbed both of their necks, lowering their heads. Both Soap and Gaz whined at their superior, turning around and sitting in their garden lounge chairs, doing their own thing.

John already had his nose buried in his book while Ghost closed his eyes and covered his face with a cap. Gaz was playing music through a Bluetooth speaker and was knitting at the same time, humming to the lyrics of whatever song was playing, and Soap was doodling in a sketchbook, bopping his head to Gaz’s music.

20 minutes passed peacefully until John closed his book and checked his watch. His change in demeanour was immediately noticed by his men, even Ghost lifted the cap and peeked at his captain with one eye. “It’s been 20 minutes and she hasn’t moved an inch, how long has she been sleeping there for?” He said with a frown.

“That woman is literally going to bake under the sun,” Gaz said, looking at Soap.

“She will if we dinnae wake ‘er up.” Soap agreed.

“Why do you even care?” Ghost asked, surprising Price.

“Because we’re not shite neighbours, Simon.” Soap said in that annoying voice he thinks drives Ghost up the wall, but Ghost secretly thinks it’s cute.

“Yeah, don’t be a dickhead, Simon,” Gaz said, batting his eyelashes at the soldier, hiding his annoying grin behind the scarf he was knitting.

“Enough, go wake her up, Gaz.” John said, and Gaz placed his unfinished scarf in his chair and walked up to the fence, and cleared his throat loudly.

Angel didn’t move an inch and he turned around, to look at the others.

“Call ‘er name!” Soap whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Ghost side-eyed Soap, who absolutely ignored him.

“Angel, wake up, please?” Gaz tried again, squinting his eyes to try to see if her chest was moving up and down. Call him paranoid but she wasn’t moving, and he couldn’t for the life of him see if she was breathing or not from his position.

Gaz immediately jumped over the fence and rushed to her side and placed two fingers on her pulse, at the side of her neck. Soap, Ghost and Price were all up now, standing next to the fence, and all sighed in relief when Gaz turned around and gave them a thumbs-up.

Gaz scanned her lax face and decided to lift her head with one hand and used the other to gently tap one of her cheeks, “Angel, wake up.”

Angel woke up with a gasp as if she was holding her breath the whole time, maybe she was, who knows, her body can do freaky stuff when it forgets it's wearing the skin of a human. When she opened her eyes, Angel was so confused, was she in heaven?? Because what the shit, this is a real angel right there.

“What time is it?” She groggily said, her hand going up by itself to cup Gaz’s cheek.

“Half past one. You were knocked out and we got worried you’d bake under the sun.” Gaz said with a chuckle, and reality finally hit her. Angel abruptly sat up and Gaz grabbed both of her shoulders, “Hey, slow down.”

“Water, Gaz.” Price reminded the man and Gaz immediately grabbed the now warm water bottle next to her, unscrewed the cap and poured a bit in his palm and patted her hot cheeks.

“Oh, that feels good.” Angel moaned, not realising how hot she truly was.

“That was dangerous, you know that right? Sleeping under the sun with no shade.” Gaz said, wiping his wet hand on his naked chest.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep…” Angel sheepishly said, glancing at the other three men looking at her.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, and thank you for waking me up, Gaz.” Angel said, placing a hand on his, which was on her yoga mat, next to her thigh. Gaz’s eyes widened, looking at her hand on his and looked back up again. She was smiling at him, and his heartbeat sped up. Gaz could feel his guys looking at him, at them, but he couldn’t look away from her eyes and lips. Especially her lips.

“You don’t, uh” he choked out then cleared his throat, “You don’t have to apologise…”

“Okay.” Angel whispered, those big beautiful eyes staring at him like he was the sun and the sky, and Gaz felt like he was going to fucking die.

“Who fancies a barbeque? I feel like grilling, today.” Price spoke, breaking the spell. Gaz retrieved his hand and stood up, stretching his arms behind his head, trying to hide his flustered state.

“Oh yeah!” Soap grinned.

“That sounds really nice, enjoy your barbeque, guys.” Angel said, collecting her phone and Bluetooth to get inside, she had enough sun for today. Maybe she’ll watch a show on her laptop, or read a book.

“Where are you going?” Price frowned, stopping her in her tracks, all of her stuff clutched in her arms.

“What?”

“You’re invited, Angel.” Price said.

“Am I?”

“Of course, lass! What type of neighbours would we be if we didnae invite our favourite neighbour?” Soap said with a huge grin.

“Soap, I’m the only neighbour you’ve spoken to since moving in.” Angel deadpanned and Soap shrugged with his arms crossed, the dog tags glinting over his hairy chest under the sun.

“I’ll go get the grill ready.” Ghost said, walking towards their shed.

“Hi, Ghost!” Angel quickly greeted him.

“Hi, Angel.” He replied, without looking back.

Gaz slowly walked up to the fence, “I’ll go prep the meat.” he mumbled and jumped over, glad to escape her hypnotising eyes and lips.

“Wait, I don’t know what to bring!” Angel’s smile fell when she realised she has never been invited to a barbeque before and has no idea what to bring, she has seen humans having barbeques but she doesn’t know what they would like her to bring.

“You don’t have to bring anything, honey.” Angel was now right in front of her fence, knees touching the scratchy wood and watching Price move the chairs around to make space for the grill.

“Uhm, Soap! Please come over and get stuff you guys don’t have.” Angel quickly said and grabbed for the man’s arm as if he’d run away. She really didn’t want to be rude and not bring anything to the barbeque, and she knows that Soap loves food and knows so much more about cooking than she does.

This is absolutely pathetic for someone with her powers, but she never claimed to be perfect, has she?

And how could Soap ever say no to that face?

“Of course, hun.” Soap grinned and jumped over the fence, taking the water bottle and unopened can of Coke away from her. “And these are going in the trash.” He said, walking inside her house and straight to the kitchen as if he always lived there.

“For how long are they supposed to boil?” Angel asked, frowning down at a pot with boiling water and whole potatoes.

“Leave the potatoes alone and come chop the chives.” Soap said, glancing up at the woman with amusement. Angel was still wearing her bikini and her cute green bucket hat, standing there in the kitchen with him.

Angel sighed and stood next to Johnny, grabbing the knife and starting to chop the chives. Soap watched the woman try to chop the chives and get frustrated that it was hard even though the chives were thin and small. Soap had to admit, she might be PhD smart and hot as fuck but she was actually useless with a knife.

Soap sighs, standing behind her and grabbing the knife away from her hand. “Watch, that’s how you do it.” He said and she nodded, watching him hold the chives with one hand and chop them with the other with ease. “See? Easy peasy, now try again.”

Angel grabbed the knife and tried again, and she was instantly better, a bit slow but better than her mediocre previous tries. “How long does potato salad take to make?” Angel looked over her shoulder and asked, looking at Soap, who was still standing behind her.

“Like half an hour? The only long parts are boiling the potatoes and chilling the salad.” Soap said, making her nod and turn back to chopping her chives.

“Do you have someone, lass?” Soap suddenly asked, making her look up from her chives and stare at the cupboard in front of her.

“Am I dating someone?” She repeated.

“Aye.”

Angel noticed the change in Soap’s usual friendly and teasing tone, and placed her knife down on the chopping board, and slowly turned around.

“No, why?” Angel raised a brow and Soap kept looking at her with an unreadable expression.

“Just got a lad wondering.” He shrugged, crossing his arms over his glorious naked and tan chest.

“Just a lad wondering…” Angel hummed, touching his dog tags with one hand, “Are you dating someone?”

“No, why?” Soap slowly grinned and took a step forward.

“Just got a lass wondering.” Angel grinned back, pulling him forward by his dog tags.

A loud hiss startled the two of them and Angel panicked, “The potatoes!”

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @loveyhoneydovey @cutiecusp @pinkwigonmytv @mandythemint @itsberrydreemurstuff @tapioca-marzipan @fruitymoonbeams-blog @poohkie90 @chaoticevilbakugo @anubis-reed @thefairybird @skytacvia @marytvirgin @cynicalmnm @maechanexe @t0jis-worm @1800imgay @4ndjelij4 @multitargaryen @lilpothoscuttings @mysticalpandabear

#cod mw2 #captain john price #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 ghost #captain price #call of duty #gaz x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz #kyle gaz garrick #gaz garrick #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #price x reader #john price #bubuslutty writes

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bradshawssugarbaby · 5 months

Text

My Best Friend's Girl - Walt "Finn" Finnegan x Reader

a/n: not my greatest work or anything, but i finally got around to writing something for my fave 80s man. I have a serious hang up on anything 80s so don't be surprised if more of this comes up. Also a little inspired by My Best Friend's Girl by The Cars.

pairing: Walt "Finn" Finnegan x reader

warnings/content: swearing, McReynolds cheating (sorry y'all, had to make it work for the story), Finn being "mr. steal yo' girl" on him, pure cheesy fluff.

word count: 1.8k

As your friends danced away in the middle of the bar, you stood back, sipping your rum and coke, savouring every taste as you kept your eyes forwards. Your brow furrowed as Renegade by Styx blared from the juke box from somewhere at the back of Sound Machine, the bar on campus. The SouthEast Texas University baseball team had not long entered the room, trying their charms on any and every girl they saw. You weren’t falling for it though, you’d decided. You’d seen them in action, a couple of the freshmen players managing to charm your friends into dancing and drinks, but you weren’t easily fooled. You knew they were only after one thing from the women on campus, and you weren’t giving it up easily. Your standards are much higher than that, you thought to yourself.

You looked around the room once again, trying to keep tabs on where your friends were before either of them agreed to go home with one of the college boys who’d secured their attention. You weren’t about to let either girl go home with some freshman baseball player who could barely tie his own cleats. You’d recently broken up with your own baseball player prior to the start of the school year, and you couldn’t help but cringe whenever you caught a glimpse of him or his teammates and their sleazy pick up methods. Your brows knit together into a glare as you saw one of your ex’s teammates, Walt Finnegan, or Finn as everyone knew him by, was staring at you. Finn’s lips curled into a grin under his thick, blonde mustache, his shaggy hair was clearly styled to match his. You looked away, avoiding his stunning green eyes as he looked in your direction again.

As the opening bars of Two Tickets to Paradise began filling the room, you finished your drink. Looking up, you noticed that Finn was approaching you. His charming eyes and million dollar smile were on full display as he sauntered over, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off his tanned skin, the sleeves rolled just enough to accent his biceps, clearly in an effort to show off his commitment to the game and workout regime he’d given himself. He was never the greatest player on the team, but as their first baseman, he did a pretty decent job holding his own, and everything he lacked on the field, he made up for in charm and charisma. Even you couldn’t fully resist his charms, despite how badly you wanted to. You frowned as Finn danced his way up to you, his hips swaying in time with the music. Christ, he was a good dancer. You couldn’t deny it, Finn was good, but you refused to let him sway you tonight.

“Hey there, pretty thing, what’re you doing here by yourself? Come back to show McReynolds what he’s missin’ out on?” Finn’s voice was smooth as he spoke. He was always a fast-talker, but this time, it was like he purposefully was talking slow to make a point, like he was trying to give you no choice but to focus your attention on him.

“Please, Finn, I don’t give a rat’s ass what McReynolds does with his time now, I broke it off with him for a reason.”

“Yeah, trust me, I heard about it. We all heard about it.”

“My condolences. Can you leave me alone now, please?”

“No, you haven’t even heard why I wanted to talk to you yet!” Finn pouted his lips slightly as he spoke. He leaned his body against the wall and grinned at you as he put his hand beside your head, framing your body between him and the corner of the room.

“I’ll bite then, why do you want to talk to me, Finn?”

“‘Cause, I think we both like watching McReynolds sweat a little. Plus, I saw you looking at me like that. Trying to look like you’re not bothered by the fact I’m here. You and I both know we had something before you met him.”

“We had nothing, Finn. Nothing.”

“Are you sure about that, sweets? Why not show me just how nothing it really was?”

Finn’s hand snaked its way around your waist, pulling you in tightly to his body. You let out a sharp exhale of air as you felt your bare back press against his shirt, his body radiating heat against yours. You could smell his musk scented cologne, strong, yet masculine as it surrounded you. His hand on your bare waistline was enough to drive your senses wild, and as much as you wanted to hate the sensation of his skin on yours, you couldn’t bring yourself to shove him away from you. It was as if some sick, twisted part of you craved him, despite the fact that Finn was your ex’s best friend. Then again, clearly that fact didn’t bother Finn too much either.

“Finn, we can’t do this,” You mumbled as you felt him press his nose to your neck, “McReynolds is gonna kill you.”

“I can handle myself, don’t you worry, darlin’,” Finn’s voice was like velvet, rich and smooth as he spoke, dripping with confidence and self assurance, “Besides, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

You frowned, biting your lip as Finn spoke before finally giving your head a shake. You tilted your head to face him, his green eyes full of lust and longing as they met with yours. You’d never noticed before today just *how* green his eyes were, but now that they were so close to you, you couldn’t notice anything else. The signature grin still painted on his face, Finn pulled you in closer to him, his breath hot on your neck as he whispered against your ear.

“I still haven’t heard a no from you yet, babydoll. Whatd’ya say?”

You felt Finn spin you around to face him, hips moving perfectly in sync with the music playing in the background. At this stage, Finn’s presence had completely disoriented your focus and no amount of concentration could tell you what song was playing, what colour the lights were on the dance floor or where your friends were at this point, all you saw, all you knew in that moment was Finn. Finn, your ex’s best friend with the million-dollar man smile and sun-kissed tanned skin. Finn, with his perfectly styled hair that he always spent at least 30 minutes on perfecting with a round brush and hair dryer every morning, and his mustache that he sat and brushed out with a fine toothed comb, trimming anything that seemed out of place. Finn, with his stunning green eyes and overwhelming all-consuming confidence, and his ability to never be able to stop talking about anything and everything.

“I don’t know that this is the smartest scheme you’ve ever come up with. What exactly did McReynolds do to piss you off to the point where you want to use me to get back at him?” You finally retorted back.

“Maybe letting a girl as good as you go is all he had to do to piss me off this time.”

Finn’s words lingered in the air for a moment, replaying in your mind over and over as you gave them some thought. You let out a frustrated sigh as you shook your head, arms folding across your chest as you looked at him.

“Finn, stop it.”

“Stop what? I’m being honest.”

“You’re pissed off at Mac for letting me dump him?”

Finn sighed and ran his hands over his face before shaking his head in exasperation. He shook his head before reaching his arms out, placing his hands on your shoulders with a firm, yet gentle touch, as if he was trying to get you to reason with him.

“Listen to me for a second, ok?” He breathed out a heavy sigh before speaking again.

“Look,” Finn’s green eyes stared at you with a newfound level of intensity as he spoke in soft, hushed tones, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing your conversation together, “I know why you and Mac split, ok? I saw him when you did it, and he told me. I know everything - the cheating, the lying, how you walked in on him, trust me, I know all of it, babe.”

“So…you know how I walked in on him with some other girl in your house then?”

“All of it. And honestly? I told him he was a real fuckin’ dick for it too. I may be a bit of a...casanova, but I’ve never cheated. There’s a reason I stay single. No one’s feelings get hurt if I move on, ‘cept maybe my own, but that’s besides the point.”

You frowned and sighed, shaking your head as you blinked away the lone tear developing in the corner of your eye. You looked up to see Finn in a new light, an air of vulnerability clouding over him, as if he was opening himself up to you and at the same time, you felt your own vulnerability closing in. You felt Finn’s hand on your cheek, guiding your face upwards to look at him. He gently pulled you in to him, his lips pressing to yours in a gentle, passionate kiss. Your lips lingered on his for a moment before pulling back, your eyes wide in shock as you look up at him.

“W-what the fuck was that?” You whispered, a soft, awkward laugh escaping your lips.

“Me, showing you that I’d never treat you the way Numb-nuts over there would,” He nodded as he let out a hearty chuckle.

“Finn…”

“Mhmm, that’s my name, baby, don’t wear it out,” He smirked as he tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“You know, I have been told that. It’s part of my charm, apparently.”

“Come on, let’s get the fuck outta here, before McReynolds smartens up or sobers up and realizes I just made a move on ya,” Finn takes your hand and grins as he leads you outside.

Under the stars, feeling the mild southern Texas breeze against your skin, you and Finn walk out together. Looking up at the sky, you take it all in, letting out a soft audible sigh as you nod your head once.

“Finn, I never thought I’d say this about you, but you know, you’re a pretty decent guy.”

Finn shook his head, laughing as he looked over to you, his signature smile appearing again. He threw an arm around you playfully and shrugged his shoulders.

“You know what, I feel like McReynolds might argue with you on that one.”

#walt finn finnegan #walt finn finnegan x reader #finn x reader #everybody wants some fic

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chersteddie2 · 7 days

Text

#wg story inspired by @scoops-aboy86 & @hotluncheddie

Eddie's always been a little pissed, a little too aggressive, a little jealous in his hatred for Steve, the Hair, Harrington; he had the big house, the rich parents, the love of everyone in school. It makes his blood boil and the annoyed face Steve would shoot him during his weekly speeches at lunch were worth the trouble. Every lunch period he'd climb on the table and rant on about society's standards and that it's all just such bullshit. "Eat the rich!" Eddie remembers chanting, tongue stuck out and middle finger up as he'd bat his eyes at the jocks.

Now, two years after what should've been his graduation not only is he still stuck in class, but he's stuck working at the damn diner across the lot. Porky's Rub and Grub, known statewide for their dedication to customer service and burgers. Eddie hated it, most of the time he was stuck in the back because he

1.) Distracted customers with his tattoos.

2.) He was never able to rack up tips or make sales.

3.) His boss hated him.

The only reason Eddie got the job was because of a favor Wayne called in. And with no one else willing to hire him, Eddie sucked up his pride and clocked in for another shift. With his hair tied back and apron slung over his shoulder, he glanced at the tables and stopped dead in his tracks, "No way, no fucking way," he cursed. There, across from him, basking in the sunlight with that stupid smile, was Steve Harrington. Dressed in his cream blazer and khaki pants, brown hair combed back perfectly and a redhead on his arm, just smiling at him.

Eddie had never ran to the back so fast, heart thumping and skin flushed. "Why the hell is he here? Ugh, why," he groaned, sinking back against the wall. "It'll be fine, I'm not even a server, I don't even have to look at him if I don't want to--" the ring of the service bell cuts him off. Slowly Eddie peeks over the kitchen window where Steve is waiting at the register, hands in his pockets and a smug grin on his face.

"Munson! Customer!" His boss yells and Eddie nearly rips his hair out from frustration. "Yeah! Okay, I got it!" he shouts. With a deep breath he adjusts his apron, bites his tongue and puts on the best service smile he can manage before walking out, "Morning, what can I get you?"

"Eddie! I thought it was you, it's been awhile man. What've you been up to?" Steve asks, almost like he's happy to see him. 'Asshole,' Eddie thinks.

"What I'm doing is taking your order, so again, what can I get you?" He bites back and the slight shock in Harrington's eyes makes his stomach curl.

"Oh, okay. You know what, give me the slammer. Matter of fact, add some onion rings and a coke," Steve huffs, pulling his wallet out and tossing a 20 on the counter. "You gonna charge me or be an asshole?"

Eddie closes his eyes, bites his tongue, and grabs his change, "Anything else, sir?"

"Dick," Steve mumbles, grabbing his change and walking back to his table. Eager to retreat back to the kitchen, Eddie gets to cooking, his movements fast and hard as he slams pots and pans. 'He's just gonna eat, then leave. He'll eat, then leave,' he reassures himself, praying that if there is a God, he will end his misery. But as he heads back out, food in hand, the sight of Steve Harrington chatting it up with his boss nearly sends him into a fit.

"Your order, sir," he interrupts, placing the food down with a loud clink.

"Munson! You never told me you knew Harrington's boy. This man right here was the best baseball player of the season!"

"Ah, sir, really you're too kind. I had a great team," Steve responds, his smile cocky.

"Oh, come on. Give yourself some credit! Let me know if you need anything alright? Here at Porky's we value our customers, especially a Harrington! Anything at all just tell Munson, alright?"

The sight leaves a bad taste in Eddie's mouth. 'How annoying,' he gripes to himself, the thought of slamming his head into the wall incredibly tempting.

"You know, there actually is something I'd like," Steve drawls, eyes sharp and grin crooked. "I've heard all about Porky's, and I heard that your servers take customer requests, is that right?"

"Yes! Anything you like, just no hokey pokey if you know what I mean," his boss chuckles.

"Well, I've gotta say Earl, Munson is the best server I've ever had. I'd love if he could show us how it's done handling one of your slammers," Steve mocks, his smile tight as he stares Eddie directly in the eye.

"Oh well, sure! Munson, you heard the man, show him how it's done," Earl orders, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"But...Earl, that's...seriously? Why?" he whines.

"Boy, just eat the damn burger" Earl groans, pulling Eddie to the front of their booth. "Now, you enjoy. Pleasure to have you, Harrington."

"Likewise!...Well, you heard him, eat the burger asshole," Steve's tone is icy and playful at the same time and the warmth that spreads in his groin has Eddie stomping his foot in horror. 'Do I?...What the fuck?' he asks himself.

"You dick...Ugh! Fine!" he huffs. With both hands he shoves down a bite, the patty juicy and hot off the stove, the sheer size of it a little difficult to keep together. Eddie doesn't even spare a glance at Harrington as he plows his way through the burger, barely even chewing as he fills his cheeks. Faintly he thinks he hears Steve date leave, but he's too upset and embarrassingly horny to care. Even as he starts to feel a tightness in his underbelly he keeps going, sauce smeared across his lips and grease coating his fingers. Briefly he pulls his head back to chew, swallowing down a burp as he moves onto the onion rings; big and crispy, perfectly cooked. One after the other he alternates between the burger to the onion rings to the fries, hyperaware of the pressure in his stomach. 'Fuck...fuck,' he internally groans.

With one last bite he's finished his meal, and without even swallowing what's in his cheeks, Eddie pops the lid off his Coke and begins chugging. Taking big, slow gulps, the fizz making his nostrils burn and intestines squeeze. Only when his tongue licks around the empty rim, almost as if it's searching for more to indulge in, does he set it down.

"Oof! Fuck...," he burps, staggering back as he looks down at himself, hands resting on the sides of his swollen stomach. Distended against his apron and bumping the front of the table sits his gut, packed to the brim and practically on display despite his shirt. Along his chest are sauce stains and he just knows he must look ridiculous; Glutted to the gills like a greedy pig, cheeks flushed at the sounds his belly is making as it works to digest the feast he just forced down. Eddie can't even imagine a worse situation to be in, but in his haze, he looks over to Steve and realizes the small tent that's formed between his legs.

"Huh," he mumbles, realizing just what he's seeing.

"Munson," Steve growls, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him down to his height, "In the car?" he pants hotly.

"Yes. Fuck, yes, oh my god," Eddie groans, too full and turned on to focus on anything other than Steve's hands which have latched onto his hips.

"Knew you'd like this, knew it," Steve whines, quick to pull Eddie out the diner.

After that, Steve began stopping by every week, requesting Eddie as his server, pupils blown as his uniform gradually became smaller and smaller. And after the first 30 lbs, Eddie knows that if you'd told him two years ago that he'd be eating for the rich? He'd have never believed it.

#wg story #chubby steddie #chubby eddie munson #fat belly

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love-kurdt · 6 months

Text

Thick Skull (byler): V

word count: 6,186

warnings for this chapter: consensual underage... activities, internalized homophobia, fighting, graphic depiction of violence

Hit over the head, epiphany / Over my head, repeatedly Thick skull never did nothing for me / Same lesson again? Come on, give it to me

“We should be getting home… It's past curfew. See you tomorrow?” Lucas checked his watch before standing up, taking Max’s hands to help her up. Dustin rose from his spot as well, giving Will one more hug on his way to the door.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Will agreed, “safe travels!” Mike nodded beside him with a grim look on his face, which appeared more often than not these days. Will watched as their friends put on their protective gear to face the spores outside, and filed out of the basement doorway one by one. It still felt strange not following them. He couldn’t really accept the reality that Mike’s home was also his for the time being. Before their friendship fell apart the summer prior, he would have been basking in the glory of living in the same house as Mike. But recently, between Mike’s weird behavior, mixed signals, and potential lie about a life-altering event, all he wanted to do was escape.

He turned around once the door closed, beginning to clean up the empty snack bowls and Coke cans that littered the basement carpet. Once everything had been thrown away, Will approached the staircase, but Mike stood in his way, leaning against the wall.

“So, you're out now, huh?”

Turns out they were going to talk about it.

“Yeah. I think Vecna was using that as an angle of attack, if that makes sense.” Better to be practical than to make assumptions about where the conversation would go. It wasn’t like he was expecting anything out of it. Then again, Will’s standards were practically on the floor. Scratch that, his standards were in the Upside Down at this point. He couldn’t be let down any more than he already had.

The young men stood in silence for a few seconds. Hesitation. Contemplation. Debate on what to say next, and who would say it. Will felt blood pulsating and thrumming at an alarming pace in his eardrums, and he feared that if Mike were to speak, he wouldn’t even hear it.

“It does make sense,” Mike told him, taking a step forward while his gaze danced across Will’s face. Will could feel Mike’s breath on his face as he spoke, the minute space that separated them making itself evident. “That was really brave of you.”

Will felt his breath catch in his throat. He gulped, and he felt his stomach twisting in upon itself in knots. “Thanks.”

Where to go from here, Will thought. He felt as though he were a magnetic force, with Mike constantly drawing into his space and leaving very little distance between them. Predictably, Mike would then repel himself from Will if he showed any signs of reciprocation. Because that– mutual affection– would make it real. Polar opposites attract, and all that. He searched Mike’s eyes for any signs of wanting to end the conversation, but the raven-haired boy in front of him gave off an equally persistent aura, emulating desire. Will tore himself away from Mike’s stare, not keen toward any form of false hope. He gestured towards the stairs. “So, do you want to–”

But Mike pulled Will against his chest so suddenly, and so close that Will could feel both of their heartbeats inside him. Will, caught incredibly off guard, stood frozen for a few seconds before registering what was happening; Mike was hugging him, his arms wrapped around Will’s waist, threatening to never let go. Will cautiously lifted his arms up to wrap around Mike’s neck, his hands meeting in the middle. When Mike breathed Will in, seemingly encouraging whatever was happening, Will pressed his face into Mike’s shoulder, fully embracing his best friend with all the love he could express within a hug. He could be okay with this.

That sentiment changed the second he felt Mike’s lips meet his jawline. Then something in Will broke. Or was put back together. He’d decide later; right now, he couldn’t take the tension any longer. He’d spent years of his life quixotically imagining what it would be like to be physically intimate with Mike Wheeler, and he’d be damned if he relinquished the possibility of bringing it to life. He pulled away from Mike, feeling himself unravel as he slowly dragged his eyes upwards until they found Mike’s lips. And that was it.

Will captured Mike’s lips with his own, moving his hands so they held Mike’s face in place, so he could never escape. He felt the heat rising to the taller boy’s cheeks, and the grip around Will’s waist became even tighter, with Mike’s fingers digging into his hip bones and wrapping around his belt loops. Mike pressed harder into the kiss, prying Will’s mouth open with his own. He’d always been slightly skeeved out at the prospect of making out with someone, because, duh, germs. But Will concluded at that moment that, as weird as it sounded, he wanted all of Mike’s germs if it meant making out with his paladin forever. And by the sound of Mike’s incessant humming, he felt similarly.

With this newly acquired knowledge came a boost of confidence, which led Will to walk backwards, guiding Mike with one hand on his waist and the other caressing his face. Mike let a small noise of surprise escape, but immediately caught on and followed Will’s embrace. That was until Will tripped backwards over the carpet, effectively breaking the kiss. Luckily enough though, since they were in such close proximity, Mike was able to catch Will by his arms before he plundered to his untimely death by floor decor.

Before Will could get too flustered and ruin the moment, he collected himself and his thoughts. But then, he looked back up at Mike, and was shocked to see him laughing hysterically. His nose crinkled up in the cute way it always did as his laugh dwelled in the higher register of his vocal range. The pressure of perfection lifted off of Will’s shoulders. He snickered at his own clumsiness while Mike continued to laugh, all while significantly increasing his grip on Will’s muscular biceps. Their laughing died out after some time, leaving the two boys to their own devices, heavy breaths lingering in their shared space.

It hadn’t even been a full ten seconds before Mike grabbed a fistful of Will’s hair with an intense resurgence of pure impulse. Will met Mike in the middle and felt their teeth clash together, but he didn’t care in the slightest; couldn’t if he tried. The presence of pain rescinded itself the moment it came into contact with the force of nature that was Mike Wheeler.

Mike whined a little bit when Will drew away from him, but instantly changed his tune when he was pushed down into a reclined position on the couch. Mike looked up at Will with a gleam of insatiable hunger in his eyes, and that unmistakable, mutual reflection of want, want, want. Will practically jumped the boy below him, shoving his tongue down his throat, and Mike’s hands hovered before landing on Will’s ass, groping with shameless abandon.

Will gasped against Mike’s mouth, his brain actively melting inside of his skull. Mike took that moment of vulnerability as an invitation to flip Will into a seated position against the couch, crawling on top of him in a very familiar way that had Will convinced that either his dream had not been fictitious to begin with, or what he was currently experiencing was just one huge dream turned possible nightmare; that is, if he were to wake up. Mike ran his hands down Will’s chest and torso, a form of worship neither of them were accustomed to, yet neglected to reject. Will’s hands drifted from Mike’s shoulders down his back, and held Mike close to him. One hand strayed to the front of Mike’s jeans, and that’s when–

“What are we doing, Will?”

Will gulped, contemplating his next move. Initiative, charm, strength… damage? Where’s a D-20 when you need it?! He settled on a naïve, “What do you mean?”

“I mean… this,” Mike flicked his hand between their chests, causing Will to raise an eyebrow in slight confusion. Mike shook his head, his eyes lifting above Will’s bowl cut to stare at absolutely nothing as he rephrased. “I mean… you know. Right?”

No, actually. I don’t know, Will thought, biting his tongue to prevent those words from actually leaving his head. While he could be frustrated that Mike was fumbling for words, he couldn’t hold back from feeling a bit glad that out of all the times he could have made it awkward, he wasn’t the one to make it awkward. Mike visibly struggled to figure out what to say, so Will shifted his hands— which were still firmly gripping Mike’s hips— up and back a bit until they found his waist. He smoothed his thumbs over the bare skin there to at least provide some form of comfort. “Maybe elaborate a little?” he prompted.

“Yeah,” Mike shut his eyes tightly, seemingly seconds away from smacking himself. He moved his own hands to hold Will’s, and gently pried them off of him, dropping them into Will’s lap seconds later like they were on fire. Now, Will was thoroughly confused. “Uh— we’re not playing spin the bottle anymore, you know,” Mike told him.

What?! We aren’t?! Will thought, sarcasm laced through his internal monologue. I thought we were playing Spin the Bottle this entire fucking time!!! … Of course Will knew. He wasn’t dense. Horny, definitely, but not dense. He sank back into the couch with his eyes closed, and felt Mike’s weight shift off of his lap and onto the cushion next to him, and the heated atmosphere that they’d created ceased to exist.

“I didn’t think we were,” Will replied, “But can I at least tell you something?”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Will turned towards Mike, holding onto his attention like a lifeline.

“Promise you won’t leave?” he asked, to which Mike just snickered, reaching his thin hand over to touch Will’s knee. Even after all they’d done together, he still managed to make Will blush.

“You couldn’t make me leave, even if you tried, Byers.”

“Okay. I…” Will hesitated, his eyes downcast, but then hesitated to hesitate. There was no use in hiding anything, not now. “The kiss meant something to me. I’ve been in love with you since we were thirteen. I mean, probably earlier on than that, I just didn’t know what those feelings meant.” He looked up at Mike, his facial expression unreadable. Keep going. If not for Mike, then do it for yourself.

“After last summer, I thought I’d lost you forever. And when I moved away, it hurt a little less, but every time El mentioned you, I got jealous. Because I hated her for having you.”

Mike, for once in his fifteen years of life, was at a loss for words. He sat there, staring at Will in shock. He blinked a few times before returning to his body, stuttering out, “But… it’s– it’s not El’s fault!”

Mike was one to talk about faults.

“I know,” Will shook his head, trying to find out how to say what he wanted to in a less complicated way, “I know it isn’t, but it felt like I didn’t matter to you at all once El came into the picture. Even when she was halfway across the country, I still didn't matter!”

“You moved halfway across the country with her!” Mike stood up from the couch, taking a few steps away.

“So this is about us leaving?” Will pressed, getting up to follow Mike in case he tried to run. He didn’t get to run, not this time.

“I mean, yeah!” Mike threw his hands in the air, exasperation in his tone. “Sue me for being upset about losing the two people that matter most to me!”

“Oh no,” Will rolled his eyes, “I’m so sorry, Michael, for leaving the town that made my life a living hell.”

“Vecna made your life a living hell, Will!” Mike raised his voice for the first time that night, and didn’t notice when Will winced. “What about me? You have me! You have Dustin! Lucas! Max! You have people here who lo– care for you!”

Will let out a mirthless laugh at that. He cares. That’s rich. “Well, I didn’t necessarily have anything holding me back. We… us… were dead. And I already know you’re going to dump the responsibility on me, so don’t even try. You killed us on your own.”

“...What?” Mike asked, narrowing his eyes.

He couldn’t be serious. Did he truly not understand what had happened to their friendship? Did he not remember how it fell apart? Did he not recall that day, after a failed D&D campaign, running after Will in a rainstorm? Did he not recall those eight words that cut Will’s last remaining ties to the town that he craved escape from, and that he’d rather die than live in again?

“Are you seriously gonna make me spell it out for you?” Will took a step closer to Mike, who, uncharacteristically, didn’t back away, but instead advanced towards Will.

“Spell what out for me? What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT I DON’T LIKE GIRLS!” Will shouted, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’d tried to keep his composure, but that fight in the rain was still a fresh wound, and just the thought of it was still painful. This apparently still resonated with Mike as well, as he winced at his own words being thrown back at him.

Well, at least he hadn’t forgotten. He looked remorseful. Convicted, even. He found himself at a loss for words for the second time that night, sitting back down on the couch in surrender. This provided Will with ample time to formulate his next question. He sat down next to Mike, extending his hand. Mike tentatively took it, slowly intertwining their fingers as if the world would implode if they did.

“Why did you and El really break up, Mike?”

“I don’t…” Mike ran his free hand through his hair, his eyes filled with a wild, defensive energy. “Will, this is insane. Why do you want to know?”

Will played with Mike’s fingers between his own for probably what was to be the last time, as he prepared to put his magnet metaphor to the test. “Because… if I’m reading into this correctly… you might feel the same way for me that I do for you.”

As previously predicted, Mike instantly recoiled. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh, come on, Mike,” Will retaliated, “Be honest, you liked that kiss. You know it, I know it, the party knows it.”

“I kissed you the way friends playing spin the bottle do. I’m not gay,” Mike said, looking emotionally exhausted as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead into his palms. Will could feel Mike’s anguish radiating off of him against his will. But Will remembered his experience with the Shadow Monster and how his mom had to burn it out of him, and he had an idea to give Mike some perspective. He’d just have to push a little more.

“What about just now, then?”

Mike looked up at the mention of that. “You kissed me, Will. Not the other way around.” Despite Mike’s claim, Will could see the walls building behind his irises, which grew larger as soon as he looked at him. It might’ve been easy for Mike to lie verbally, but his eyes said otherwise.

“You were literally just on top of me, and before that, you were grabbing my ass,” Will told Mike, point blank. “Explain that.”

“Yeah, well, it was… heat of the moment stuff, right?” Mike responded, more in the form of a question. He continued, “That’s got to be it. I'm not into… guys.”

Perhaps Will had gone too far. Maybe Mike was right, and had just made a few missteps. He resolved that if anything were to develop between them in the future, it would be in Mike’s hands; he wouldn’t beat a dead horse.

“Oh. Well, then,” he shrugged. “I guess I got the wrong idea.”

“Maybe you did,” Mike stared straight ahead of him at the wall, looking extremely conflicted as his inner demons ate him alive. Will almost felt pity in that moment for him. But then Mike took a sharp breath and spoke again: “And it’s not like I went down on you or something, I only kissed you. It’s different.”

Will felt the color drain from his face. “Wait…”

“What is it?”

“Is this real?”

Mike pressed a feather light kiss to Will’s lips before settling down next to him.

He brushed some hair out of his face before he replied, “No.”

Will’s sense of reality had been severely warped ever since he’d first been abducted by the Demogorgon and dragged into the Upside Down. Once he got back, he was possessed almost right away by the Shadow Monster. Not even a year later, he and his friends were battling the Mind Flayer in the Starcourt Mall. And when they didn’t think it could get any worse, the controller of it all tore their town into four, stealing multiple lives in the process. The chaos never ended; Will never had the chance to truly experience a relatively normal life between all of that combined with a PTSD diagnosis. So, even something as simple as Mike blowing him had Will questioning his own sanity.

Will had analyzed all of the signs into oblivion. He’d talked it out with his brother, he’d come out to his friends and family, and he’d pushed boundaries with Mike that he never would have believed he’d agree to in a million years. With all of that evidence, it seemed more than possible for that night to have been real. The problem with this was how Will would address it, and if he’d address it at all. If he were to be right, maybe Mike would begin to see himself in a different light and, in time, come to terms with who he was. But if he were to be wrong, he would’ve opened up to Mike about a horribly perverted dream he’d had, then Mike would take back what he said about never leaving, and that would most likely be the end of their friendship.

He couldn’t tell him.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” Mike’s response was simple and lacking substance. It was like he’d completely dissociated and moved on from the conversation before it even ended, similarly to when he’d shut down after kissing Will senseless. Will wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

“I mean, if it’s any consolation to you, I enjoyed the kiss too,” Mike confessed, and Will bit his lip, trying not to cry. “I just don’t… I’m not in… yeah. You know?”’

Will nodded, his voice breaking. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Mike stood up, déjà vu hitting Will over the head as Mike awkwardly clapped his shoulder– ‘Oh! Hey! Howyadoin?’– and said, “Well, I’m gonna go upstairs now, see you in a bit?”

“Yeah, okay.” Will whispered.

Mike grabbed his shirt and haphazardly tossed it on, and briskly made his way across the room, taking one last look at Will before jogging up the stairs.

Will shut his eyes tightly, finally letting himself cry. He pulled his knees up against his bare chest, trying to remember what it felt like to have Mike’s heartbeat against his own, and cried even harder when he still could.

I pick 'em up and now my fingers are bleeding And it looks like I'm caught red-handed

Mike closed the bathroom door, leaning against it and immediately lifting his hands to cover his face. How could he have been so fucking stupid? As if his inability to come clean about that one night they spent together wasn’t enough, he kissed Will. Again. Actually, solely “kissing” would be sugar coating what really happened. God, what was wrong with him? Mike felt his head begin to spin, and he slid down the wall and onto the cold tile floor.

He lost control. That could be the only rational explanation for his behavior. He lost control and gave into his unrelenting temptation. Otherwise, kissing Will would have almost felt… good? Logical? Favorable? Dare he say… normal? He couldn’t imagine kissing anyone else ever again. Not after Will. It would be the ultimate betrayal.

Despite having a serial liar for an alter ego (lying to Will, lying to his friends, lying to his family about who—and what— he was), he didn’t have to lie to himself about the feelings he’d reserved in his heart for his best friend. And he didn’t not want to feel this way. He didn’t not like pulling Will into his chest, breathing in his scent and wishing he could make it into a candle. He didn’t not like pressing his lips onto Will’s neck, giving into the urge to lightly nip at it with his teeth, just to see what his skin would taste like. He didn’t not like having Will’s tongue shoved down his throat without permission (not like Will would need it, anyway). He didn’t not like the feeling of Will's deep voice entering his own mouth with the moans he elicited from him. He didn’t not like groping at Will’s perfect ass, and trying not to freak the fuck out over how satisfying it was after having thought about it for such a long time.

He didn’t not love Will. He just… he couldn’t.

He’d seen how Will arrived at school when they were little. He noticed the bruises covered up with Joyce’s off-shade foundation. He’d encountered the devil face to face when he’d gone to the Byers’ house to ask if Will wanted to ride bikes with him. He’d gone home and seen his dad yelling at the television on several occasions about spreading aid to other people. He was always taught that aid was a good thing, so why would his dad speak about it in a tone laced with such powerful disdain? He found out later on that there was a world of difference between the definitions of “aid” and “AIDS.” Kids pushed him down in the courtyard during recess, calling him some of the things Will’s dad used to call them. He’d watch Will get taunted in the hallway, and would have to sometimes physically shield him with his gangly arms from the perpetrators. His parents borderline mocked him when he told them he had a girlfriend. He could never win. Being friends with Will also meant enduring various forms of hardship, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because in those low places, Mike would recall that day on the playground; the first time he felt loved, cherished, safe.

And one fateful day in the summer of 1985, it hit him that ever since he introduced himself to the shy boy on the swings– the best thing he had ever done–, his life revolved around Will. No matter who else entered or left his life, no matter where he was, no matter what monsters from an alternate dimension existed out there, they merely existed within his peripherals. Will was always at the center of his universe. No one would ever truly or fully understand the power Will had over him. Mike was a compass, Will was Mike’s true North. All signs pointed to Will, and it had taken Mike an embarrassingly long time to comprehend the depth of his emotions. Mike’s feelings for Will did not emerge from a sense of want, but of pure need. He closed his eyes, deep in thought.

The high probability of the Party accepting him seemed promising. They welcomed Will with open arms. But what if he were to come out just to be accused of coming out just because Will did? They wouldn’t do that to him, though. But how could he know for sure? Just look at the way he acted towards Will that summer, practically the poster child for projection. And look at the way that he had let Will sit there in the van to cry by himself when all he wanted to do was hold him close and kiss his forehead and comfort him like a boyfriend would, and not just a friend. Look at the way he lied to Will’s face right after the most clandestine of moments they’d shared together, claiming it to be all in Will’s head. He wasn’t sure how he could ever come back from that, if even at all. If a younger version of himself were to watch the events of the past few years go down, he would be in complete and utter shock at Mike’s sheer audacity. He would believe this to be out of character for himself, because it was true; young Mike never would have treated Will like he had in a million years. But people change, and apparently become increasingly imbecilic with age. So who’s to say that any of the other members of the Party were any less capable of acting out of character, just like Mike had?

On a more obvious note, the odds of his family accepting him were low. Every conversation involving his father would somehow end up on the topic of the gays going and killing themselves for the sake of the meager illusion of love. Even when not explicitly mentioned, the whole town of Hawkins had preemptively labeled the young Byers boy as a homosexual. So when Will went missing, Ted had nonchalantly assumed the worst. Mike could read between the lines; his father seemed content with the prospect of his best friend being in harm’s way, as if Will deserved a horrific thing that happened to him. In the Wheelers’ eyes, people like him had it coming the second they acted upon their attraction. They would never love him for who he was, not if he were honest. But what if he just chose to withhold the truth? What if he could avoid telling them anything at all? He couldn’t come out if he were dead.

Mike promptly decided to get off the bathroom floor. If he took a few steps across the way to the cabinets below the sink, if he opened them, if he located a pack of his father’s razor blades, and if he grabbed a pair of scissors and broke the razor blades’ tough plastic frame, he couldn’t feel it happening. His mind was not his own, not anymore. As he gently held the blades in one hand, he turned on the faucet to the bathtub in the other, the timbre of the rushing water matching the white noise in his own ears.

His family wouldn’t want to find him stark naked, so Mike opted to leave his clothes on. He stepped into the tub, cringing at the sensation of his jeans clinging to his ankles, but pushed through the discomfort. He sat down in the tub, which slowly filled with scorching hot water, and Mike couldn’t help but let a few tears escape his eyes. He couldn’t do one thing. He couldn’t just force his feelings deep down like all the other “straight” gay men. He had to go and fall in love with Will, and give him so many fucking obvious reasons to believe that he requited Will’s feelings. But what was life worth if every day was filled with vitriol aimed towards him like a never ending supply of flaming arrows? If he were gone, he’d at least spare the world one more person to hate.

He already knew what his dad would say. He had it coming. He lifted one of the razors to his left wrist, pushing down and pulling a vertical line down the expanse of veins underneath his skin. He watched as blue became black as the blood left his body, then black became red with oxidation. He did this to himself. He grabbed another razor and lifted a shaky hand to his right wrist, pulling his eyes away from his watch, its identical match just across the hallway on Will’s wrist. He pulled down, sobbing as he did so, but not due to physical pain. That watch, flashing 11:11pm, made Mike feel as if Will was there with him, watching him die. He’ll become another statistic, and maybe then, this… gay business will finally be put to a stop. Mike lifted his forearms onto the edges of the tub and closed his eyes, praying for the sweet release of death to find him sooner than later. A sense of euphoria overcame him. Maybe death wasn’t so bad after all.

But suddenly, realization smacked him like a train: he didn’t leave a note. He didn’t leave a note, and Will would feel incredibly blindsided and inevitably blame himself. He needed to find a way to tell Will why he’d killed himself. It was the only way he could die with a clear conscience. When Mike attempted to move his body, stars shone in his line of vision, everything becoming severely blurred with a tunnel-like effect. Mike’s arms were thrashing in the bloody water, but he physically couldn’t feel anything; his nervous system was shutting down. He became ultimately trapped inside of his failing body, his mind racing with regret. Mike’s vision grew darker, and his limbs lost their durability, falling limp at his sides under the water’s scarlet surface. Impulsivity breeds implacability. The damage was already done. It was too–

Late.

Mike’s eyes snapped open, and air slowly filled his lungs again. He tried moving his arms, surprised to see that there were no wounds in sight. He felt the cool tile through his socks, and he let himself exhale in relief. He was still on the bathroom floor. He was still alive. An emotional wreck, but alive nonetheless. What surprised him most, though, was the way his world eclipsed when he was alone with his thoughts. Hopelessness choked the life out of him, shrouded him in complete darkness. And that scared the shit out of Mike. He kept replaying his death over and over in his mind, attempting to make sense of it all.

He eventually came to the realization that it wasn’t society he was trying to spare regarding his coming out; he wanted to spare himself from the grief of losing his family, his friends, and everyone else he knew. None of the past few hours had made any logical sense. None of the thoughts in Mike’s head had a singular molecule of rationality. The one thing he was certain of, however, was that he loved Will, and he couldn’t live (or die) with himself if he kept Will in the same darkness he’d just experienced.

Mike promptly decided to get off the bathroom floor. He needed to tell Will how he felt, because sitting there waiting for his life to pass him by wasn’t doing anyone any favors. He needed to bite the bullet. Fuck the consequences, he and Will were soulmates. If he had one reason to stay on Earth, Will was it. He took one short look in the mirror, vigorously rubbing his palms against his face to wake himself up, and proceeded to unlock the door and determinedly head across the hallway into his bedroom.

He opened the door, and Will’s head lifted up, his eyes now on Mike rather than the sketchbook in his hands. Mike shut the door quietly, making sure to discreetly lock it behind him before lowering himself onto the mattress that Will sat on, the eye contact connecting them ceasing to break. “I’m in love with you. Every single thing that happened that night was real, and I’m in love with you. And I’m sorry for lying to you about that, but I’m being completely transparent right now. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I want to be with you. As a friend, as a lover, whoever you need me to be. I just needed you to know that I’m wholeheartedly, endlessly, beyond in love with you.”

Will opened his mouth to say something, but Mike was quicker. He reached for Will, and within seconds, Will was reaching right back, consuming all of Mike’s senses. When Will began to take the lead again (or maybe he wasn’t even trying, maybe he was just more comfortable with the idea of kissing a boy, but Mike would digress), he murmured, “Nuh-uh,” against Will’s lips, kissing back with as much love as he could convey through a single kiss. He pushed Will back onto the pillows at the top of the bed, lifting and swinging his leg over to straddle Will’s. He lowered himself down to the love of his life’s level, drinking in the sight of his kiss-swollen lips. How did I get so lucky?

“I don’t know, I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” Will replied, and Mike paled, realizing he’d asked his rhetorical question out loud. But Will, the cocky motherfucker, followed up with, “And by that, I mean I’ve been asking myself how you got so lucky. Because I’m a fucking catch.”

“That you are, baby,” Mike laughed, leaning down again to kiss Will’s lips, then his neck. He slid his hands down to Will’s shirt, pulling away for a split second to lift it swiftly over Will’s head. Mike couldn’t tear the grin off his face when Will did the same for him, tossing the loose shirt through the air and across the room into the void that was Mike’s laundry basket.

From then on, everything was a blur of kissing, touching, and heaven. Mike let Will take him, all of him. He kept reminding Will between kisses that he loved him, that he would do anything for him, that he wanted to be with him forever, and that Will was his heart.

After, Mike’s head found a home on Will’s chest, and their legs wrapped together amongst Mike’s sheets. He finally understood what it felt like to truly love someone. He hadn’t felt like this in his entire life. He smiled to himself at the thought, and pulled back so he could admire the beauty that was Will Byers. It was too good to be true. But it was.

“Mike,” Will whispered, and Mike brushed his palm against Will’s cheek.

“Will,” he muttered back, pressing his nose into Will’s hair and breathing in. He heard Will’s breathing get heavier, and he went to kiss down Will’s neck again before–

“Mike.”

He pulled away to see what was wrong, but he couldn’t…

“Mike.”

Mike blinked, noticing he was still standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Fully clothed. Had he never left that spot? Judging by the anticipatory look on Will’s face that silently asked him “Are you gonna move or what?”, he was certain that his bold, curious, and lovelorn imagination simply took a hold of his brain once again. He nearly laughed out loud at the bitter irony; and he’d just experienced a vast series of hallucinations, after he’d convinced Will that their sexual encounter was all in his head.

‘Well, if we’re both going crazy, we’ll go crazy together, right?’ ‘Yeah. Crazy together.’ If that wasn’t karma biting him in the ass, then it was Vecna messing with him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was Mike’s morals hard at work, reinforcing his subconscious guilt.

What if it wasn't too late? What if he just took a deep breath, walked through the door, and ripped off the bandaid? No. He couldn’t do it. No matter how much he wanted to, he knew he would always be too scared to admit his love to Will. And at this point, he’d already added insult to injury, poured salt in the wound, and twisted the knife in one fell swoop. He saw no reason to prolong Will’s suffering. He’d caused enough of it already.

He headed over to his bed, got under the covers, and turned off the light on his nightstand. He looked down at the silhouette of Will’s profile. He was so beautiful.

“Night, Will.”

“Goodnight.”

Mike heard Will shift in his sleeping bag to face away from him, and Mike closed his eyes, accepting his damnation. But then he heard something, something that was barely there, but only loud enough for it to make Mike’s heart sink with guilt.

While Will cried himself to sleep, there were multiple times where Mike wanted nothing more than to be next to him, or wanted to at least say something, but he couldn’t move. He was utterly frozen. It was only when Will’s sobs subsided into slow, shallow breaths that he could open his mouth to call out, “Hey Will?”

No response.

“I love you too.”

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

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what is frankie's favourite part about being with ms jackson? is it finally feeling settled? 🥺

Lissie, what a great freakin 'ask. I’m so glad you’re curious about how Ms Jackson makes Frankie feel, since we all know what she thinks. Let’s take a little dive in.

There You Are

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader "Ms Jackson"

Summary: What is Frankie’s favorite part about being with Ms Jackson?

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: M, past Sex Worker!Frankie, watch me make up shit about sex work, implied other Triple Frontier Boys!Sex Workers, allusions to sexual acts. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Cross-posted on AO3

Sex Worker!Frankie AU Series Masterlist

Frankie told you that he fell in love with you the first time you met, which you accepted with a smirk and some mild disbelief. And maybe that is simplifying it too much, calling it “love at first sight.”

But a lot of things led up to that first night.

To start, it had been a long time since Santi had called Frankie about a client. Not just because of the coke; demand just wasn’t that high for what the boys offered. And when someone did call, it was more likely Santi would send Benny their way.

I’m looking for someone fit, young, strong. A little wild if you have that. I want my world rocked.

Well, Frankie didn’t exactly know what people asked for when Santi sent Will or Benny, but he assumed it was something like that. He knew that his best days were starting to be further behind him than in front of him. His beard has more grays in it now, his jawline not as sharp. He used to be able to wear a mustache well, but last time he shaved he worried his face was looking too much like a little abuela’s to do it again. His hair is starting to thin, which keeps his trusty Standard Oil cap on his head. Soft in the face, around his middle, and maybe more in his heart than he’s ready to admit.

As thick as he thought his skin was, it still hurts to see the disappointment in a client’s eyes when they open the door and he’s not what they’re hoping for. It’s fast, the mask of politeness coming up to cover the confusion, or the disappointment. He always leaves them as satisfied as he can, even more than they expected if possible, to try and chase that look from his mind.

Too old.

Too big.

Too cautious.

Too Frankie.

The boys reassure him that he’s still got it, but watching Benny in boxing practice, all corded muscle and lightning reflexes, makes his soft stomach clench. Frankie bets he looks good no matter what lighting he’s in. That the clients he beds must love looking at his body.

Fuck, he should work out more.

Seeing Will’s skilled hands taking apart the guts of a Harley, fingers quick and nimble, eyes sharp as he scours for problems, makes Frankie’s thick fingers feel clumsy. He must be able to pinpoint exactly what his clients want, read their bodies to know when to speed up, where to press and stroke to elicit the highest peaks. Frankie sometimes worries he’s all big hands and power over precision, no matter how many times his fingers have been complimented as long and talented and so much better than their own.

Whenever Frankie has to don reading glasses at the end of the night, eyes exhausted and blurry, the idea that he’s even getting too old for his other profession gnaws at him. By the time he’s off probation and able to reapply for his pilot's license, his vision might be too far gone. The best years of his life squandered because he couldn’t keep it together without a line or two. He’s lost his glasses under the couch several times, sweeping them off the table with frustration.

Too blind.

Too clumsy.

Not what a client wants.

Santi always gives it to him straight, so when he asks why Benny is still getting the random client here and there and Frankie isn’t, he contemplates the answer over the top of his beer bottle before answering.

“It’s all about the people who call, Fish. I’m not just choosing for them, I’m choosing for you too. I don’t want to give you just any job that might…” Santi raises his eyebrows, the implication silent.

A job that might tempt him back to old habits. That might trigger him to turn back on the year of sobriety just to quiet his mind. A client who throws a callous word or a session that goes sideways and pulls at Frankie’s restraint and hard work.

Frankie hates that even after all he’s done, there’s still a fine thread of doubt sewn into the friendship between them. He wishes he could snap it, pull it free from the fabric, but it’s holding closed a larger wound he’s unwilling to open.

Santi doesn’t trust him after the coke.

Frankie doesn’t trust him after Colombia.

They both have threads the other won’t pull. The risk is too great.

Santi’s eyes are kind when he slaps Frankie on the shoulder, jostling his warming beer and veering away from the topic.

“I also don’t want to give you someone who isn’t going to appreciate you and what you bring to the table,” he says. Frankie scoffs, sipping some of the foam off the lip of the bottle. “I mean it, you’re good at pleasing people, from the reviews I’ve heard, and it kills me when you come back miserable.” Santi watches Frankie with an openness that makes the man squirm, deferring with a nod and an, “Okay, sure.” Santi shakes his head.

“Fish, I promise the next client I send you will be because I think it’s a good match.”

How right Santi had been about that.

When Frankie got the call in the late afternoon, ambling out to his truck to head home from the shop, he had to make Santi repeat himself.

“You want me for a client?”

“Yeah, cabrón, are you free?”

Frankie’s mouth dried out a little at the thought. It had been four months since he’d gone home with a girl from a bar, which was…fine. She was nice, they parted amicably late in the evening. Before that, there was only one client that preferred to be taken from behind. Minimal small talk. Fast and rough and quiet. He was toweling off in the hotel bathroom as the door shut behind her.

Maybe it was time he hung up the mantle.

“Why me?” he finally asked, cringing at how small the words made him feel. Santi’s warm chuckle on the other end of the phone eased a little of his anxiety.

“She’s different from my usuals, and I think you’ll be a good fit. Not looking for sex, just someone to spend some time with her. Take care of her a little bit. Sound familiar?” Frankie blushes and huffs at the insinuation. Santi always teased him for how he treated his past girlfriends. “Puppy Dog Morales,” he would croon when he caught Frankie doting on them. Didn’t really roll off the tongue, but “STD Santi” did when Frankie tossed it out after another one-night stand that had Santi limping back home.

Frankie took a breath, trying to shift into the headspace to meet a client. He’d need at least an hour to get home and shower, make sure he was well groomed and neat. Then travel to wherever she was, negotiate what she wanted, and…get to work.

The little thrum of excitement in his chest moved him to speak.

“Yeah, I’m free.”

Standing in front of your door, Frankie calms his racing mind. This is far from the first time he’s stood at the edge of the cliff, steeling himself for whatever reaction might come when the door opens. It’s always there, though, like a burst of stage fright before the leading man steps onto stage, all smiles and confidence. It is a sort of performance, after all, and the nerves leading up to it are only half due to being naked in short order.

Big, dopey, soft Frankie needs to be exactly what the woman on the other side of this door wants, and he pulls his mind into the pilot’s focus he’s honed over the years.

He knocks. The knob twists.

And you’re there.

At first glance he’s attracted to you. To your proportions, your bright eyes, your smile. Then to the nervous energy he can feel coming off of you, endearing and bashful. It makes him want to calm all your fears, soothe you with his hands. You’re the perfect size to be wrapped up in his arms.

Frankie nods at you, filling the doorway with his too-big body, his broad shoulders and his thick thighs and soft stomach and his aging face. He smiles, the practiced lopsided one that makes him look sexy rather than his larger, more scrunched-up happy one, and says hello.

And it’s here when it happens. When Frankie says it was love at first sight, this is the moment he thinks of. Because you look at him, your eyes passing over all of the things that make him feel self-conscious, and your face only says one thing.

There you are.

It’s an expression filled with relief, with amazement, with excitement and trepidation but also with such a sense of satisfaction at the man standing before you that it takes Frankie’s breath away.

There you are.

Like you were waiting just for him.

There you are.

Like you want exactly what he has to give and you are so happy he’s here for you.

Frankie has to redirect, make a little joke to ease the hammering pressure of his heart behind his ribs.

“Can I come in? Or is this a little too much? I can take a lap if you want.”

And then you stutter and smile and he’s a goner.

He still sees it now in the moments that day-to-day life presents.

On the first date you went on after the session, you opened the door with that same expression and Frankie had to kiss you right then and there across your threshold. You squeaked against his lips, a smile tugging your mouth tight as he pressed your foreheads together.

Then later that night when he holds your gaze as you’re coming down from another peak. You whisper, “Are you real? You can’t be real, you’re too fucking amazing,” and he chuckles and nips at your chin, heart fluttering separate from exertion.

Walking into your kitchen with takeout a few minutes late, you spinning around and making grabby hands for a hug.

At a bar after a long day when you see him across the room, tension melting from you.

When you tell him how sexy he looks in his thick black frames and he tries to defer the compliment, you threaten to prove to him exactly how much he turns you on.

Frankie doesn’t mind the glasses as much after that.

You feel like home to him. No matter who he is, what he’s done, how he feels, you always look at him like he’s exactly what you need.

During one of Benny’s fights, when Frankie’s focus is far away thinking about how he compares to the men around him, you catch his eye.

“There you are, handsome,” you say, squeezing his bicep with a cheeky smile. “Thought I lost you for a minute there.”

Frankie pulls you into his side, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Never, babe,” he murmurs into your ear.

What’s Frankie’s favorite part about Ms Jackson?

That she makes him feel like he belongs with her every single day.

END

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The story continues in Future Days

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