#graduating college was the worst thing i have ever done

[gremlingottoosilly]

The only thing you want to do is... [Price x fem!Reader]

Price broke his hand on the last mission. Fortunately for him, his caretaker is just as adorable as she is eager to help him in every way.

CW and tags: Legal age gap, power imbalance, daddy kink, pervert!Price, obsessive!Price, coercion into sex, handjob (m!receiving)

Word count: 3246

This work on AO3

You’re such a sunshine, it hurts. 

John Price never considered himself to be a good man. He did what he had to do to protect his country, to ensure that big bad terrorists are kept at bay, and foreign militaries are ending up where they belong – somewhere in the ditch, with reports stating KIA an anonymous bullet drugged out of their skulls. 

His job was just that – a job, something that had to be done because he knew that someone else, someone worse, would gladly take his place in case of retirement. The captain can be considered a fucking angel compared to some people he is working with – no one would ever dare call him evil when people like Graves still exist out there, hunting for innocents. 

But you’re so fucking sweet to him, he simply can’t handle it. 

When his arm got injured, and he was forced to get on leave for at least a month – he tried to argue for something less, but Lasswell silently pointed out that he hadn’t had a break in the past five years, and she would kick him out of his own Task Force if he’d continue to refuse – he got assigned a caretaker by Kate recommendation. 

John was fully expecting some old lady, probably a retired officer or field medic. Maybe some burly man with too much time on his hands and the ability to give really nice massages under flights of bullets. Perhaps, worst case scenario, he would be assigned an actual; nurse that wouldn’t buy any of his shit – that amount of whiskey he drinks is prescribed by his therapist, smoking cigars in the apartment is a nice form of relaxation, and he actually doesn’t need help and can go in service back again less than in two weeks. 

But, the Captain got wee ol’ you, all nice and warm, and adorable, and too fucking young to have anything to do with his apartment. 

You’re nice, warm, fresh out of college, where you got some recommendations about rehabilitating veterans back into normal lives. Probably was writing a Thesis about something as dumb as “Healing PTSD through flower crowns and little touches”. You chirp your way into his heart and refuse to go out – just like Kate promised to him, you really didn’t allow him to do anything on his own. 

God, it was infuriating – how much he wanted to simply grab your shoulders and kiss you. Or kick you out and find someone else to take care of him, someone boring, someone of appropriate age. Without dumb, bright eyes and cute smiles, without enthusiasm, that can only be seen in unpaid interns and college graduates who still believe that the world is fair and nice. 

You cook his dinners and clean up his apartment – as small as it is, never having a family or any other reason to make it even slightly bigger – and you do this with such a wide smile on your face it actually makes Price question basically everything he knows about young ladies doing charity work. You must be paid triple because you fold his underwear in neat little cubes and refuse to accept his help. Always chirped something about his hand like he can’t kill a man with his teeth only. 

— I can fold my own pants, love. 

He presses his body against the doorframe of the small bathroom – looks at your ass so shamelessly bent over the washing machine. You’re folding his dried clothes, and he can only pray that you aren’t slowly resenting him for being such a disgusting old man. He knew he looked good for his age, 37 years in this world molded him into something that many young women would consider hot – even though his beard is unkept and his hair grew a bit longer since he couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it, and his dominant hand is broken. 

— We don’t want to sprain your hand even more, right? — Everythin’ is alright with my bloody hand…

— Lady Lasswell said I shouldn’t listen to you like this, sir. Sorry. 

— Little minx. 

— Me or Lady Lasswell? 

John looks at you, so eager and cheerful, and he just wants to…he can’t, of course, he stops himself before he even forms the thought because it’s dirty and you don’t deserve this, and your shy smile as you laugh softly and push the last of the laundry in the neat pile on the washing machine. 

You look too eager to please, and he has an idea – the one he will never act upon. Maybe will entertain himself later, stroking himself in some abandoned base deep in the snowy tundra, trying to remember your warmth as if a sinner like him can even comprehend your light. 

God, you got him so bad, he starts thinking about good ol’ Jesus again. You really are a side to behold, aren’t ya. 

He looks at you again – you’re so easy to please. You cook for him, the smell of home cooking that he almost forgot, all the ingredients you invited yourself to buy when he left his card for you. You didn’t think it was weird, not a single mischievous bone in your body – if anything, he was casually prompting you to go and buy yourself something nice, something as compensation for all the trouble you endured for him. 

Instead, you went out of your way to cook for him, to make him tea like he wanted it – without sugar, but with a small amount of milk poured into a cup that is probably the most expensive thing in this whole place except for his weapons. 

The problem is – John Price doesn’t really like it when people are taking care of him. Not because he is shy or insecure, god forbid, but because he knows that if a pretty young thing like you is going to show him kindness, he will take a fucking mile and make you run from him as fast as you can. He has desires, he has needs, something that pretty good girls like you should know nothing about. 

You’re so eager to please that you’ll probably jerk him off if he were to whine about his arm being broken and his inability to get himself off because of it. Which, in turn, gives him an…idea. 

Price was never a good person – he isn’t the worst guy either. He sees your reactions, that adorable heat of your face when he brushes his knuckles over your cheek in an affectionate manner. How you are biting your lips every time you have to fold his underwear, when you cook for him, and he presses his body against yours, rocking his hips just gently enough to not make his arousal obvious. John knows you like him in more ways than just one – he doubts that such a lovegirl like you would ever agree to take care of a grumpy military man like him. 

He wonders where your father is – probably out of the picture if his precious daughter is almost crying from a desire to please a guy like him. He wonders if you have a boyfriend or if you’re seeing someone else – if you’re a virgin or you already had a series of disappointing sessions with blokes that have no idea how to behave with an angel like you. 

Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be taking care of a SAS captain – did your superiors forget to tell you just how girl-hungry men like him are? That he didn’t even bother to find a wife, and the loneliness of a single life will make him fucking explode if a girl as pretty as you were in the vicinity of that perverted old dog. You must be stupid – or so insanely naive, it’s not even funny. 

He licks his lips, staring at you again. He is certainly isn’t a good guy – not the worst either, but it’s up for debate. He wants to hold you close and say all of those pretty good things he knows you want to hear. He also wants to push you as close to him as possible and just fuck that pretty girl until you’re begging for him to make you his wife. He’d always laugh at the thought of other military commanders and higher rank soldiers having sugar babies – especially the mercs and their fucking inability to keep a girl who isn’t tied to their paychecks. But now…he might just pay for your adorable pout and eagerness. 

Might make a call to that one masked arsehole and ask how the hell he keeps his questionably young wife around without breaking her legs. Visibly, at least. 

— Sir? Planet calls for Captain Price. 

You giggle when you are waving your hand around him. Shit – looks like he zoned out for a hot minute, leaving you free to stare at his face, the fantom red spreading across his skin as if he is actually embarrassed to be caught like this. He isn’t, of course, he is stronger than some girl trying to get a rise out of him. He thinks he is stronger, at least. 

You wave your hand in front of his face again, and the insects are kicking in – captain grabs your hand, not even caring that his supposed helplessness stems from the fact his dominant hand is still broken. He has no problems keeping you in place with just his left hand – and you almost look scared when you understand that you literally can’t move. 

Your innocent smile turns into a pathetic whimper when he squeezes you even more. Bruises, no doubt, are starting to form already – well, it should be your fault. Good girls are usually smarter than teasing an old dog like him, even if you’re trying to play innocence. He knows what you are. 

His future special girl that is. A wife, if he plays his cards right…and the captain was always good at poker. 

— Shite, love. Sorry. 

His smile mirrors yours – an innocent display like he didn’t almost break your wrist in his hold. He is still squeezing your hand, but not he slowly presses his lips against your knuckles – thin, dry lips gently caressing your skin in a gesture that you should never accept from a guy who kills people as a job. Who saves people, too – but a good guy with a gun is barely an upgrade from a bad one. 

He kisses your fingers and finds heaven in the feeling of your soft skin against his lips. You are certainly embarrassed, and this is exactly what he wants – an old pervert trying to get in the pants of a cute girl who just wants to take care of him without any strings attached. He just has to make this whale thing complicated, isn’t he? 

— It’s okay, sir. Just thought I lost you for a second. 

— Not a chance. 

Your smile looks a tad bit mischievous – that is, or he is simply hallucinating from painkillers he is forced to drink every morning because you refuse to let him feel pain even though he is used to it. You are acting like he is a soft doll made out of pink ribbons and soft plushes, not a seasoned soldier with his own thoughts and ideas about what he can do about your desire to please him. He might just use your eagerness – his cock has been pitching for too long without female attention, and he usually doesn’t indulge in shitty one-night stands in some sketchy pubs, but he can make an exception for now. For you. 

You smile awkwardly, still trying to get your hand out of his grasp. Little minx, teasing him like he can’t just push you on this exact washing machine and fuck you like a slut you are. Poor girl, you probably don’t even know what kind of thoughts he has in his head – even though your eyes tell him something your lips cannot articulate. 

John acts on his instincts, and they usually don’t deceive him. 

— If you want to help so badly, I can think of another way. 

— Is that so, sir? You’re going to get him in so much shit with Lasswell, he doesn’t even know how he is going to get out of it after fucking her best little protege. Would have to marry you – like it’s not his end goal, like he doesn’t want to make your care for him a tad bit more permanent. He has done so many good things for humanity, why can’t he be a bit selfish and get himself a little something to make this place feel more like home? 

He thinks of a pretty thing like you, heavy with his kids, cooking something nice and hearty in his house – not this crappy apartment, of course, he’d buy you something in the countryside, away from terrorists and public squares, with good schools and greenery all around. 

You lick your lips and tilt your head to the side. He is daydreaming again. 

— If you want to make me relax so badly, love, there is something I need help with…

Beating around the bush like this isn’t in his character – but he knows that you’re a good girl, maybe way too good and proper. He can’t just shove his dick in your hand, it would be too unpolite. 

He has to prepare you, it’s a slow sniper mission where he needs to approach you as gently and quietly as possible – he still holds your hand in his, a phantom of his lips tucked away on the softness of your skin. 

Then he places his hand on his growing erection – as awkwardly as he can operate with only using his left arm as a helper. 

Price might not be the master of espionage, but he also didn’t get his rank for not being able to do cover missions under pressuring circumstances and lie in the faces of people who trust him. Not be the best person, of course, but he gives you a choice. You have all the power now – even with his weapons safely stashed in his bedroom, he knows he won’t ever try to force you. He won’t have to. 

— Help your captain, eh? 

You’re embarrassed, shy, scared even – your hands are trembling, fingers tracing the outline of his cock with morbid curiosity he never thought he’d find this adorable. You don’t stop and don’t try to fight him – like a little animal, nervous and terrified somewhat, you’re slowly indulging yourself in something that you actually shouldn’t. 

He lets go of your hand and allows you to continue on your own – like a good girl, you only nod and slowly duck your palm in his boxers. He’d say that the way he is rock-solid just from looking at your ass and pouting on your face is weak, but he can afford to be a bit pathetic after so many weeks without the ability to jerk off. With your watchful gaze, he just couldn’t find it in his heart – or the only remaining working hand – to do something to help with his raging crush on this adorable social worker who comes to help him. 

John is many things – a war hero, war criminal, the captain, and the butcher of many who may deem his actions irredeemable. He made peace with not being the poster good guy and often dirtying his hands just to keep the world clean – and he knows that, in the end, he deserves a pretty young thing to jerk him off while he kisses your hairline and whispers sweet nothing with that beautiful accent of his. 

— This is not very… appropriate, sir.

— Bullocks, love. You’re helpin’, that’s why you’re here. 

 You’re nervous when your hand, squeezing his shaft firmly, goes up and down on his cock. You’re trying to find the rhythm in his quiet grunts and little moans, not having too much experience with pleasuring men who you like this much. It’s fear of disappointing him that makes you go wild, that approving gaze of his every time you press your soft fingers against the head of his cock and squeeze a little. 

He is throbbing in your palm, pre-cum leaking on the small of your fingers – naturally, you lick it as slowly as possible, not breaking the eye contact. 

Price moans. 

— Bloody hell, luv…so good for daddy. 

The name makes your ears burn, the desire growing in your stomach – you fight the urge to drop on your knees and take him fully in your mouth. This isn’t what he wants, you think, so you just continue to squeeze him more, making sure he is satisfied with every little movement your hand makes. You lick your lips and continue, feeble attempts at containing the rhythm with shaky fingers. 

— I just wanted to help you with your life, not…this. 

He chuckles, unharmed hand presses on the small of your back to fix you in place. You lick your lips, understanding that he is not going to let you go this easily – you don’t want to behave like this, of course, it’s against the terms of your contract and your agreement to help him without feelings attached, but he moans so deeply for you, hips are buckling to fuck the firmness of your hand like he is ready to use your moist, prepared pussy. 

God, what are you even thinking about? 

You don’t know if you should be doing this, but the captain is not letting you go – and you can’t even do anything against his wishes, can you? 

— We really shouldn’t be doing this. 

— Quiet. I’ll help you out after my hand is healed, eh? — This isn’t what I’m talking about, sir. 

— Now, let’s not use that here. I’m sir in the field, not here. 

He is manipulating you as hard as he can – he can feel the tension in your eyes and the way you’re squeezing his cock, and he wants nothing more but to simply push you harder, make you fall apart in his hold like a precious porcelain vase. You’re sensitive and shy, just perfect for a bastard like him – his only regret is that the dumb cast on his right hand won’t really allow him to relax to have sex with you properly. 

He will pay you back later – on your back, on your knees, on your tummy, moaning his name as he plunges his seed deep into you. It was about time he’d settle down with a pretty wife of his own – he can afford you, certainly. 

— I can’t call you daddy, it’s embarrassing…

Your shy words are what send him over the edge. John Price was never a good guy to begin with, but your little pleas are enough to make him cum – and it’s certainly one of the biggest sins he has ever committed. Cute girl like you shouldn’t be so embarrassed about jerking him off, but here you are. 

Your hands are covered in cum as he continues to release his seed, only sad because he wasn’t able to breed you properly – that’s the agenda for the time when he finally is freed from this dumb cast. Might just ask Lasswell for extended leave. 

— You’ll just have to get used to this, love. Not letting you go after this. 

You can only whimper when he kisses you – possessive and tender at the same time. A silent promise of making you his dumb little wife. 

#cod #yandere price #price x reader #captain price #john price #captain john price #yandere cod #call of duty #cod imagine #cod fanfic

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal Part 2

WC: 757 CW: Canon-Typical Violence, Self-Doubt, Jack and Maddie Fenton's A+ Parenting Masterpost

Worse than— no, not worse than. Nothing was worse than being constantly forgotten by everyone he cared about. Nothing was worse than knowing he was only worth knowing when he’d died. An issue was that Danny still had the same need to protect people even without the ghosts attacks. Day in and day out Danny felt an aching hurt in his chest at not doing anything to help. Working as a receptionist at a slightly rundown construction firm wasn’t the worst job, but it felt like it was slowly killing him. It felt like his core was shriveling up.

Danny knew he needed to make a change. At a loss of what to do and short on options, Danny had enrolled in the paramedic course at the local community college. He excelled at it.

It turned out all those years of patching up his own wounds gave him a pretty good head start on his classmate. So good, in fact, that his instructor recommended him for a job in Central City when he graduated with honors. It was bittersweet to know that when he wasn’t constantly harnessed by ghosts, he could actually do really well at school.

His parents missed his graduation.

His move to the city was done alone (his rented u-haul filled with what he could cram into it) and with a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. It felt like a second death leaving the only home he had ever known behind.

It felt like relief.

(He didn’t know which was worse.)

Central City was better and worse than he expected. The constant noise rattled him until he got used to ways to combat it: earphones, white noise machines, a cheesy little indoor fountain. The anonymity soothed him— no one paid attention to him in the city. Slowly he carved out his place.

He was part of the city’s emergency response team. Their primary job was working to secure the city and her people during villain attacks. Secondary to that they did follow up with victims, held community events to spread awareness about everything from emergency prep to smoke detectors, and helped with rebuilding efforts.

It was rewarding work and Danny’s core sang for it.

It was a little exhausting to have to run right into a villain attack on his day off though. Good thing he always kept a mini kit in his bag. What sort of emergency response team member would he be if he didn’t listen to their own advice? It was a really nice little kit too— ultra compact but it contained gloves, pipettes of water, disinfectant, a range bandages, a suture kit, a snap light, and even a shock blanket. Danny added a few extra gloves to it too.

As he ran towards the sounds of disaster, Danny felt a brisk wind breeze past him— and then blow back again— as the Flash (one of them, Danny hadn’t been around long enough to tell them apart) backtracked.

“Kid—” Oh, it was the older one then. “—you should be heading the other way. Lummox is up ahead—”

“I know,” Danny snapped, not stopping moving. “I’m a field medic. I’m on my way to help, and you’re not going to stop me.”

The Flash seemed at a loss for what to say for half a beat. “Okay. Sure. Want a lift?”

“What?”

“I can get you in a second— literally— but I’m leaving you on the edge of it all.”

It would be convenient. And it’s not like he couldn’t trust Flash. Danny slowed to a stop and shrugged. “Sure, onward, Seabiscuit.”

“Who?”

“Famous race horse? Cause you’re going to carry me? Never mind. Just pick me up, dude.”

Danny ignored the look he got from the Flash and clung on for dear half-life. Fuck the Speed Force felt weird. He was pretty sure it was less than a second to get there, and Danny didn’t quite stick the landing, but he got his feet under him fast enough to rush in to help.

Eventually Danny required an extra vest from the team that came in and just blended into the background of other medics. It wasn’t a bad day— no lives lost and all the injuries were relatively minor. (He even got some overtime payment, which he wasn’t going to sneeze at). Danny figured it was just part of being in the city, occasionally running into villains and heroes even off the clock.

He didn’t expect it to really happen again.

(He should have known to never have expectations.)

-----

AN: Still moving along with this odd little thing! It's been fun to write a Danny in a very different place than my other fics- mentally and physically! Just to be clear btw- Danny is in a bad place at the start of this fic which is putting a negative light on how he's seeing things. Sam and Tucker just... moved on with their lives. Those sort of high school friends you liked a lot but drift away from. Without the history of ghost stuff to bind them, it was just part of life to them. Danny just has a different memory history so it hits harder for him/feels harsher.

Stay delightful, darlings!

Due to the new post editor and shadow banning, I'm no longer tagging people! To be notified, subscribe to this post:

#dp x dc #Danny Fenton/Wally West #eventually #Danny Fenton x wally west #abson #quick death

[haetkeeper]

pineapple l.dh / l.hc 🍍

4.9k words — smut (in part 2) with plot!

when paired up with the worst partner in the entirety of the university, this research paper is going to need a lot of work—too bad the topic of interest is sex education. with two geniuses like yourselves, you have two different project ideas, but both of them require you to get a whole lot closer to donghyuck than you’ve ever wanted to be.

essentially a fem! reader x haechan college au

tags / enemies to lovers, reader really dislikes haechan, haechan really loves teasing reader, slight mention of reader x other nct members

warnings / masturbation scenes, use of the word ‘slut’, perv!haechan, explicit language, alcohol consumption, multiple mentions of sex

( part 2 will surely be much worse, but this part will be fairly tame— stay tuned )

damn professor mira park. "I'm not working with him!" you shout in the kindest way possible, gaining nothing but a simple tsk and shake of her head.

"you're the top student in your graduating class," she states, "this project will be far too easy for you if I give you a less challenging partner." she demands, and you can't admit to yourself that she's right. with a huff, you exit the classroom lecture hall. you're dropping her class next semester even if it's the last thing you'll ever do. because lord knows he may kill you first.

she knew exactly what she'd done by the way both you and donghyuck gave yourselves whiplash, spinning to face her as the words left her mouth. she'd paired the two of you as project partners, to write a research paper, a very important research paper to be exact.

the topics were drawn randomly, and you were oh-so-lucky enough to pull sex education, while donghyuck was given the broad subject of fruits and vegetables.

you used to love this woman, she used to be your favorite professor, but she's crossed a line this time. your feud with donghyuck has grown to be ten years old, and worsened as time goes on—but she knows this. the two of you used to be civil classmates, until he hit puberty and began to think with the head of his penis instead of the head that sits on his spine.

argument after argument, fight after fight, the two of you have grown from the bickering, these days opting to nothing but the silent treatment for one another, but he hasn't changed. he's always seen with a posse of girls surrounding him, and never seen without a cocky smirk on his face.

it's often that you spare him with nothing but a glare in the hallways, not deeming him worthy enough to even hear you speak. he doesn't deserve your energy nor your time.

but doing a project with each other will take a lot more out of you than a little bit of energy and time. if you fail to work with donghyuck, you won't pass the semester, nor gain the necessary credit you need to graduate.

he’s always had it out for you— his side of the feud had stemmed from the way you constantly rose above him academically; no matter how good his grades were, yours were always better, and second place isn't somewhere lee donghyuck likes to be.

frequently, while you want to strangle him because he's evil, he wants to strangle you because you're just so damn cute when you're angry. now don't get him wrong, you're an absolute bitch to him, and words hurt. he really was furious at you in most of your arguments and fights, but he can't deny the twitch in his pants every time your face contorts into a fussy reaction for all of his teases and ministrations.

above all, to you, donghyuck may believe you're a demonic spawn from hell; but if you're one thing, it's a good student. because there you were, sitting on the beer stained living room carpet of the neo fraternity house, and trying to put the past behind you.

donghyuck was rustling around in the kitchen, every now and then calling a question over his shoulder, "is tomato a fruit or a vegetable? answer me dumbass." and every senior who entered the front door would eye you either suspiciously or with dark intention. an intention you'd soon figure out when jung jaehyun was cornering you in the frat house bathroom.

so maybe you extended yourself a little too far by agreeing to study at donghyucks place, but inviting him to yours would prove to be much worse.

—

its been nearly a week into the project, and you and donghyuck have done next to nothing when it comes to brainstorming and rough drafting the research paper. you're growing anxious about the final grade you could receive and the importance it holds in your future.

but the frustration didn't keep just you awake all night, donghyuck was up, laid back in bed,  and recalling the way you'd raised your voice at him earlier that day.

you roughly explained your worries to him, cute little eyebrows furrowed with discomfort, and you told him that he needs to be pulling his weight in this project.

"use your brain! if you even have one." you flicked at his forehead, and he actually enjoyed the electric jolt of pain your finger left on his skin, and the way your insult clawed at his heart strings. he smiles to himself in bed, 'heart strings', thinking of how you'd probably say that he doesn't have those either.

perhaps it's irresponsible, but donghyuck isn't too worried about this project grade; because if he goes down— you're going down with him. and maybe, just maybe, if he can annoy you enough through this experience, perhaps little miss perfect will get her first C+ score.

behind his eyelids he recalls your lips, pursed in frustration, and your chest heaved up and down in anger, breasts squeezed together and displayed to him from the way you leant down. donghyuck squeezes his eyes together, and to the memory, reaches a hand down to palm at himself over his boxers.

this isn't the first time he's touched himself to the thought of you. it's actually quite often that your blazing fury swirls into a white hot need in the pit of his stomach.

you could hate him with every fiber of your being, but it would only further his fantasy of fucking you. you'd be so angry, yet so needy at the same time, and he'd get you to admit that you must not hate him that much; if his cock was inside you right now.

he grinds into his hand a couple of times, and it's just as the erotic pleasure begins to rush through his veins that it hits him, an idea for the project.

—

the next night, he shows up at your door with a handful of groceries, brown paper bags filled to the brim with fruits and vegetables. "sup bitch!" he cheerily beams at you, immediately gaining a frown in return. "it's me, your lord and savior, here with a present."

you sigh loudly, grabbing a bag out of his hands and turning away from him in pursuit of the kitchen, grimacing along to his nonsensical blabber as if it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to your ears.

you're about to grill him out of annoyance, but what he says next stops you in your tracks, both mentally and physically. "don't thank me just yet, I still haven't told you about the perfect project idea I've come up with."

you spin to face him, taking a drink of coconut milk you've stolen from one of the grocery bags. his slender arm is leaning against the countertop and a confident smirk is painted across his features, "masturbation" he says simply.

just as the words leave his mouth, the milk leaves yours, and you're spitting the drink all over the kitchen tiles. "excuse me?" you squeal, face red with embarrassment at his vulgarity, and donghyuck is laughing harder than he ever has before, head tilted backwards and smiling widely.

"you're such a dick!" you land a punch onto his shoulder and grab a handful of paper towels to clean up the mess. as you glare up at him, he's grasping his skin with a wince, "I thought you were serious. you know how important this project is for me."

at the sound of your words, the expression of joy is suddenly washed from donghyucks face, mouth still agape, but now in a surprised '0' shape. "I am serious!" he retorts challengingly.

when you respond with nothing but a scowl, he continues to defend himself. "our research paper can be a sex educational experiment, covering which fruits and vegetables are best for male and female masturbation!"

you scoff out a laugh in disbelief, rolling your eyes as you stand to your feet, nearly gagging at the mere sound of his voice. "nice, donghyuck nice, you really think professor park will take us seriously with a project like that?!"

he takes a step toward you, lips pursed into a pout as he argues, "I already ran it by her, she finds the concept to be unique and challenging!" there's a twinge of light in his voice, as if he's using aegyo to persuade you into his perverted plan. "what? is little-miss-perfect-student not up for the challenge?"

"I don't know.." you trail off, eyeing the vegetables that sit over the kitchen counter, a cucumber peeking it's way out of the brown paper bag.

it's girthy and long, you shiver at the thought of it, large enough to be painful if inserted inside of your— "it's our only idea, and we have to start this project before we run out of time, so what do you say dumbass?" donghyuck pokes, once again stepping toward you.

"it's gross." you state, and donghyuck immediately rebuttals, "it's bold!"

you raise your voice, "it's strange." your tone is stern. "it's daring!" his tone is bright, like the grin on his face.

"I'm not doing it!" you throw the paper towel, soiled with spit-out coconut milk, right into his chest, leaving a dark stain on his grey shirt.

he glances down at the damp spot, and then back up at you, eyes dark and expression unreadable. he's so close to you now, after the two steps he'd taken before, you have to tilt your head upwards to face him. your heart begins to race, unsure if he's about to land a punch on your jaw, or hurt your feelings with the worst insult you'll ever receive by ear.

"listen," he speaks, voice deep and surprisingly calm in order to reason with you, "we need to start this project," he pauses for dramatic effect, "tonight."

you nod your head in agreement, not breaking eye contact. "so we start it." he continues, "if you come up with a better idea by the end of the school week, we can do that one instead."

the idea is tempting, donghyuck giving you just enough leverage to feel in charge, lending you a challenge for the week, to prove his idea to be stupid, and lesser to one that you can come up with.

"deal?" he asks when your respond with nothing but silence. "fine, deal." and the evil smirk he flashes around his perfect teeth has you regretting your decision.

—

the next twenty-four hours proved to be quite difficult for you. not only were you unsuccessful in racking your brain for any project ideas, but it bled it's way into your school work, and you didn't pay attention in any of your other classes.

donghyuck shows up to your dorm with his laptop in hand and a pair of glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. he plops down onto the couch and illuminates himself in the blue-lit screen.

"so—" he begins, glancing up at you for a second as he types away at the computer keys, "what is your experience with masturbation?"

"what the fuck?! jumping straight to the point are we? at least take me out first." you yelp, grabbing two water bottles from the refrigerator, allowing cool air to blow on your now flushed face.

"come on it’s for the project!" he annoyedly calls over his shoulder back at you, and you plop down onto the floor in front of him, separated by nothing but the coffee table.

"come onnn! a total slut like you has to have some insight." he murmurs, the words coming out of his mouth— so mean, but a playful pout sits over his lips, as if he's suppressing a smile.

you stare up at him, doe eyes unsure of what to respond with. "i'm not a slut." you state, causing a smirk to crawl its way onto his lips. "oh yeah?" he pokes, and your heart sinks in your chest before he can continue.

"is that why you let mark take your virginity sophomore year?" he asks, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose, "how about the time you had that fling with doyoung, but you cheated on him at the senior party?" his tongue swipes out to lick at his lower lip, and he crosses his arms to await your response.

your blood begins to boil, the scowl on your face growing nastier with every word he speaks. "of course I let mark," you stand to your knees, "my boyfriend," you yell, "take that from me— we'd been dating for nearly a year!"

donghyuck feels small as you point your finger in his face, but he's basking in every moment of it. getting a reaction out of you was his only goal, and here the dominoes fall.

"and doyoung?" you continue, tone laced with sass, "fuck him! I never cheated on him." you mimic him by folding your arms over your chest, and with a final mutter, "we weren't an official couple, nor did we agree to be exclusive."

donghyuck shakes his head, letting out a few cocky chuckles beneath his breath, and then reverts his eyes to the laptop screen, "whatever you say, let's get started."

"fine, I've never masturbated with anything before—" you attempt to admit, yet he's already typing away at the keys and speaking once again. but it isn't false, what you've said, fingers aside, you've never masturbated with an object.

"slut." he states factually, dismissing you completely, "anyway! it's pretty obvious that fruits are better for male masturbation and vegetables are better for female masturbation." and you once again grimace at the vulgarity of his words. "I think we should focus on both citrus and melon families, and the marrow and root families."

you're annoyed he's changed the subject, but grateful you don't have to speak about your own masturbational preferences anymore— as of the moment.

he gets up from the couch and makes his way over to your fridge, opening it up and letting himself in, ignoring the scoff you release at him for it. he sets the coffee table with various produce, a large grapefruit, a small watermelon, a long cucumber, a green squash, and a pointy carrot.

"so, which one catches your eye first?" he asks, his slender hand hovering above the vegetables to display your options.

"you mean—," you mumble out, unnerved by his question, "to masturbate with?" and he laughs loudly, making you wish to soak into the carpet like liquid. "yes! which one do you think would work best for your pleasure?" he's smiling across the floor from you.

he waits as you scan the table with your eyes. the cucumber is long and thick, while the carrot is thin and pointy, and to be truthful, you find it hard to believe that either of them would be pleasant to have inside of you. "the squash." you mutter.

"why?" he gently asks in return, his voice high and airy, all sweetened up just for you. "the cucumber is too big, and the carrot is too sharp." the words mumble out of your mouth, and he smiles widely at your innocence.

"too big?" he questions, his tone impossibly quieter than before, and he wraps his fingers around the cucumber. it's similar in size to his own cock, and his body tingles in excitement at your worries. a new fantasy has popped into his head now, and he'll definitely dream ruining you with the size of his penis for the next few weeks.

"how would these," you hesitantly speak, changing the subject from your vegetables to his fruits, "even work for males?" the words stutter out, making donghyuck laugh.

"well," he picks up the grapefruit in his palm, "you carve a hole into the middle," he glances up at you from beneath a pair of long eyelashes and the glass of his spectacles, "and put it in the microwave to warm it up."

you must have a disgusted look on your face by the way he chuckles again, "do you understand, or should I go more in detail?"

"I get it." you snap, suddenly feeling rushed and glancing at the clock, it's getting late, you have plans tomorrow, and you still have homework to do. "lets finish up here for the night."

donghyuck nods his head, a small grin still playing on his lips. "I'll take my grapefruit with me as I go, and leave you and mr.squash alone together." he wiggles his eyebrows, and you shuffle on your knees, immediately groaning back at him. "get out of my apartment you perv."

if you're honest, a tiny part of you feels excited to pleasure yourself with something you'd never thought of before. it's true that you've never masturbated with an object of any sort, only your fingers, and the imaginable stretch this vegetable could give you is already sending waves down to your core.

donghyuck on the other hand, is just as eager, if not more, to get his hands on this project tonight. in fact, when he gets outside to his car, he's ready to speed home and get started.

he's already halfway hard just from the way you spoke to him earlier. not only were you aggressive to him when debunking the rumors, but the topic of sleeping with mark, and who's ever been able to touch you—it has him wishing he was in their shoes.

you're continuing to run through donghyuck's mind as he drives home. he didn't realize you were so pure, he wants to destroy you, in truth, he wants to send you a teasing text message right now, just to see your aggravated response. so as soon as he parks the car outside of his fraternity home, he does just that.

11:41 PM

lee donghyuck: plans tonight? a vegetable orgy perhaps?

he enters the fraternity house, keys in hand, phone in back pocket, wallet in— where's his wallet?

"shit." he breathily curses, jogging up the stairs to his empty room. his roommate johnny must be out for the night, bed made neatly in the corner.

donghyuck plops into his own bed and dials your number, now growing anxious about his missing wallet.

"what do you want donghyuck?!" you sound angry, well, angrier than usual, and if he listens closely, your breathing is labored, as if you'd just done something strenuous.

"don't be a bitch, I just have a question," he says coldly, "did I happen to leave my wallet at your place?"

you groan throatily from the other end of the phone line, and haechan smirks in reaction, happy to be of inconvenience. a soft shuffling rustles through his speakers, and you're annoyedly stopping down the hallway to your kitchen.

his leather platted wallet sits quaintly over the counter top, and you sigh loudly enough for him to hear. "yes it's here, I'll be sure to chuck it at your head in class tomorrow." you sneer, and donghyuck scoffs back an "okay, but I know how much money is in there, so don't even think about stealing any."

you're on your way back to your bedroom when you respond, "fuck you donghyuck, I changed my mind, I'm gonna give it to a homeless man on my way to class."

and before he gets a chance to bite back, you throw the phone onto your bed sheets and snuggle right back in to where you were before he called.

he however, is still on the other end of the line, snarking an unheard comeback into the speaker like his life depends on it. he's completely unaware that the phone has just landed next to a vegetable, the squash, which is laying over the bedsheets in preparation to be used.

once he finishes speaking, he's confused as to why you haven't hung up, because the phone call is racking up the minutes before his eyes, yet nothing but a simple rustling noise comes through the speakers.

before his interruption, you were stroking yourself with the vegetable, experimenting with it like the research project entails for you to. so here you are again, and it's difficult, you find yourself whining out loud when it won't fit inside you, stretching the outside of your hole with a sharp burning pain.

donghyuck inhales sharply when he hears you, that soft angelic whimper escaping your throat— he can only imagine it to be one thing. is there someone there with you? are you touching yourself? do you know he's still on the line? the questions fly through his brain.

it isn't until you whine to yourself "too big," that he really understands what's happening on the other end of the phone. the vegetable.

donghyucks heart races, recalling the size of the green squash in his brain, it wasn't even that large. oh my god, you really have never masturbated with an object before. even though he'd heard you say so earlier, he ignored it out of pure disbelief.

yet now that he knows, he can't bare to hear your despair over the phone, he wants to educate you, he's desperate to help you pleasure yourself in your tiny and untouched hole.

he doesn't want to hang up the phone, but the angel on his shoulder reminds him how dirty and wrong the situation may be. you had to have meant to hang up the phone, there's no way, as much as he wishes there was, that you'd left him on the line on purpose.

so the little red end button is tapped by his finger, and it swiftly makes way to the keyboard, typing out yet another text message for you.

11:41 PM

lee donghyuck: plans tonight? a vegetable orgy perhaps?

12:03 AM

lee donghyuck: you can't make yourself feel good with something so big, unless you warm up first. start with your fingers, take your time, stretch yourself out.

he watches closely as the text bubble delivers, and a heavy fog sits in his bedroom air. the fact that he heard you whimper at the mercy of unreachable pleasure, and knowing that you're masturbating in this current moment in time— it's done something to donghyuck, obvious by the imprint of his hard cock in his sweatpants, and the rapid racing beat of his heart.

—

in the morning, you feel physically ill, when recalling the events from the night before. donghyucks text message had buzzed your phone to life, and your stomach dropped as you read it. there's no way he could've guessed that masturbating is what you'd been doing before and after answering his phone call, and by the amount of minutes the caller ID racked up, you knew exactly what happened.

he heard you. masturbating. with a squash.

in hindsight, it isn't that big of a deal, this is your research project, after all. and donghyuck will need to fuck a food just as well you will, but the fact that he heard you and so nonchalantly gave you advice about it, its so embarrassing.

you cant go into class today, not with this on your conscience, and especially not with the blackmail that the infamous lee donghyuck is now equipped with.

you'll have to switch schools, better yet, you'll have to change your name.

donghyuck was confused when he entered the classroom, actually slightly excited to see you at your desk, only to find it vacant and cold in lack of your presence. even professor park herself asked the students if they'd seen you on campus today, worried by the disruption in your perfect attendance.

donghyuck reaches for his cellphone, immediately typing out a text for you, the third text within twelve hours actually.

11:41 PM

lee donghyuck: plans tonight? a vegetable orgy perhaps?

12:03 AM

lee donghyuck: you can't make yourself feel good with something so big, unless you warm up first. start with your fingers, take your time, stretch yourself out.

10:02 AM

lee donghyuck: where are you?

you stare at the text as it buzzes it's way onto your home screen, nausea pooling it's way into your stomach. you knew you hated donghyucks project idea, but you had no idea that it was going to be this gut wrenchingly awful to execute. so you ignore the message—all day.

tonight's plans consist of a wedding, a beautiful reception for your wonderful cousin and the man she loves. and while you're elated for their happiness, you find yourself most excited to take place at the open bar all night.

so here you are, downing your fourth lemon drop shot and ordering yet another glass of rosé champagne from an old female bartender. the ceremony was gorgeous, so was your cousin, and now that she's wedded, the guests are celebrating, you included, until you hear an agitating-ly familiar voice from down the bar.

"can I get another bottle of soju?" donghyuck slurs, leaning over the black countertop to an older bartender. he seems reluctant to give donghyuck what he asks for, but does it anyway.

a sober you would've ducked your head and ran the other way to avoid donghyuck, but drunk you, "what the fuck are you doing here?" blurts out harshly, also slurring your words.

his reaction time is slowed when he turns to you, proving him also to be very tipsy. "what the hell?" he grits his teeth, "the groom is my brothers best friend, why the fuck are you here?"

oh but of course. what an inconvenient coincidence.

"the bride is my cousin, so I'm family. that means I'm more important." the words barely make sense as they string together when leaving your lips. "you should leave." you state, turning away and stomping back toward a dinner table.

donghyuck can't help but glance at your body in the little blue dress you threw on for tonight's event, it flows cutely in the wind behind you as you stumble away in your high heels. he almost chuckles, until he remembers the way you ghosted him all day.

"excuse me?" he hisses, now stumbling after you. "can you rethink the way you're speaking to me lately? I'm a person too you know." he grasps onto your wrist, but you wriggle away from his touch and plop into a dining chair.

it only takes half a second for him to join you, sitting in the seat directly next to yours. "I really enjoyed your response to my texts, by the way. It was really great, super well thought out, had great diction and outstanding sentence structure, I was appalled by your greatness—" he rambles on and on sarcastically about the read receipts and lack of responses left beneath his messages.

"shut the fuck up!" you lean forward to confidently yell in his face, the gutsy move supported by the alcohol in your veins. your heads are close, and donghyucks eyes widen by the fury in your tone.

"if you're trying to hound me about the project—don't." you warn, breath still close enough to fan donghyucks face. "I'm done talking about it with you. from now on, I'll do my part, and you do yours. that's it." a pout sits over your lips when you lean back into the chair and take a large sip of your drink.

donghyuck is dumbfounded by your words, but resonates with them nonetheless. he crossed a boundary with you, and understands the place you're coming from. you've worked together enough so far, and can finish the research paper without discussing the— intricacies.

the rounded table falls silent, each chair vacant, nothing but purses and jackets left by party guests who now reside on the dance floor. you stare into the middle of the white tablecloth, eyes now focused on the fruit tray appetizer sitting in the middle of it.

"I love pineapple." you drunkenly state through the silence, now gripping a tiny chunk of the fruit between your fingers.

the argument is over, and donghyuck watches as you examine the snack and plop it between your lips, painted such a pretty pink color. he wants to laugh at the way you've just went from screaming at him to contently munching on appetizers. "it's alright. I like strawberry better."

your eyes widen in disbelief, cheeks full of pineapple when you debate the matter of his opinion. "what?! pineapple is so much better! it has so many interesting benefits also. did you know that it promotes reproductive health?"

"benefits?" he leans closer, watching as you pick up yet another piece of the yellow fruit. a sober donghyuck would do his own research and try his best to correct the way you're educating him right now, but drunk donghyuck would rather question it blindly.

"yes," you stare back at him, chewing the juicy texture with happiness, "eating it makes oral sex taste better."

his already flushed cheeks are now burning with saturation, and he smiles at your words. "that's such a myth." a giggle leaves his lips beneath his giddy and crescent shaped eyes, and you sit forward in shock.

that's it. a new project idea that totally trumps his flop masturbation idea, and will get you out of it entirely.

"wanna bet? let's research it." you're now facing him straight on, and there's a curious glint in his foggy and intoxicated eyes. he sits back, once again taking in the way the blue dress compliments your figure. “how?”

who knew that a drunk you could think of a project idea much faster than a sober you ever could.

maybe it’s the way donghyucks brunette hair is disheveled around his forehead, or the way his voice has dropped several octaves to a sexy husk, it could be nothing but the lustful look in his eyes.

but whatever it may be, has curated a need inside of you that you never thought you’d form. “follow me, and I’ll show you.”

———★———★———★———★———★———

part 2 coming soon! ( much quicker than part 1 did, sorry for the wait )

TAGLIST: @thisbabydontstop @thelmathinks @trulanxe @jaeymark @nctxtrash @artgukk @jaehmarks @count-your-shadows @pradagukkie @matchahyuck

#finally found motivation to post this #still hate it tbh #sorry it took so long #part 2 will be better 😎 #haechan smut #haechan x reader #haechan au #nct dream smut

[unclewaynemunson]

Steve's dad was a grade A asshole. At least, that's what Steve thought ever since the first time he got in trouble for drinking beer with Tommy and Carol instead of studying for his Spanish test – which he ended up failing spectacularly.

His dad was strict, kept going on and on about how Steve should work harder, shouldn't expect to get everything handed to him on a silver platter just because they had money, that the world was unfair but that he shouldn't take advantage of that fact.

It was infuriating. They fought a lot, all through high school, but after Steve graduated, it got even worse. He vividly remembered the day he got rejected for Tech, all his chances to actually get into college out of the window. He knew that his dad knew the dean, knew that he was only one phone call away from getting in - a phone call his dad refused to make. Mr. Harrington had been stubborn as ever, with his whole spiel of hard work and honesty and refusing to partake in nepotism.

And the worst thing about all of that? The fact that his father was right. The fact that Steve had indeed prioritized being keg king and getting into Nancy Wheeler's panties over good grades, convinced that his father's connections would be his safety net anyway.

So yeah, Steve hated his father when the man made him get some shitty job at the mall and work for his income like Mr. Harrington himself had done before he got to where he was now. The man was an asshole, obviously.

Until Robin. Until he saw from up-close what it meant to be poor, to have to climb that ladder that he had been on top of only because of the lottery that was birth. So during the months after summer 1985, he and his dad slowly but surely started growing closer again. Mr. Harrington helped him with new college applications, helped him think of good alternatives in case college simply wasn't for Steve anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington welcomed Robin into their house with open arms, along with Steve’s odd gang of middle schoolers, relieved to see that their son had finally stopped caring about status and started valuing true friendship and loyalty instead. And when Robin was worried about telling her parents that she was a lesbian, they told her that she'd always have a place in the Harrington home, if she needed it.

'I'm proud of you, Steve,' Mr. Harrington said when they were reminiscing Steve's old high school days together during the Christmas break. 'And I'm sorry if I was too hard on you sometimes.'

'No, I get it now,' Steve was quick to say.

'I just needed to do everything in my power to make sure you wouldn't take for granted what we have. I told you often enough how things were for me growing up – I worked my ass of to get us where we are. I needed you to grow up kind, and humble. But I always loved you, you know that, right?'

'Yeah, I know that,' Steve answered, quietly. 'Love you too, dad.'

1986 came around and before he knew it, it was March and he was standing pressed against the wall of Reefer Rick's boathouse with a broken bottle to his throat. After the end of the world, his parents rushed over to the hospital as soon as they could and they took turns keeping Steve company at Eddie's bedside while they all waited and waited and waited.

Two months later, he found himself sitting opposite of his parents at the kitchen table, his hands trembling and Robin by his side as he told them that he was in love. And they smiled, told him that they saw this one coming since before Steve was even seeing it himself; that they loved him and that they thought Eddie was a wonderful boy and that they'd love to welcome him in their family.

That same night, Steve thanked his father. Because he knew that if it wasn't for Mr. Harrington trying to steer him towards kindness instead of arrogance time and time again, he would never have grown up to fall in love with Eddie Munson.

#your periodical reminder that steve's parents aren't actually neglectful or the literal worst in canon #and while i do love that trope i also think that we could be a lil more creative with it #don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #fruity ficlet

[tropes-and-tales]

Team Prime, Part One

CW:  Unrequited love; pining; heavy angst.

Word Count:  5349

Other pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

AN:  Not beta-read; barely proof-read. An angsty companion piece to @youvebeenlivingfictional's Jake Seresin piece (and upcoming Bradley Bradshaw piece).

When your sister, Hannah, gets engaged to her long-term boyfriend, she chooses you over your other sisters to be her maid of honor.

“Maid of horrors, more like,” you grumble, but you’re secretly touched by the trust she puts in you.  She and Eric have dated since high school, and they’ve been through a lot—mostly long-distance during the years as she went to college and graduate school and as he joined the Navy.  And yet here they are.  Still together.  Still in love.  Ready to make it official-official.

“Eric’s best friend from the Navy will be the best man,” Hannah tells you.  “I met him a few times.  Bob Floyd.  He’s nice.  You’ll like him.”

Bob Floyd.  Something about the name puts you in mind of a middle aged man with strong opinions about lawn maintenance and grilling meats, so when you finally meet the baby-faced Bob with his bright blue eyes and stammering flush at the engagement party, you find yourself surprised, knocked back on your heels.

-----

You were never the sort of girl who dreamt about her wedding day, but when Hannah foists much of the wedding planning onto you, you decide then and there to elope if you ever meet someone you want to marry.

The cake tasting wouldn’t be bad, but Hannah has an entire binder of ideas she gleaned from the internet. It’s difficult to enjoy the white cake with raspberry compote, for example, when you’re worried about how the pearl luster dust will hold up under the California sun.

The venue only rents out some things in-house, so you spend two entire weekends tracking down a dance floor, chairs, linens.  You pick the wrong linens (white instead of cream), and you have a minor breakdown that night, crying in the shower at the stress of planning a party that isn’t even for you.

It’s a moment of weakness.  At the engagement party, Bob gave you his number and mumbled shyly, “if you need help.  You know, with the planning or anything.”

You hadn’t thought of it originally, but you’re tired and figure, why not reach out?  He offered to help.  Worst he can say is ‘no.’

He doesn’t say no.  He says tell me what you need.

-----

What you need:  help with the menu.  Help with the seating arrangements.  Help with the joint bachelor and bachelorette party.  

For the menu, the two of you do a whirlwind tour of the local catering companies.  Two of the three companies confuse you and Bob as the bride and groom, and you laugh to see Bob’s face turn bright red, the way he stammers to correct them.

“I apologize,” one woman tells you.  “You make a really cute couple.”

Afterwards, pleasantly stuffed from peach and goat cheese crostini and tri-tip, you reach across the driver’s seat to where Bob sits to your right.  You poke him lightly on his still-flushed cheek, call him really cute…which makes his face burn even hotter.

For the seating arrangements, he spends an evening at your apartment in Monterey.  You split a pizza and a six-pack, and you pore over the massive guest list.  You list out the people who can’t sit together—old family grudges, friendly rivalries—and you get a rough chart pulled together for Hannah’s inspection.

For the joint party—by then, you and Bob work like a well-oiled machine.  You book hotel rooms in Vegas.  You book tickets to shows, reservations to restaurants.  You book dance lessons, since Hannah insists that everyone in the wedding party learn how to not stumble around the dance floor for the first dances.  You send out itineraries, details.  You collect money.  

When it’s done, you sit back on your couch and heave a sigh of relief.  Your head lolls back, and you turn to look at Bob.

“Team Prime strikes again,” he says with a soft smile, and you hold up a hand for a high five.  It’s an inside joke between the two of you, a dumb joke about how you’re the first bridesmaid and he’s the first groomsman, the best of the best, the chosen-above-all-others.  The Primes.

“Hell yeah we did,” you reply with an answering smile, and that’s when you first feel it:  the pleasant little dip in your stomach at the sight of his smile, his blue eyes.  The first little tremor of infatuation.  Of burgeoning love.

-----

Two months pass, and after the initial press of planning, things stabilize.  With Bob Floyd’s help, the wedding plans firm up, and you can breathe.

You stay in touch.  You trade daily texts, checking in on each other.  Sharing funny memes.  Talking about movies you’ve seen, books you’ve read.  Joking on the side about the main wedding party group chat.

Then the bachelor and bachelorette party in Vegas in upon you.  You text Bob about your fear of flying.

Reassure me that it’s safe, you plead via text.  Tell me I’m safer flying than driving.

You’re safer flying than driving.

You snort.  Funny, you type back.

He doesn’t text anything in reply.  Instead, he calls you.

Bob Floyd, graduate of Top Gun, walks you through the physics of flight.  His soft voice, his slight drawl that comes out when he’s comfortable….he soothes you with his matter-of-fact discussion of lift and thrust, of yaw and roll.  He tells you that planes are stringently designed to be safe, maintained for safety.  That pilots train rigorously while any dumbass can fumble their way into a driver’s license.

He talks to you for an hour.  He doesn’t quite talk you out of your fear; he doesn’t slay that dragon entirely, but he makes it smaller.  Less scary.

“We’re on the same flight out tomorrow,” he points out.  “We can try to switch seats and sit together.”

That first little dip in your stomach was nothing compared to the roiling now.  It’s such a damned cliché, yet here you are:  the maid of honor falling for the best man.  Like a stupid Hallmark movie, yet you can’t stop the wide grin from splitting your face.

The next morning, you are able to switch seats after all, and for the entire short flight to Vegas, Bob holds your clammy hand in his, twists himself in his seat so that he can talk to you, low and soft, explaining each bump and lurch of the plane, making them seem like nothing scary at all.

-----

“You’re more sure on your feet than I would have expected,” you tease, and Bob gifts you a shy smile as he turns you gracefully across the dance floor.

“I guess I’m full of surprises.”

You hum in agreement, then look around the studio at the other coupled-off bridesmaids and groomsmen. After an hour-long lesson in ballroom dancing, few people other than you and Bob have grasped the steps of the easy waltz.

Two couples have given up altogether and are standing haplessly where they stopped on the dance floor.  One couple is sorta doing their own thing, that awkward swaying shuffle that kids used to do at middle school dances.

Hannah and Eric are giving it an honest shot, but even from where you and Bob are, you can hear them bickering over who needs to lead, over which step is next.  You glance at your own partner and see him watching them too.  There’s a faint frown on his face.

“I think we’re the best dancers of the bunch,” he whispers, conspiratorial.  

“I think you’re right,” you whisper back.

He turns his gaze back to you, and his returning smile makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners.  “Do you think if we show them up, they’ll kick us out of the wedding party?” he jokes.

“Oh, please,” you groan.  “If there’s even a chance, I say we go for it.  I’m so damned tired of earnest, late-night discussions about freesias and cake toppers.”

He laughs, and he squeezes your hand lightly as he turns you, an advanced move the instructor showed you earlier.  “It can’t be that bad.”

You settle back into his hold and look at him.  He’s been the most surprising part of the entire miserable wedding planning, this buddy of the groom that you’ve been paired with.  Not a typical military guy at all.  Bob is too sweet, too kind, too polite to be a complete dork…but even if he was, you’d still like him.  He’s an easy guy to like.  An easy guy to fall for.

“Nah,” you reply.  “It’s not that bad at all.”

-----

The first day in Vegas is dance lessons and a nice dinner.  The second day is a helicopter tour, which you politely skip, and then dinner and then dancing at a club.  You and Bob had managed to book a VIP space, and you both volunteered to stay sober to help wrangle the drunks at the end of the night.

So for the first day and much of the second, you remain ignorant.  You lean into all the feelings of your growing infatuation, but it doesn’t feel like your usual harmless crush.  You like Bob Floyd.  You really like him.  There’s not a single ounce of artifice to him—he is genuinely just himself.  Smart.  Driven, in a quiet, steady way.  Kind and funny.  Despite his outwardly nerdy appearance, he seems fairly comfortable with who he is.  He possesses a quiet confidence that you’ve never noticed in a man before.

You’ve dated in the past.  You even had a semi-serious boyfriend, dated him for three years and talked vaguely of getting engaged, getting married.  But nothing ever came of it; neither of you felt that elusive tug on the heartstrings that the other person was the one.  So you broke it off amicably, and a month later, he met his would-be wife.

You remain single, and it rarely bothers you.  You’re alone but not lonely, and you like your own company.  You have your sisters.  You have your coworkers and friends.  

But in meeting Bob Floyd, you start to see the possibilities of finding someone and building a life with them…as long as that someone is…well…Bob Floyd.

For the first day and much of the second, you lean into the burgeoning fantasy.  You play out how the wedding day will be.  The reception.  You wonder if Hannah will aim her bouquet toss at you, and if Eric will aim the garter at Bob.  You wonder if there will be a moment on the dance floor, or maybe somewhere quieter.  If Bob doesn’t make a move, you decide, you will.  

The night at the club starts out great.  The VIP area is elevated and set apart, so you can watch the dance floor but still have space to yourself.  The champagne flows, then everyone switches to liquor.  You and Bob are like hovering parents, easing glasses of water into people’s hands, checking in with them to make sure they are still coherent, cognizant.

It’s so damned easy to fall into the fantasy for these last few moments.  There’s a sort of fraternity among the sober people in the club or bar:  the clear, alert eyes that find each other.  The knowing head nod, the little shrugs as if to say, “what can you do?” as you corral and tend to your drunken charges.  

You and Bob—you catch each other’s eyes as you get a fresh pitcher of water.  You smile at each other in the dim club lights.  He rolls his eyes once, elaborate, and you laugh.

And when he wants to talk to you, he stands close, dips his head.  Puts his mouth right near your ear so he doesn’t have to shout over the bassline, and that sets a low, licking flame of desire deep in your core, his warm breath fanning over you as he gently makes fun of your sisters, the other groomsmen.  You wonder what he would do if you kissed him, if you took his hand after everyone was tucked in their beds and drew him into your room.  Maybe you could kiss him, you think, you could press even a soft kiss to his cheek and see how he reacts.  Maybe you could—

“I told Eric I don’t want any of this,” Bob says.  You turn and look at him, and he gestures broadly with his hand.  At the bridal party, half-debauched and fully drunk.  At the wider space of the dark, loud club.

“Sorry?” 

He dips his head near your ear again.  “I said, I already told Eric I don’t want a big production.”

“For what?” you ask, but you already know—your body already knows, even if your brain hasn’t quite caught up.  The flickering heat of your nascent arousal is doused, and your stomach flips like you might throw up.

“For my bachelor’s party.  I just want a beer and poker night.  Nothing wild.  My fiancée would kill me anyway, but laid-back is more my scene.”

“For your…” you start to say, and then your brain catches up.  “Oh.  Oh.”

And then sweet, unassuming Bob Floyd tells you all about her:  the high school sweetheart, the long-distance fiancée who is finishing up grad school.  The woman finally ready to set a date and make it official-official after all these years.

The woman who will be Bob Floyd’s wife someday soon.

“Congratulations,” you manage to say, and you manage to make it sound convincing, and then you manage to make it to the restroom where you clutch the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip.  You manage to take deep, gulping breaths as you choke down your sudden, bitter disappointment.

-----

Bob, Eric, most of the bridal party…they don’t really know you, so it’s easy to mask how you’re feeling.

Your sisters?  Hannah?  They recognize your poor acting performance from the start.

They must have conferred together, and they must have elected Hannah as their spokeswoman because on the second to last morning, she comes to your room, links her arm through yours, and says, “let’s grab breakfast, just you and me.”  Her voice has that artificial cheeriness to it, so you guess what’s up.

“I’m not hungry.”  You tug your arm from hers, turn away from her.  You walk over to the window and peek out around the curtains to see the sun about to rise, the sky a pink wash of color.

“Bullshit.  You’re always hungry.”  Hannah follows you into the room, and at the window, she wraps an arm around your waist, hugs you from behind.  A few inches taller than you, she hooks her chin on your shoulder and gazes out the window too.

“My stomach is off,” you lie.  “I think I ate a bad oyster at that buffet.”

She hums, doesn’t reply for a long moment.  The two of you watch the sun break the line of the horizon, washing the cityscape in a bright yellow light.  

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Hannah asks.  “I know I’ve been a lot the past few months, but I’m always here for you.  Always.”

You swallow thickly against the lump in your throat.  “I know.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

You don’t bother to deny it.  You nod.

“You love him?”

You shrug, jostle her where she’s perched on your shoulder.  “I thought I did.”

Another hum, another beat of silence.  “Probably wouldn’t hurt so bad if you didn’t love him.”

“What makes you think I’m hurting?”

“You’re my little sister.  I know when you’re in pain.”

You huff out a quiet breath, a near-laugh.  “When did you get so damned wise?”

She chuckles, squeezes her arms comfortingly around your waist.  “I was born wise.”

You sigh, lean your head against hers.  “That makes one of us.”

Hannah squeezes you again, then lays a smacking kiss on your cheek before releasing you.  “C’mon,” she says.  “Seriously, let me take you out for breakfast.  Everything seems easier on a full stomach.”

“Hannah—”

She’s a few inches taller than you, and she’s much stronger.  She man-handles you away from the window, turns you around to face her.

“I’m the bride-to-be.  You can’t tell me no,” she teases, but then her expression turns serious as she studies you closer.

“You know there’s someone out there just waiting for you,” she adds, somber, and she gazes at you so earnestly that tears prickle in your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you start to cry.

-----

It’s dumb, you decide.  A dumb crush.

You’ve known the man a handful of months.  He was helpful, and you were stressed, so maybe the help seemed outsized.  Bob Floyd is just a regular guy, you decide, and you got wrapped up in his orbit because he seemed nice and kind and helpful and funny.  Which he is all of those things, but to fall in love over it?

Dumb.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

You make the decision over breakfast with Hannah.  Your wise older sister.  She’s right, you think:  life seems a little less unbearable when your stomach is full of eggs benedict and mimosa.

The rest of the day is sightseeing before another group dinner that evening.  It’s your last day and night in Vegas; you fly out in the morning.  You and Bob are on the same flight home, and you think—you honestly think—that you can get through it.  

It’s just a crush.  It will die off soon enough.

But over the course of the day, once the group has reconvened, Bob sticks close to you.  He’s always right there.  He’s in your line of sight, or right at your shoulder, close enough that you can hear his quiet breathing, or when he chuckles under his breath.  Close enough to smell the cleanly masculine scent of him.

You aren’t sure why he never mentioned being engaged before.  You suppose it never came up naturally, even though the two of you did the bulk of the wedding planning together.  There were a hundred opportunities, you guess, for him to say, “oh, I’ll have to keep this in mind for my own wedding” or “I should tell my fiancée about this.”

Over the course of the day, and now that the fact of his own engagement is out, Bob chats with you about it. You get the entire fucking story.  High school sweethearts who broke up briefly when they went to college in separate states.   How they reconnected over summer vacation their sophomore year.  How they’ve been together ever since.  

How Bob proposed once and was rejected.  “It was too soon,” he tells you with a rueful shake of his head, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing out that when he proposed, the two of them had been dating for years.

How Bob joined the Navy.  How he kept his budget tight to save up for a better ring.  How his fiancée—Jessica, her name is—finally said yes.  

And now, he tells you how the engagement has stretched on and on, so much so that his parents stopped teasing him and started asking when the hell he and Jessica are going to finish the thing.

“Eric and Hannah,” he says, jerking his chin in their direction.  “They were the kick in the ass we needed.  Once they got engaged, we finally set a date.”

“Yeah?”  Your voice comes out a rough croak, and you’re grateful for the huge sunglasses hiding your eyes from him.

“Next June.  A little more than a year from now.”

You force a smile.  “That sounds lovely.”

Bob nods, then grins at you.  “All this planning, it was good practice for me.  Now I know what to look for in a caterer and a linen-rental company.”

“I’m glad.”  You try to keep your voice light, conversational, but something in your tone must clue him in that something is off.  His grin fades, and he peers at you closer through his thick glasses, his blue eyes swimming behind the lenses.

“Everything okay?  You seem…off.”

You force the smile back on your face, and you swallow back the shakiness in your voice.  Of course Bob would notice that you aren’t yourself.  Any other guy wouldn’t even register your more taciturn nature over the past few days, but Bob seems to miss very little, and he’s kind enough to care, to ask after you.

“Just tired.  I never sleep well in a hotel room.”

He peers at you a moment longer, then nods, but his expression looks doubtful.  “You should head back to the room early and rest,” he advises.  

It’s a good idea.  It would get you away from him, at least.  You nod, and then you go to find Hannah, tell her you’re dipping out early and will meet back up for dinner.

-----

It’s the final dinner when you finally snap.  You reach the end of your ability to sit and smile and nod your head, and your earlier bravado melts away.

Of course Bob sits beside you.  Of course Hannah and Eric are the picture of true, enduring love.  Of course you’re feeling sorry for yourself, positively maudlin, and then Bob—between bites of steak—tells you that Jessica can make it to the wedding after all, and not to worry because Hannah was able to find space for her at the reception.

“No need to redo those seating charts,” he chuckles, and then he tells you how excited he is for you to meet Jessica, how much he’s told her about the wedding planning, how much he’s learned, how much he can’t wait to get started on his own wedding planning.

It’s too much.  Too much to take.  You nod weakly at him, push your own meal around your plate with the tines of your fork.  You keep your head bent, and you miss the looks people start to shoot at each other as they finally notice that the usually-chatty, usually-chipper maid of honor has gone sullen and silent.

It’s Hannah who gets up, makes a show of saying she needs to use the restroom.  When you lift your head to look at her, she makes a “come along” gesture, and you stand up and follow her.

In the bathroom, she cups your face and stares at you, frowns.  

“You look like shit,” she declares after a beat.  “Seriously, are you okay?”

“’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.  Why don’t we get out of here, huh?  Get some air?”

You shake your head.  “It’s the last night here.  Please don’t…don’t let me ruin it.”

She laughs, then smushes your cheeks together.  “You couldn’t ruin it if you tried.  C’mon…you did all the shit-work for me, planning this wedding.  The least I can do is get you out of here.”

You shake your head again, more emphatic.  “No.  Why don’t I just go?  You can make up an excuse that I’m not feeling well.”  You bite your lip, swallow hard against the lump in your throat.  “I just can’t be around him anymore right now.  I just need space to get my head right.”

“Oof, you got it bad,” she says with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue, but then she nods.  “Why don’t I go grab your purse, and then I’ll make something up.”

You offer her a shaky smile.  “Thank you.”

She nods again, then kisses your forehead, more motherly than sisterly.  Hannah always had a maternal streak to her as the eldest sister, always was the first to tend to you and your sisters’ scraped knees and bruised hearts.  She’ll be the family’s matriarch someday, you realize:  the person who will hold you all together, who will gather you up for holidays and celebrations and moments of grief long after your parents are gone.

“A little distance from Bob Floyd will cure what ails you,” she jokes, and you have to agree.  Tomorrow you’re supposed to fly out with Bob, and the thought of his hand in yours, his reassuring voice right by your ear…you can’t do it.  You’ll snap and say something you won’t be able to take back.

That evening, in the hotel room, you call the airline and cancel your ticket.  You book a rental car instead.

-----

You don’t see Bob Floyd again.  The two of you are supposed to meet in the lobby the next morning to share a ride to the airport, but you wake up earlier and leave alone, bound for the rental car part of the airport.

Decided to drive back, you text Bob.  Enjoy your flight and thanks for all your help!

He doesn’t text you back.  He calls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, and for the first time since you’ve met him, his voice is deeper, edged in real concern.  “You’re driving back to California?  It’s eight hours or more.”

“I just wanted to clear my head.”  It’s not a lie, and the reason falls easily from your lips.

“But you’ve not been sleeping well, and you were sick last night,” he points out.  “Should you even be driving?  Flying is safer anyway, and it’s only a two hour flight—”

You cut him off gently.  You tell him that you’ve already cancelled your ticket, that an eight-hour drive is nothing.  That you want a little alone time to think.  That a road trip through the desert with the music blasting is sometimes just the cure for what ails.

“I promise I’m okay to drive.”  You’re touched by his concern, and you realize that your bravado was false, that it isn’t just a dumb crush.  Bob Floyd is a genuinely good man.  Of course you fell for him.

And if it isn’t just a dumb crush, then the only way to handle it is to endure it.  There’s no cure but time.

“Well, let me know when you make it home,” he finally concedes.  “Team Prime looks out for its own.”

You smile in spite of your crushing self-pity.  “Team Prime.  I’ll text you when I’m back.”

You end the call, and you situate yourself in your rental car.  Challenging situations always make you want to flee, but you were right too:  a road trip is a good time to think, to turn over your muddle thoughts and sort them out.  To clear the head, ease the heart.  

You pull out into the Nevada sunshine and turn towards home:  the sun rising at your back in the east, and maybe the possibility of finding love, as Hannah said, to the west.

*****

Bob frowns when you cut that call, and for the entire plane ride home (the seat beside him still empty; there were no standbys), he mulls it over.

You had been so gregarious, so funny and sweet in the months since he’s met you.  Despite the overwhelming pressure of the wedding planning, you were level-headed.  Managed to joke about it all.  When he stepped in to help, you thanked him profusely, called him a life-saver, called him your hero.  

It was easy to let it get to his head, a little.  People rarely noticed Lieutenant Robert Floyd, and it made him feel good to be seen by such a sweetly cheerful woman.

Something happened in Vegas, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.  It’s like a switch was thrown.  The chipper demeanor disappeared, but it wasn’t like you were sullen or angry.  You seemed pained, almost, on the verge of tears a few times that he noticed.  You tried to pretend you were okay, and that made it sadder, more perplexing.  Whatever you were going through, you were trying to power through it, hide it.

He tried to draw you out by talking about his own impending wedding, talking about Jessica…but after a while, something about that line of conversation made his stomach dip and twist unpleasantly.  

He had been looking forward to the flight home.  That got to his head too, the way you clung to his hand the entire flight to Vegas, the way you needed him to get through it.  The shaky exhale you gave when the plane finally touched down.  The shaky, embarrassed laugh, then the half-hug in your seats, the two of you twisted towards each other, as you wrapped your arm around his shoulders and thanked him profusely.

He likes being needed, he finds.  Not in an extreme way, or an unhealthy codependent way.  He just likes being needed by someone once in a while, for little things like that—sketching out a seating chart, being a bulwark against a fear of flying.  Jessica never seems to need him, and it—

Bob pushes the thought out of his head.  He won’t compare the two of you.  He won’t.

The entire flight home, he mulls you over.  The drive back to base too.  He calls Jessica to hear her voice and he gives her the abridged version of the Vegas trip.  He runs errands:  restocks his refrigerator, does laundry, presses his uniform shirts and pants.  He goes for a jog, then hits the gym on base, lifts until his arms burn.

He goes home and showers, and then he settles in front of the TV.  He dozes off and wakes in the middle of the night with a start, his heart hammering in his chest and the taste of pennies in his mouth.

He has no idea what’s wrong until he checks his phone, notes the time…and notes that you haven’t called or texted.

Bob scrubs his face with his hands.  He makes his way to the bathroom, splashes himself with water.  He studies his own reflection, and even with his glasses off, he can see the worry writ all over his expression.

Maybe she got tired and pulled off for the night, he thinks.  Or maybe she just forgot to let me know she’s home.

That’s what he imagines when he moves to his bed and tries to fall back asleep—he imagines you home in your own apartment, the cozy little space that is so perfectly you.  He imagines you returning the rental car, showering off the road dust, then turning in for a long, well-earned sleep.

When he finally drifts off, his dreams are unsettling, and he wakes early, coated in a thin sheen of sweat despite the AC running at top capacity.

“Something’s wrong,” he mutters aloud to the empty bedroom.  He can feel it in his gut.  Something is off, and just as he makes up his mind to call you, to check in on you, even if it’s rude and even if he wakes you up, his phone lights up with an incoming call.

From Eric.

Eric, his best friend, his oldest friend.  Eric, who rarely calls and who prefers to text.  Eric, who only calls—especially at four-thirty in the morning—when there’s bad news.  

Eric, the most unflappable man that Bob has ever known, openly, obviously trying to hide the tears in his voice.  In the background, Bob can hear a woman crying—Hannah—as Eric relays the news:  the only other member of Team Prime, the best of the best like him, was struck in a head-on collision by a speeding driver.  

That you were life-flighted to the nearest trauma center, but that the prospects for your survival are so bleak that the attending surgeon told your father over the phone to not entertain much hope.  That the doctor asked if you had a religion, if there was perhaps a priest or pastor or rabbi…someone who might come and offer final blessing, last rites, whatever.

“We’re trying to get everyone here,” Eric says.  “Dude, what do I…I mean, what can I even do?  If a doctor says…fuck, Bob, I don’t know what to do—”

Bob says the only thing he can think of, an echo of what he texted to you all those months ago.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, and he keeps his voice level despite the emotion—shock, sorrow, burgeoning guilt—coursing through him like electricity.  “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd imagine #robert floyd #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd imagine #top gun maverick #tropes and tales

[succubus-interactivefiction]

It’s been six years since the horror you experienced while camping with your friends just after college graduation. Six years since a maniac tore through the campground killing everyone they encountered and in the end only you and one other remained. You don’t remember what exactly happened towards the end, your therapist says that you blocked it all out, but when the authorities finally arrived they found you and your girlfriend barricaded in one of the small cabins half starved and huddled together to fight the cold.

It took years of therapy before you managed to finally put the worst of it behind you and move on. Unfortunately your girlfriend was not able to manage the same and was sent to a psychiatric hospital after she attempted to kill her neighbor. Since then you have not heard anything from her being blocked from seeing or speaking to her for both your sakes.

Now, six years later, you have moved to a small town hidden away deep in the mountains after acing the interview of a lifetime. Your new employer has big plans for the small town of Rock Gate and it is up to you as one of the new locations heads of staff to help see it through. For almost four years you have helped to oversee the massive expansion into the area, but it’s starting again. People are dying.

Overnight the town is cut off from the outside world, the murder rate skyrockets, and the town panics. Friends and neighbors turn on each other as they seek someone to blame. The residents see danger in every shadow and everything spirals out of control. While everyone around you panics, something inside you solidifies and you realize that you are not afraid, you have survived before, and you will again.

Play as a Cis or Trans woman, with full customization over your physical appearance, your wardrobe, which kind of vehicle you drive, and even what kind of weapon you use to survive.

Explore a town driven to darkness by a killer and try to survive the chaos.

Discover the supernatural world hidden beneath the skin of civilization as the madness drives its inhabitants from the shadows.

Find romance amidst the insanity with one of several ROs.

Learn the truth about what happened six years ago.

Fight, Kill, Survive

Jannie Smith | Your Ex 🚩 The only other survivor of the massacre six years ago, you haven’t seen Jannie in five years, not since she was locked away from the world after attempting to kill her neighbor during a flashback. So when she shows up in Rock Gate working as a barista it comes as the shock of a lifetime. Despite the time apart she seems to still be infatuated with you and you quickly learn that despite her pleasant exterior something much darker is lurking within her soul, something that may be your undoing. Appearance: Jannie is rather tall for a woman coming in at 6’5” and now has an athletic physique, whereas she was very lanky six years ago. Naturally dark blond she prefers to keep her waist length hair dyed a deep, almost blood red. Her green eyes always seem to twinkle when she sees you, but remain dead when she has to interact with others, and you only ever see her smile when you are close, her strangely long canines prominently visible when she does. Tropes: Second Chance, Bad Girl, I Have a Secret, Red Flag

Kory Kane | Your Boss Rigid, cold, and uncompromising, your boss is regarded with fear at best, and hatred at worst, by most of your co-workers. Kory never has a nice thing to say for a job well done, expecting every employee to simply do their job. She tends to keep her life outside of work private from everyone else but after a chance run-in with her outside of the bounds of your job you learn that she is a caring, if somewhat restrained individual. Appearance: Coming in at a diminutive 5’2” Kory is easily the shortest of your co-workers, which probably contributes to her workplace attitude. Her make-up is always perfect, her shoulder length salt and pepper hair is always immaculate and held in a tight bun when at work, and she always wears perfectly fitted suits on the job. Her beautiful hazel eyes rarely show any emotion but when she gets the chance to talk about her hobbies they seem to light up the room. Tropes: Friends-to-Lovers, Fucking the Boss, Forbidden Love

Devon Low | Your Co-worker The bane of your existence, your worst enemy, a never ending nightmare. Devon Low has been nothing but trouble for you since the new office opened. It seems like she hated you from the very moment you met and has done little to change that impression in the four years the site has been operating. Normally a sweet, good natured woman when interacting with everyone other than yourself her attitude turns completely frosty as soon as she notices you in the room. Appearance: With her curvy build, bright smile, and hip length pink hair Devon is the office darling. Her deep, ocean blue eyes seem to take in far more than others can see and she sometimes appears distracted by things you can not witness. Devon tends to wear more casual attire that hugs her 5’11” body and despite your bosses repeated attempts to have her appear more professional Devon has resisted every attempt. Tropes: Enemies-to-Lovers, Opposites Attract, Childhood Sweethearts

Laura Kingston | Your Neighbor 🚩 Born and raised in Rock Gate, Laura has been your neighbor since you moved to town for work. From the moment she showed up at your door with a smile and freshly baked cookies the two of you have been the best of friends, spending nearly every free moment together. It’s not uncommon for one of you to simply walk into the other's home without knocking, or to pick the other up from work for lunch. You have yet to tell Laura about what happened to you six years ago but she has witnessed several of your issues with PTSD and has guessed that something happened, but has yet to ask. Appearance: Laura is one of the more unique people you know with her pin-up sense of style, odd eyes, tiny frame, and pointed ears. Standing at 5’7” Laura is always ready with a smile and a kind word to cheer you up. Her heterochromatic purple and blue eyes seem to be constantly twinkling with mischief from behind the fringe of her bright blue pin-up hairstyle. Laura has more tattoos and piercings than anyone else in town which sets her apart even more. Tropes: Friends-to-Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Paranormal Romance

#happy succubus #the final girl if #final girl #slasher if #slasher #writing interactive fiction #interactive fiction #writing #red flag ros #horror #horror story #trans #transgender #trans ro #lesbian #lesbian romance #twine #twine story #twine interactive fiction

[abeautylives]

Times I Remember Well

(and Some That I Don’t)

Part 3

author’s note: Thank you for reading this ridiculous story. Now for the good stuff.

pairing: female!OCxjake

time frame: 2016-2018

word count: almost 7.8k this part

warnings: language, underage drinking (implied), mentions of sex and sexual situations, nudity, oral (m. and f. receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

You know how most people’s lives change pretty drastically when they move away for college?

What, were you expecting me to claim that I was different, special in some way?

I’m not.

If you’re wondering, Sam and I were fine. I guess he’d matured enough to keep speaking to me when he found out I’d almost fucked his brother. I was still immature enough to give him a classic three day long silent treatment over the whole Sam said he thought you were fucking that guy you dated thing.

I even made him agree to never bring me up to Jake again. Ever.

Anyway, my first semester of college kind of kicked my ass. I was smart enough, but I couldn’t decide on a major and it made the whole experience feel like a waste of time. I didn’t meet anyone worth much of my effort to get to know, and I spent a lot of nights alone in my dorm room. I barely even liked my roommate. Meanwhile, Sam was at home breezing through his last year of high school and preparing to actually go on tour.

Like a real tour. It was my worst nightmare. And I had to hear all about it when I came home for winter break. 

But he was excited, of course he was. And I was proud of him. And Josh, and Danny. I couldn’t bring myself to have positive feelings for Jake. After he’d rejected and embarrassed me (again), I’d run off to school determined to lose my v-card to literally anyone who’d never been to Frankenmuth or heard of their band. Fortunately for me, almost no one had heard of either.

So, I did. And Matthew Nowak had been a very cursory and lazy fuck, but he got the job done. I mean, he popped the cherry or whatever, he didn’t make me come, and I never gave him another opportunity to try.

I almost didn’t even go home for Christmas, my dad had been begging me to come see him, but I knew if I didn’t go home, I might never see my best friend again.

Was that a little dramatic? Sure, but the dates for tour were going to start around my birthday, before he even graduated, and he wouldn’t be home for the entire summer. There were talks of getting signed, to a fucking label. Releasing their music to the world. Jake’s dreams were coming true and he was stealing my best fucking friend from me.

He really was an asshole.

I went back to school in the spring a little sad, nostalgic for a time when things were easy and fun, and I always had a weekend smoke sesh in the Kiszka garage to look forward to. There was nothing for me to look forward to in Ann Arbor. Until I met Soph.

Sophie and I were paired up within the first few days of one of our classes, and thank God we were. We clicked instantly, she was almost like a female version of Sam with even better hair.

She got me out of my slump, out of my dorm room and out of my own head.

As we started hanging out more outside of class, we learned about each other’s lives at home, and she let me talk endlessly about Sam. About moving away from Traverse and finding the best friend I’d ever had, growing up with him, becoming an adult at his side.

I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but eventually I ran out of stories and didn’t feel the need to talk about him much anymore.

For a few months, we worked hard and partied harder, and I felt more and more like myself, or my new self, with her help. My new self must have been putting out certain vibes that attracted attention, because I wasn’t hurting for it. Not that I really had back home, but home had narrowed my view, the Kiszkas my whole world. Even when I did date boys, Sam was there to tell me he didn’t like them, then Josh was there shining brighter than the sun, blinding me to them.

Then Jake was there. Ruining me for everyone else, just by existing.

In Ann Arbor, Soph had the opposite effect. Every guy was cute, cute enough to talk to, flirt with, party with. A select few were hot enough to make out with, let them touch our bodies, we would touch theirs. Dance with them, let them pull us close, throw our arms around them and tell them to take us somewhere quieter. 

There was that one time, I’d gone back to this guy’s dorm and he’d put a playlist on shuffle. Ya know, so we wouldn’t be heard. And right before I put his dick in my mouth, fucking Highway Tune started playing. 

Instant no. I left him there with a hard-on and zero promises of returning.

But anyway, Soph and I had fun every weekend, studied every weeknight. By the end of the second semester, we’d decided on my major, and made sure we would share more classes in the fall.

When summer break rolled around, we spent the first half with her family in Grand Rapids and the second, reluctantly, with my mom. Home was weird without Sam, but he was off galavanting across the U.S. Communication between us had been sparse, though he did call me once every few weeks to fill me in, and let’s be honest, brag. I didn’t mind the bragging, much, but even with how well things were going at school, I’d have given anything to drop it all and be with him. 

Even if it meant tolerating Jake. 

Life goes on, time keeps on slipping, the wheel in the sky keeps on turning and all that. 

College was hard, but Soph and I really buttoned up in the fall. More studying, fewer boys, a little less fun, but Michigan gets cold fast and running wild all over campus didn’t hold the same appeal. We vowed to live it up in the spring, maybe settle down and get some boyfriends. Maybe not.

“Holy shit holy shit!”

We were in the library, Soph across the table from me with wide eyes, laptops, books and notes spread out between us.

“Shhh! What? What the fuck?” She leaned in conspiratorially and I turned my phone around to show her the screen. 

“They’re playing in Detroit. They’re coming home!”

“Will you be quiet? Who, Sam’s band?”

That made me laugh every time. I always called it Sam’s band, because he would’ve loved it and someone else I knew would have loathed it.

They hadn’t been home in forever, they were hardly even in the states, and when they’d played the Fillmore in the spring I’d been so bogged down with new classes and so much fucking homework, I couldn’t justify leaving campus let alone the city. 

But they were coming back, and I’d be on winter break. Sam had sent me their schedule, which I’d thrust into Soph’s hands.

“Aww, reunion! I wish I could go with you.” Her pouty face was unmatched, but she was going with her parents to visit family in Ohio for the holidays. For a moment, that realization made me panic. I wanted to go, needed to see my best friend, but to do it alone? Why did that make me nervous?

Maybe because I hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe because I hadn’t seen him in more than two. I doubted I’d even get to spend much time with Sam, and I doubted further that I’d be able to get him away from the others.

Not that I wouldn’t want to hang out with Danny, or even Josh. But… well, you know.

I wondered if they were going home for the brief break between Detroit and Seattle, and I made a mental note to ask Sam. 

I’d insisted on buying my own ticket to the show, their third added at the Fox after the first two sold out, but Sam wouldn’t hear of it. He set me up with a ticket and access to see them backstage, and I tried not to let it get to my head. It's not like they were famous or anything.

Selling out multiple shows.

I FaceTime’d Sophie so she could help me decide what to wear - I hadn’t put this kind of pressure on an outfit since the night I kissed… yeah, you saw how that went.

We landed on skin tight faux leather pants, an extremely low-cut black and tan floral print top with a fitted bodice and wide, flowy sleeves, and chunky black boots. I planned to top it off with a vintage fur coat Sam and I had found thrifting a few years back. We’d always joked that it originally belonged to the old lady they named their band after. 

“Okayyyyy, so what about your underwear?” 

I stopped spinning in front of my phone, where I’d been showing Sophie the whole get up.

“What the fuck do you mean, my underwear? Who cares?”

“Babe, it’s a rock show! What if you meet a super hot guy with like, tattoos and a tongue ring that wants to rock your world?” I watched her eyebrows waggle as she stuck her own tongue out at me. 

“Yeah I don’t think that’s really their demographic.” 

But… an idea started to form. Sexy underwear would make me feel sexy. Who would be irritated to see me, looking and feeling sexy, arguably hotter now than I’d ever been? Who would be downright furious to watch me get a little flirty, a little provocative with another man? Men? His brothers?

Ohhh, Jake Kiszka was gonna kill me. And it was gonna be worth it. 

The ticket Sam held for me was in the front fucking row. Of the seats, behind the pit floor, but still. How embarrassing, what if I didn’t know any of the words? I didn’t really listen to their music, not since I was in high school, watching them practice or play at Fischer.

As you can imagine, I didn’t need to worry. Every, single, song was familiar. Songs that they’d written or started writing when Sam was barely fifteen. But the people around me knew them all, better than I did actually. 

That was… pretty cool.

I left my seat as the guys were blowing kisses and throwing flowers into the crowd, stopped in a bathroom to check myself out, and followed Sam’s directions to make it backstage. The guys made it there before me, I could hear their excited voices from the hall as a security guard led me to their green room. We slowed as we got closer, and I stopped the guard before we reached the door, composing myself, slipping my coat off, smoothing my hair and controlling my expression. 

You should've seen his face when I walked through the doorway, slow clapping and wearing my best deadpan. They all turned their heads in my direction, but his face was the one I sought out. 

His cheeks were still flushed from the stage (he honestly goes crazy up there) but he immediately turned so bright pink I hoped his head would explode. 

“YOU’RE HERE! Holy shit, you’re here!” Sam rushed at me and instantly my feet were off the ground, he swung me around and I couldn’t help the smile that stretched wide as I laughed with him. 

“You’re sweaty! Put me down, idiot!” He dropped me to my feet and grabbed a hand, lifted it above my head and spun me in a circle.

“Look at you, you look hot, T!” His laughter cracked loud and joyous and my heart soared. He didn’t mean anything by it, of course, but he was right and I knew it.

Danny approached me next, taller and even broader than I ever remembered him being, and wrapped me up in another sweaty hug. “Good to see you, did you get tinier?” We laughed and I slapped him away. Then Josh caught my eye, arms crossed over his bare chest under an open black vest and leaning against the vanity, grinning. 

I moved toward him and he met me in the middle, opened his arms and threw them around me. He didn’t make fun of me, or comment on the way I looked. Our cheeks were pressed together and he turned his face and dropped a kiss to mine. “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you guys too, more than you know.”

He let me go and his grin stretched into a blinding smile. “What’d you think of the show?”

“It was fucking awesome, I can’t believe you guys are like, legit rockstars! Seems like yesterday you were jamming in your garage.” Sam sidled up and threw a long arm over my shoulders.

“To be fair, we didn’t really stop jamming in the garage until last year, T.”

I knew that, I guess. But I’d missed it, and I’d missed the moment my best friend grew up. But this wasn’t the time to get weepy about that. I still had a mission to accomplish.

Turning out of Sam’s hold, I faced him. He no longer looked apoplectic, but his nostrils were flared and his arms were crossed, one hand running a finger across his chin below pursed lips. His focus was distinctly somewhere on the floor, but I walked toward him and watched his eyes connect with my boots and then travel, slowly, all the way up my body. 

Get a good look, asshole.

And he did, his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on my hips, and then again on my chest before it finally met my face.

Say something stupid, I dare you.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” 

My own eyes rolled in my skull. “Good to see you too, Jacob. How have you been?”

His features twisted in confusion for just a moment before he smoothed them back out. Good.

“Fantastic, living the dream, ya know. How have you been, Tiny?”

“Oh, really good!” I crossed one arm, tucking it under my tits and pushing them up while I twirled a finger through a strand of my hair with the other hand. “I’m majoring in English and Writing and aced all of my finals this past semester. Just really living my best on-campus life. Work hard, play hard and all that.”

It was so satisfying, the way he’d accidentally looked at my chest and then failed to look back at my face until I was done speaking. I swear to you my pussy fluttered when he swallowed, hard, before responding. It was that satisfying. 

“That’s- ahem, that’s great. Glad to hear it. Thanks for coming by to say hi or whatever but we need to pack up our gear and head to the hotel.”

Nice try.

“Oh, cool! I’d love to come with you guys, I just miss you all so much.” His face started turning pink again before I looked over my shoulder. “Sammy! Can I come with and hang out at the hotel? Just for a little bit?” I whipped my head back, my hair swinging with it, to see his face before Sam even answered.

I wanted to see if steam came out of his ears.

“Fuck yeah! You can crash with me if you want!”

One corner of my mouth lifted and curled. “Perfect!”

I regret to inform you that no steam came out. But I think it was pretty close.

When I pulled in at the hotel, I texted Sam and he told me they were in the lobby so I flipped my visor down, checked my face and fluffed my hair. After a deep breath, I got out of the car and made my way inside. 

The hotel wasn’t anything too ritzy, and I figured despite it all, they weren’t that famous. Sam still looked and sounded like the best friend I’d grown up with, though there was something about him that had become more attractive. All of them actually exuded more… sex appeal? 

Ugh, musicians. 

My timing was pretty good, I entered the building in time to catch them getting in the elevator, Jake being the last left in the lobby. But we caught each other’s eye and instead of walking on, he backed up a step. The doors closed and the elevator rose without him. 

He stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and waited for me to reach him. When I did, he spoke before I could. 

“What are you doing here, T?”

I painted confusion on my face instead of the pure gratification I actually felt. “Visiting my friends? What are you-“

“Cut the bullshit. It’s unbecoming.”

Okay, that was a little wrinkle in my plan. I hadn’t even started shamelessly flirting with anyone yet and he was already cursing at me. I doubled down.

“I came to see them, Jake.” I pressed the button to call the elevator back down and crossed my arms.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” Just as I glanced up, feigning more interest in the LED display of numbers as the elevator came down than this conversation, he stepped closer and gripped my arm. Pulled me closer.

It felt familiar.

“I’m not buying it. Come on.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened to an empty car, but he was already pulling me down a hall toward a stairwell door. It swung open as he shoved through it, yanked me through and pushed me ahead of him, and it slammed shut behind us.

The stairwell was silent, our breathing was amplified and bounced off the walls. His voice made me flinch.

“Third floor. Go.”

Four flights of stairs and two landings separated me from their room. That was fine, I could do it.

Except he stayed behind me the entire time and didn’t speak a word. By the time I pushed the door to the third floor open, my nerves were fried and I was still trying to discern his reasoning for taking the stairs. If he had yelled at me or pushed me to the wall and kissed me in the stairwell, it would’ve made more sense. Instead, he placed a hand low on my back and led me down a deserted hallway to room 307. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, ready to abandon the plan completely and run to Sam, use him as a personal human shield for the rest of the night.

But he pulled a key card out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, and the heavy door opened to a dark, empty room. 

Jake stepped inside and flicked on a light, holding the door open for me. I didn’t move.

“Jake, what-“

“Get in here, we need to talk.”

It sounded like a terrible idea, I hadn’t come here to talk. I came to spend time with Sam and do enough harmless flirting with the guys to drive Jake crazy. 

“No. Where are the guys?”

He just stared at me for a tense few seconds before he sighed impatiently. “In Sam and Danny’s room.”

“And which room would that be, exactly? I’ll just go knock-“

“Please.”

I know, I know. Did he really have to go and ask nicely?

“Fine, you know what? You have five minutes then I’m the fuck out of here.” He had the nerve to give me a tight-lipped smile, lift his palm and wave me in as I started to pass him and head into the room. Then he let the door swing shut.

We were alone.

The room was pretty standard, two queen-size beds, a table and two chairs. Not exactly rockstar shit. I tossed my coat onto the closest bed.

“You want a drink?”

I dropped into a chair, crossed my legs and folded my hands over my knee. “No, I don’t. What did you need to talk to me about? You have four minutes.”

He pulled a White Claw out of the mini fridge, popped the tab and sat at the end of the bed closest to me. After a swig from the can, he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. 

“Three minutes.”

“Jesus, give it a rest, T.” He pinned me with a glare and my eyes widened. “Don’t. Don’t act all affronted because you’re not getting your way, I’m sick of it.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, I-“

“Stop! Tell me why you’re really here.”

“To see Sam! I told you-“

He stood from the bed, leaned across me and slammed the can onto the table. I jumped in my seat, but then he bent down and gripped the arms of the chair on either side of me. Right in my face, he ripped me to shreds.

“I’m tired of this, T. Since day one, everything has always had to be all about you, your feelings, your stupid ideas, your fucking games.”

That was ridiculous and it straightened my spine, I sat up taller and put us nose to nose, but he didn’t stop.

“How many times have you come between us and Sam? Pitted us against each other? Run away when you didn’t get your way, with one of us or all of us?”

With a huff, he pushed himself away from me but now I was ready for a fight. Launching from the chair, my body followed his. “And what about you, Jake?  You spent years fucking with me, leading me on, just to humiliate me over and over again!”

“Is that really what you think?!” We were squared up now, hands flailing as we yelled in each other's faces. “I didn’t do shit, and you spent years avoiding me, making me feel awkward and unwelcome in my own house because God forbid I ever be in the presence of such a self-entitled, delicate fucking princess!”

“Oh, you fucking prick. Fuck you-“

“So eloquent, that’s really lovely Tiny.”

You already know that he said that on purpose.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” I was fuming, the steam was probably coming out of my ears, and that pissed me off further. Everything about this was infuriating, my night completely off-railed, my time with my friends ruined. I was done.

I threw my hands up and then put them on his shoulders, with all intention to shove him out of my way and walk out of the room with some part of my dignity intact, for once.

But that’s not exactly what happened.

Because once I touched him, the tension reached a breaking point. And boy did it break.

Before I could push him away, his arms were around me, his hands spread across my back, and he pulled me in. 

Yep, he was kissing me. 

Our mouths slammed together and all the anger, all the fury, combusted between them.

My own hands betrayed me and shot from a grip on his shoulders to a grip in the hair at the back of his head, still slightly damp from sweat or a shower at the venue, I had no idea. And I didn’t care.

He ravaged my lips until they felt bruised, opened them with his and forced our tongues to battle for dominance, sucked the air from my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. I pulled away to drag some back in but he hardly gave me the chance, tugging me back in to kiss my lips, bite my jaw, murmuring between the attacks. 

“Why are you really here…”

His hands slid up my back and sunk into my hair, pulled my head to the side so he could continue his attack on my neck, my throat.

“Say it, the truth.”

My brain was in shut down, I forgot what words were and how to make them. His teeth reminded me, scraping along my skin.

“You. For you.”

His lips closed over mine again and he was moving me, two steps backward and we turned, the back of my knees hit the bed where he’d been sitting. Our mouths broke apart, our hands fell away. The sound of our breathing, fast and uneven, thundered between us.

“I’m not gonna stop this time, T.”

My heart stumbled over its next few beats.

“I don’t want you to.”

We fell back into silence as he reached forward and slid his hands up underneath my shirt, rough fingertips pushing the fabric up over my ribs, my chest, I lifted my arms and let him pull it over my head and shook my hair out as he let it drop to the floor. 

There was just enough light coming from the only one he’d flicked on, and the moonlight spilling through the uncovered window, that I saw his nostrils flare. His eyes trailed over my lace and silk covered chest before meeting mine.

“You’re so beautiful,” My breath caught, I held it. “I’ve never told you how beautiful you are.”

I couldn’t speak, emotion squeezing my throat, the words I’d always wanted to hear from him tightening every muscle in my body. So instead, I mirrored his actions and tucked my fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. Soft, heated skin met my touch and I flattened my palms over his hips, up over his stomach and I swear he trembled. Seriously! When they made it to his chest, I could feel the hard, steady beat of his heart, rapid beneath my hand. 

Maybe he knew I could feel it, maybe not, but he leaned in and pulled a soft, sweet kiss from my lips before he took over and tugged the shirt over his head. 

“Jake…” His chest and stomach were lightly toned and completely flawless, a glimpse of which I’d gotten when he was onstage, shirtless under an open jacket. I wanted to tell him just how perfect I thought he was, he’d always been, but the words wouldn’t come. So I bent my knees and dropped to the bed, the barely there happy trail leading up from the low waist of his pants now directly in front of my face.

I leaned forward and kissed it. A strangled noise came from above me, I smiled against his skin. Then his hand was in my hair and he pulled, forcing my face up. He smirked.

“You ever done this before?”

Asshole.

Blindly I reached for and found the button of his jeans, popped it open and worked his zipper down slowly. 

“Please don’t piss me off, or I won’t be nice.”

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Just making sure.”

His grip in my hair kept my chin tilted up, eyes locked with his. I peeled the denim over his hips and pulled it down to his knees. Heat rolled off his body in waves, I was dying to look at it, take it all in but there was fire in his stare and I was burning. My fingertips mapped out what I couldn’t see, found the subtle V that led down into his briefs and traced it before I tucked them under the elastic and rolled it down his legs. 

Jake Kiszka’s cock bobbed in the air between his hips and my face. Crazy, I know. I wrapped shaky fingers around him, felt how thick and hard he was before I’d even seen it, tried to picture what I could remember from his dark bedroom.

“Fuck, T.” I tightened my grip on him, just a little, stroked him once. His eyes slid shut.  “I can’t believe you’re here.” I stroked him again and his grasp on my hair loosened, my chin dropped and there it was. As perfect as the rest of him, his dick was big, the head flushed pink. My mouth watered.

For real.

In that moment, I wondered quickly what he liked, how fast, how slow, how hard? My tongue slid out and tasted him, just the very tip, and he snatched my hair up again. The sting in my scalp made my eyes water and I opened my lips and took him in, wrapped them around him and swirled my tongue over his skin. He whimpered.

I could be remembering that wrong, but I swear he did.

He wanted to take control, I could feel it in the smallest amount of pressure from his knuckles on my scalp, but I wanted to be stubborn. I was tired of the control he seemed to have over every one of our interactions. I released him with a soft pop and his eyes shot open. 

“C’monnn,” he groaned. I took my hand off of his dick and pushed him back, he almost stumbled, his legs still trapped in his half-removed jeans. I stood from the bed, spun us around and reversed our positions, then pushed him by the shoulders to sit.

“Patience, Jake, patience.” I flicked the front clasp of my bra open and felt the unrestrained relief as my tits spilled out, then that flutter of satisfaction as his eyes went wide right before going soft and dreamy. What can I say, Jake’s a breast man. “Aht.” He’d reached for them, lifted his hands like he just couldn’t wait to feel them again, but they paused in midair. “I said patience.”

He huffed out a sigh and dropped them, so I continued. Made a little show out of unzipping my boots, sliding them off and peeling the skin-tight material of my pants down my legs. His fingers flexed against his thighs the entire time, clenching into fists and releasing over and over. I waited until I was left in just the lacy thong to instruct him to remove his pants. 

His boots were kicked off and denim tossed away in an instant.

And there we were again. Jake, fully bared to me while we stared at each other, my tits out and pussy covered. But this wasn’t going to end the way it did two years ago. 

Not if I had anything to say about it.

I dropped to my knees and his legs spread, making room for me to kneel between them. His cock jumped when I touched him, just my fingertips, up his shins and over his kneecaps before I placed my palms flat on his thighs. When I peeked up at him through my lashes, he was staring hard, jaw clenched and nostrils flared again. So I continued to trace my fingers over his skin, further up his thighs, over his hips, up and down his happy trail. 

Through gritted teeth, “Baby, please.”

Baby? I was throbbing, slick between my thighs already but that hit me like lightning.

I wrapped a fist around him at the base and took him all the way to the back of my throat.

I had to. 

A string of rough curses fell from his lips and a hand tangled in my hair, but I kept my composure, sucking him in and stroking with my fist, letting him sink as deep as I could without choking. His skin was hot velvet on my tongue, I could taste his desire, his need, and I couldn’t help the moan that rippled up my throat around his cock.

“Jesus fuck.” His hips jerked, I gagged around him, he fisted the hair at the back of my head and yanked me off of him. “Get up here.”

Remember how I wanted to maintain the control here? Yeah, I failed. 

He used his grip on my head to bring my lips to his, his tongue sweeping in to dance with mine immediately, his hands moving down my body to pull me up and into his lap. I threw my arms around him and rocked into it instantly, his roving hands landing on my ass and pulling me in, his dick rock hard and slick with my spit grinding against my silk-covered pussy.

Just like that, I lost control of my insolent mouth too.

The kiss broke and I rested my forehead on his, my eyes trained on what was happening between our hips. “God… I-“ The head of his cock caught on my clit, I gasped at the feeling. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Embarrassing, I know. But then… ohh then.

His hands skimmed up my ribs until they were cupping my breasts, thumbs grazing over my nipples. 

“I’ve wanted you longer, T. Forever.”

Goosebumps. Literal goosebumps ran up my arms, I shivered, my nipples tightened, and he pulled one into his mouth. He sucked and lapped at it, thumb still moving over the other, and without hesitation he sunk his teeth in. 

“Fuck yes, yes yes…”

His tongue circled it again and he released it, pressed a hot and fast kiss to my mouth. 

“You still like that, huh?” He chuckled as he opened his lips over the other side. The silk between my legs was soaked, I could feel how easily I was sliding over his cock, and I was getting impatient despite the way I’d reprimanded him hardly ten minutes ago. 

“Jake, please…”

He popped off of my nipple and pulled another kiss from my lips, then leaned back and let one corner of his mouth curl up, self-satisfied and cocky.

Still an asshole. 

“Please what, baby? Tell me.”

My eyes rolled, even as he tucked his face into the crook of my neck, nipped and licked me there.

“I want you inside, please fuck me.” Self-control, out the window.

“Mmm,” he hummed into my skin, “No.”

Before I could be properly offended, and believe me, I was, he gripped my thighs and hauled me up, then deposited me onto the mattress. Well, tossed me, really. I bounced once, arms and legs flailing, hair falling in my face. By the time I pushed it away and propped myself up on my elbows, he was standing at the foot of the bed, dick in his fist. I opened my mouth to speak, to yell at him or beg him to stick it in, I don’t know, but he was stroking himself, and he moaned. My mouth snapped shut.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I scoffed, offended, pissed even. “Yet.” He let himself go and placed his hands on the mattress, then climbed onto the edge of the bed and started crawling towards me.

It was so fucking hot. His cheeks were flushed, his hair wild from my hands, his eyes dark. I backed away, moving up the bed until my shoulders met the headboard. He didn’t stop coming, and I didn’t want him to. Instinctively, my knees bent and my legs fell open, inviting him in. But he didn’t settle there, when his hands reached me, he grabbed me by the calf and threw my leg over his shoulder on his way down. 

His mouth opened over damp silk and I cried out, his name or God’s, I’m not sure, but his lips and tongue were moving against me and I may have blacked out. I came to when one of his hands skimmed up my inner thigh, and he broke away long enough to slip two fingers under the material and tug it aside. 

Jake Kiszka’s tongue was on my actual, bare pussy. 

My shoulders sagged against the headboard as I reached for him, burying my fingers in his already tangled and unruly hair, our eyes met and he dragged his tongue over me again and again.

“Shit, you were right, this is better,” I panted. He smiled against my cunt and I felt it. I smiled too.

My cheeks hurt I was smiling so hard, until he laser-focused his attention to my clit. His lips wrapped around it and he sucked it past them, my jaw dropped. 

“Oh, oh my God, oh my God!” He was good at this. Too good. The beginnings of an orgasm were already swirling, tightening in my belly, making my toes tingle. The tip of his tongue moving against me until he opened his mouth over me again, and I felt it plunge inside me. The sounds I was making were unholy but I had no shame, I couldn’t feel anything other than need. I needed to scream, I needed to come, I needed him. 

He brought a hand up around my thigh and ran his thumb over my folds, licking himself as he lapped at me, then swirled it over my clit as his tongue fucked me. Before I could even moan, two fingers from his other hand replaced his tongue inside me.

“Jake!”

His head tilted and he pressed his lips against my thigh, kissed it and grinned. “Yes?” Fingers everywhere, filling me and fucking me, circling the most sensitive part of me - I forgot what I wanted to say, if I had even wanted to. Instead I pulled his mouth back, he slid his thumb away and flicked his tongue against me. 

“Yessss, yes just like that, please!” I let my eyes close and stars were already dancing behind my lids, I was close, so close, and I told him so. I moaned it and his fingers plunged deep and curled. I screamed it and he sucked my clit back into his mouth. 

I came hard, nails dug into his scalp, bucking my hips against his face, screaming his name. 

It was unreal. College guys had nothing, fucking nothing, on him.

Before my muscles had even relaxed, he lifted his head from between my thighs and moved up my body, his fingers still pumping slowly inside me as he kissed my hip, my stomach, my breast on his way up to my mouth. He tasted like me when my tongue touched his, and he eased his fingers from my body. 

“Absolutely fucking stunning, breathtaking.”

His breath was taken? I still couldn’t breathe, my chest continued to heave as he left the bed, taking my panties down my legs with him, and I could barely lift my head to see what he was doing. My eyes closed and I felt the mattress dip with his weight as he returned and settled on his heels between my legs, still splayed open. I cracked an eyelid and found him watching me, wrapped condom held between his fingers. 

Under his gaze, I shifted down until my head rested on the pillows, spreading my legs wider, pussy presented to him on a silver fucking platter.

This was happening. There was absolutely no way this was not happening. Not this time.

“Now, Jake.” Unrecognizable, my voice had a distinct sex kitten-like quality that I loved as soon as it hit my ears. He must have loved it too, because his dick twitched and he gripped it. I reached up and snatched the condom from his fingers, tore it open and started rolling it on while his eyes bugged out and his jaw fell slack.

“Jesus, not your first time, huh?” My hand replaced his around him and I stroked, he leaned over me and I guided the head to my center, moved it through the slick pool of arousal there. He paused, poised to enter me, and met my eyes.

“I’m pretty much out of firsts, Jake.”

His eyes closed, his hips rocked forward, and he pushed just past my opening, the tip not even fully inside me.

I tilted my own hips up, he slipped a fraction of an inch deeper. I whispered, and it was sexy, and seductive. “It could’ve been you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, opened his eyes and we watched each other’s faces as he sunk deeper, slowly, to the hilt. “It should’ve been me.”

Stunned, speechless, we stayed like that. Unmoving, bodies connected, eyes locked. He broke first, dropping his lips to mine and rocking into me softly. A sound I’d never heard before, quieter than a moan, crept up his throat, trapped behind his lips as they caressed mine. My legs lifted, cradling him between my thighs and wrapping around him. 

It was gentle, sweet. The exact opposite of how I knew it would’ve been, if I’d let him be my first, thinking he wasn’t. 

I felt my cheeks warm, my eyes pool with tears. I blinked them away. This was everything I’d wanted and more. I knew I’d been an idiot to think otherwise. Especially when he pulled back and delivered a quick, deep thrust and there was no pain. Only pleasure bloomed inside me, hot and volatile. 

“Again, more…”

An excellent listener, he repeated it. Again, again, and I met each thrust with my own. Our kiss turned frantic, sloppy, lips and tongues clashing and pushing, pulling and taking. The temperature in the room was rising with the heat of our skin, our bodies slipping against each other. He lifted his chest from mine, hands braced on the pillows on either side of my head, and the conditioned air on our damp skin made us both groan in ecstasy.

I damn near came again, almost commented on it but he dropped back down and shoved an arm between me and the mattress, rolled us both. We laughed as we landed, his hair strewn across the pillow and mine falling in his face. My laughter stuck in my throat when he grabbed onto my thighs and pulled, tucking my knees against his hips and forcing me to sit. I propped myself up with my hands on his chest and fell back into the rhythm, my hips rolling. 

“Goddamn, you feel so good, look so good riding me.”

My head fell back as his words rippled through me, his fingertips digging into me, his hands moving my body over his. He brought one to my chest, squeezed me roughly, rolled my nipple with his fingers, pinched it. Hard.

“Yes!” He did the same to the other, my pussy clenched around him. 

“You like when it hurts a little, don’t you?”

“I- I don’t know, I guess so- ohhh!” He wrapped a hand around each tit and sunk his fingertips into my flesh, then kneaded them both, ran the pads of his thumbs over the peaks. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot. You’re fucking perfect.”

Yeah, I lost my mind a little bit. My hips bucked wildly in his lap. Perfect? Me? My nails pressed into his skin, I dragged them down his chest, reveling in the sharp hiss sucked between his teeth, the way his own hips lifted from the bed and he fucked into me. Sharp, fast thrusts hitting me so deep I was screaming his name. He sat up and pulled my face to his, kissed me hard, bit down on my bottom lip, and then tipped me backwards.

My head was nearly hanging off the end of the bed, but really, who cares? My ankles locked behind his back and he was slamming his hips into the back of my thighs.

Fuck, was I gonna come? He had to be close. I lifted my head, now very much hanging off the bed, to ask him.

Beep. Click.

His hips stuttered and paused, we both whipped our heads to the door, which was fucking opening. 

Josh appeared, his foot crossed the threshold and he was looking down at his phone. 

“GET OUT!!” We yelled in unison. Josh’s head popped up, his eyes went huge, and then he laughed. 

“Shit, sorry guys.” He started backing out into the hall, the door creaking closed. “About time,” We heard him chuckling to himself and the door clicked behind him.

Jake turned his face back to me and seemed to realize for the first time that I was barely on the mattress. An arm wrapped around my back and he shifted us until I could look him in the eyes.

“What the fuck…” I whispered up at him.

His smile was subtle and affectionate before it stretched to a full grin, and he huffed a laugh.

“There was no fucking way I was stopping.”

I matched his grin and lifted to pull a kiss from his lips. “Good.”

He tucked his face into my neck and began the roll of his body into mine again. I let my hands roam across his back as he kissed and nipped my skin and his thrusts picked up speed. The orgasm that had been teasing me before we were interrupted built again quickly, and Jake was panting in my ear. 

But then… then. A whisper. Low and deep, but a whisper nonetheless. 

My name, my real name, hit my ear and I gasped, right on the edge.

“Come for me. Please come for me.”

How could I say no?

It broke, crashed, consumed me. His name on my lips as I tightened, writhed, and shook for him. 

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, he chased after me and followed into the flames. My name burned into my flesh by his kisses, a guttural groan as he came inside me. 

Easily the best orgasm I’d ever had. Easily.

Because he’s just a man, albeit an incredibly hot, multiple-orgasm-inducing man, he collapsed on top of me. I let him. I ran my hands over his sweat-dampened hair and the soft skin of his back and we both caught our breath. Then he started giggling. 

I pinched his ass. “What’s so funny, Kiszka?”

His head popped up and he propped himself on an elbow, a wide grin splitting his face in half, gorgeous. “I can’t believe we waited so long to do that, that might’ve been the best sex I’ve ever had.”

We both laughed as I slapped his chest. “Might be?!”

“Okay okay, you’re right.” He looked at me dreamily, his eyes bouncing around my face. “It was the best.”

Because I’m a woman, albeit a mind-blowing sex goddess, I started overthinking. I couldn’t help it! You should’ve seen the way he was looking at me. 

“Jake…” He lifted his eyebrows, I lifted a hand to his face, tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “What does this mean?”

Those eyebrows knitted together, a quick moment to think that over. Then he kissed me, soft and slow. 

“I don’t know what it means. But I do know this hotel has free breakfast downstairs, so be up and ready by nine.” His smile stretched again, and I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Oooh, do you think they have French toast? That’s Sam’s favorite.”

He attacked me, tickled me until I had tears in my eyes, kissed me until I was breathless, and fell asleep with his arms around me.

The truth is, I don’t remember the exact moment I fell utterly, completely in love with Jake Kiszka. Maybe you should ask him. 

#greta van fleet #gvf #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet fic #gvf fic #greta van fleet smut #gvf smut #jake kiszka #jake gvf #greta van fleet fanfiction #jake kiszka fan fiction #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka smut

[dameronology]

timing's a bitch (s.h) - 1/5

s u m m e r ' 8 6

you'll be the saddest part of me, a part of me that will never be mine - the loneliest, maneskin (x)

"if you have chemistry, you only need one other thing...timing. but timing is a bitch" - how i met your mother

a.k.a a.k.a the three times that steve harrington chose the wrong moment, the one time that you chose the wrong moment, and the one time you both got it right (series masterlist)

You made Steve Harrington cry the first time you met him.

He still remembered it clear as day, even though it had been in first grade. You'd thrown a Lego brick at his head and stuffed sand in his mouth, promising that if he ever touched your pet worm again (his name was Sherm, if you were wondering) that he would pay. After some negotiation and charm from his part - and the promise that he wouldn't make his parents call yours - you had become best friends. You brought balance to one another's lives, even from a young age. Steve was always a little more calculated and thoughtful in his actions, sticking to the sidelines at playtime and always worrying about his hair. You, meanwhile, had always run headfirst into danger, with scrapes on your knees and glue in your hair. Ying and yang.

You never left Steve's side and he never left yours. Things came close when the popularity really got to his ego in sophomore year, but it was nothing a whack across the head couldn't fix. The threat of telling every person at Hawkins High about his Farah Fawcett hairspray secret also very quickly humbled him. He owed you a lot of apologies after that phase.

Things were better than ever by the time graduation rolled around. It hadn't really hit either of you that this was it; that Hawkins High would no longer be your world. It was scarier for you than it was for Steve because he knew deep down that he had probably peaked in high school. He had no college lined up; while you'd gone and gotten yourself a full scholarship to NYU, all he'd done was argue with his parents about his grades and why they wouldn't foot the bill for him to follow you to the city. The world was about to become bigger and scarier. The prospect of you being thousands of miles away only made it worst.

"Just one year," Steve begged, "just take one year out. The new mall is gonna be hiring loads of people and you can save up a butt ton before you go to college-"

"- I am not taking a year out, Steve!" you exclaimed. Reaching across the center console, you gave his chest a whack. "I worked my ass off the last four years so that I have enough money to go now."

"Okay, don't think about money then. Think about..."

He paused, trailing off.

"Think about what?"

"Spending time with me before I go?" he meekly asked. "We can have loads of fun! Just me and you, y'know, having one final year together before you leave me forever."

You groaned. "Steve, we've had all summer together. Also, I'm not leaving you! I'll be home literally every few weeks."

He forced a smile, eyes focusing on the road ahead. This was his last two days with you before you moved and he didn't want to spend it being sad. It was just that his heart ached in a way he never thought it would. A thousand times more than when his parents didn't show for graduation; even more than when Nancy Wheeler left him.

Steve's glance flickered over to the photo tucked away into his rearview mirror. It was a Polaroid taken over the summer; you and Steve were stood between your parents, armed wrapped around each other as you were grinning in your caps. Maybe his parents hadn't shown for him on graduation, but yours sure had, with flowers and hugs and affection for you both. Hell, they probably wouldn't have minded if he moved into your room once you were at college. It was definitely something he thought about.

"Summer doesn't feel like enough," he muttered. "Doesn't it scare you that things are changing?"

"Of course it does," you replied. "Change isn't always bad though. Things can't always stay the same, Stevie. Me staying home an extra year isn't gonna delay the inevitable."

Steve glanced in his wing mirror, indicating off the highway and pulling into your driveway. You'd had to beg him to come and help you pack; even though he'd acted like he didn't want to, he was secretly delighted at the idea. In fact, he was secretly delighted at spending any time with you.

After yelling a quick hi! to your parents, you both bounded up the stairs and into your bedroom. It was pretty much stripped now, years worth of blue tack and marks and scuffs on the wall. Your entire childhood packed neatly away into boxes; some for college, some for the attic, some for the dump. Steve in particular was drawn to the pile of photos on your nightstand. It was you and him through the years - some were a little dog-eared and frayed, but the two little kids smiling back at him never faltered.

He put them down and glanced over at you. You were sat on the bed now, having discarded your clothes for a pair of sweats and one of his hoodies. He'd leant that to you last year after a day at the lake - naturally, you'd gone running in totally unplanned in your clothes. He'd stood at the side the entire time, too scared of getting his hair wet.

That had always been one of his regrets; holding back. Not just the day at the lake, but the time you'd gone tree climbing and waved to him whilst he waited at the bottom. The time you rode all the big coasters at Coney Island and smiled at him as you went by. You were always going a thousand miles an hour and Steve just fucking stood there, waving as time passed him by. And now you were about to loop-de-loop right away from him.

He watched as you frowned in concentration, hands scrawling away at a messy to-do list. Pack, buy new toothbrush, apply for job, find class schedule. It was the most organised he'd ever seen you.

"You're being awfully quiet," you commented without even looking up. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing's on my mind."

"Steve, please," you scoffed. "You've been my best friend for fourteen years. Don't try and act like you're not deep in thought about something. What is it? A car? A girl-"

"- kind of," he said. "I was thinking about...us."

You peered up at him, eyebrows creasing. "Us?"

"Yeah. Don't you think we're pretty great?"

"Yeah," you smiled. "You're my best friend, Steve. Nothing will ever change that."

Steve sighed to himself. Wasn't that the whole problem? You were friends. Best, best fucking friends. And even though it was no secret that you yourself had little thoughts and feelings about him, they never seemed to overlap. You'd liked him when he dated Nancy. Then by the time they'd broken up, you were hooking up with the Dungeons and Dragons kid who had been held back two years. Then by the time that ended, Steve was onto his next fling.

And now you were going away. Maybe that's why he was yearning.

"Nothing at all?"

You frowned. "Nothing."

"Not even this?"

To be honest, Steve wasn't really thinking straight. Plagued by nothing but regret and hankering, he threw aside your to-do list and dove across the bed. His hands found your waist, pulling you towards him with might. It didn't take a genius to work out what was going on; even though his actions took you by surprise, you still tangled a hand in his hair when his lips came down on yours, the other finding it's way to the loop of of his best.

He pulled you closer, tongue slipping inside your mouth. You didn't mean to let out a gentle moan as he did, but fuck. Steve Harrington was a good kisser and it was annoying that all those rumours you'd tried to ignore in high school were true.

Steve sat up, pulling you into his lap. He moved his lips from yours, moving down to just below your ear. You didn't protest, instead dropping your head in the crook of his neck.

It wasn't until there was a knock at your door that you both jumped.

The sound was like a cold bucket of water over your head, snapping you back to reality. Fuck. You'd just made out with Steve. He had never been the King of Hawkins high to you; he was the kid that tried to kill Sherm over a decade ago. The same kid who got yellow braces because he thought they looked cool. The same kid that secretly cried every time Vienna by Billy Joel came on the radio.

"Honey, how's packing going?" your mum called. "I'm going to the landfill early tomorrow so make sure that you-"

"- yeah, I will!" you cut her off, trying to catch your breath. "Thanks, mum!"

There was the fall of footsteps as she walked away, leaving you and your best friend to sit there and deal with the consequences of your actions. You were still sat in Steve's lap, cheeks warm with something that wasn't quite embarrassment. His chest was heaving in time with yours, eyes refusing to break your gaze.

"What the fuck did we just do?" you asked.

"I...uh...I kissed you. And you kissed me back, and then I put my hand here and you put yours there and-"

"- it was a rhetorical question!" you exclaimed. "Oh my god, I'm still sat in your lap."

Rolling off of him, you landed on the bed next to Steve. You immediately pulled your hood up, tugging on the strings so that it tightened around your cheeks and hid your face. The worst part of all this was that you'd enjoyed it. Had the universe - in the form of your mother - not interfered, you had no doubt in your mind that you probably would have fucked your best friend. That certainly was a jarring revelation.

"Did you..." you began, but then paused. "Had you thought about doing that for a long time?"

"Yeah, I guess," Steve admitted. "Not like constantly but there's been moments over the last few years. And then I saw you sitting there in my clothes and we're about to say goodbye and-"

"- no we're not, Steve," you grumbled. "Because I'm going to see you at Christmas, and then like every weekend after that, and...Jesus Christ. Was that meant as an impulsive thing or an actual thing?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't kiss my best friend of fifteen years just for one night. I could go out to a shitty bar downtown and find anyone for that."

"Why now?"

"Can you blame a guy for shooting his shot?" Steve tried to joke, but you didn't laugh "I mean...yeah. Maybe I was thinking about you and I being more than you and I. It seems dumb now."

"Your timing is fucking awful, Steve Harrington," you gave him a small smile, gently running a hand over his face. "You could have asked me at any point before now and I would have said yes."

"But?"

"But I'm moving half way across the fucking country in two days!" you exclaimed. "You're my best friend and I love you but our lives are about to change. The stakes are too high and you are far too important for me to risk losing, okay?"

Steve smiled, giving you a nod. It could have been worse - it could have been a straight up no. A why fuck would I ever love you? or a broken nose. It was still rejection, but it was just...timing. Bad timing. Maybe he just had to wait.

He was okay with that.

taglist: @marauderssworld @boybandbaby @karasong (lmk if u want to be added!)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington reader insert #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington fan fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things imagines #stranger things fluff #stranger things angst #stranger things reader insert #stranger things x you #stranger things fan fiction #steve harrington #stranger things

[sweethibiscus]

Old Flames 1

ok so i havent written in a while and im fairly new to tumblr so i apologize if this is horrible but if you do like it lmk and leave some requests for anything you wanna see me write!

Contains !meanellie x !scared/shyreader, eventual smut, sexual thoughts, angst, set in a college au and i think thats it! lmk if i forgot anything but otherwise enjoy <3 (oh and ofc like all of my fics r gonna be, 18+!)

you were getting moved into your dorm with your best freind dina. you were just about done decorating and setting everyting up. "ok! i think thats everything!" you say sitting on the edge of your bed sighing after finally finishing hours of decorating and moving things from your car to your new dorm. dina layed down next to you before she spoke, "finally! you have wayy too many things, anyways whos your roomate?" dina asked. you didnt know who your roomate was actually, all you knew is that she was going to be a girl but aside from that, you were totally clueless.

"not sure to be totally honest, i just hope it isnt going to be someone i knew from highschool, i wish we couldve been roomates i hate the thought of living with a total stranger, or worse, someone i havent seen or spoken to since graduation." you said laying down next to dina starting to think of all of the worst possible outcomes, 'what if its one of ,my exs? what if its one of my ex bestfriends or old hookups?' you thought to yourself your anxiety suddenly skyrocketing at all of the worst possiblilities. you were quickly pulled out of your thoughts however when dina began to comfort you. "hey dont stress too much! youll be fine i promise and your always welcome at my dorm with me and luna!" you thanked her and gave her a slight peck on the forehead. "i dont know what i would do without you dina, your serioulsy the best thing thats ever happened to me, honestly. i would probably be dead if i didnt have you with me all the time" you said laughing slightly.

"honestly i dont know how you survided even with me! Hey i wish i could stay longer but i still need to finishe up my own dorm, wanna come with? you kinda owe me" dina said as she stood up and began to put her shoes on "as fun as that sounds i should probably wait for my roomate but ill be sure to let you know if its anyone we know or something" you said sitting up and scooting back to where your head was able to rest on your headboard. "aww ok finee but atleast promise me youll come to the party tomorrow? Its at one of jesse's frat guy friends, ill send you the info" you sighed before saying fine and saying goodbye to dina. you hated frat parties but you knew dina would get mad if you failed to attend another one.

After a few hours you had taken a shower and gotten into your pj's which consisted of some plad red shorts and a black lacy tank top. you had basically given up on your roomate showing up that night so you we laying ontop of your covers watching hbo max with the led lights set to a dim purple color. your eyes were starting to feel heavy but before you could shut your laptop you heard the door to your small dorm open and you immediately sat up anxiety skyrocketing, it was a little past 12 am and you were not ready to meet whoever was about to walk through the door, especially once you saw her face.

it was ellie fucking williams. you stared at her shocked.

you and ellie were once very close, you were better friends with her than dina at the time and you both were in your senior year of highschool, but you realized you were developing feelings for her. every touch, every flirty comment weather it was sarcastic or not it always gave you butterflies. you never told her how you felt however, especially when cat came along. When she first started hooking up with her she talked about her nonstop. day and night it was always cat this, cat that. and everytime ellie had mentioned her you felt a punch in your gut. you were going crazy and you almost couldnt handle hiding your feelings for her anymore. you realized this when she said she was going to ask cat to be her girlfriend.

after she told you that you went home and cried your eyes out. the girl you loved was in love with someone else. you couldn’t take it anymore and decided to ghost her. you knew that it was a shitty thing to do but you didn’t know what else to do. you couldnt just tell her ‘hey im in love with you so we cant be friends anymore bye’ so you completely cut her off. thankfully the school year was almost over and you didn’t have any classes with her. you avoided every party with some lame excuse like ‘im focusing on studying for finals’ and what not. you did everything humanly possible to avoid her and spent whatever free time crying about it to dina but over the summer you were able to somewhat get over it. obviously you never forgot but you stopped crying every night and ranting to dina about it.

but now there she was. standing in the doorway of your now shared dorm staring at you with anger confusion and maybe even disgust. your mouth was open slightly suddenly re imagining everything you tried to forget. looking at her forest green eyes and freckles perfectly spread across her face. you didn’t know what to say but she finally spoke after what felt like hours of staring at eachother.

“you have got to be fucking kidding me. your my roomate?” she said scoffing and shutting the door shut behind her “ellie i-i didn’t know you were gonna-“ you tried to get words out but she interrupted your lazy attempt at forming a sentence “yeah no shit i know that you didn’t pick me since you would do basically anything to avoid me”

“ellie thats not it, im really fucking sorry but-“ you tried to form an apology but she cut you off again “no dont even try to pull the ‘im sorry card’ we were great, we did everything together and all of a sudden you just dissapear, i dont see you or hear from you at all if it werent for dina letting me know you were alive i wouldve thought you had died or some shit” she said setting her backpack down and now she was standing at the foot of your bed. you felt tears forming in your eyes and it took everything in your power to hold them back while you responded

“i know what i did was shitty but you dont get it, maybe one day ill be able to tell you but i had to, it was the only way i could deal with-“ you cut yourself off mid sentence trying to think about how to explain the situation without confessing to her. “i was just dealing with a lot ok? you didn’t do anything, on purpose atleast but it was all a me issue, you didn’t deserve that but i had to do it for my own sanity”

she looked at you for a second seeing the tears forming in your eyes. she felt bad but she still wanted a better explanation. “why cant you tell me now? why couldnt you tell me then?? we were so close you knew you could talk to me about anything but since you didn’t i want, no i need to know. what. happened.” she said demanding an answer. you felt a tear fall from your eye and you couldnt keep it to yourself anymore.

“i loved you” you said quietly. ellie could barely hear what you said “don’t whisper fucking tell me” she said angrily. “i fucking loved you ellie ok?! is that what you wanted to hear?? but you were so obsessed with cat and i couldnt take it anymore. i didnt want to ruin our friendship but it was gonna happen either way, so i took the safe way out, for me atleast”

ellie just looked at you mouth wide open not being able to respond. she thought about how heartbroken you must’ve been and how she was too stupid to notice the signs. if she knew how you felt then she wouldve left cat in a heartbeat. of course she liked you but she thought you wouldnt feel the same but unlike you, she got quite good at hiding her feelings but she thought about how she would feel if you had gotten a girlfriend or something and all of a sudden she sympathized with you.

“y/n i didnt know im so sorry.” she said walking over to the side of the bed and wrapped you in a hug. you couldnt contain your tears anymore. you hugged her back tightly, sobbing into her shoulder.

———————————————————————

A/N: yall im so sorry for how short this is but i kinda just wanted the first chapter to establish the background and foundation for the whole story, i’ll probably post the second part tomorrow but please give me recommendations and lmk if yall like this so far !!

#ellie the last of us #ellie x y/n #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams fic #ellie williams smut #ellie williams angst

[i-am-church-the-cat]

Logan Sargeant is a silly little guy

@vii-tto idk why but it wouldn't let me tag you. Hopefully you see this. also @spell-of-the-rain i added things if you want to check out 75-87

But here's the list of things i know/want to know about logan sargeant

Favorite Actor is Brad Pitt

Favorite Movie is Wolf of Wall Street

Favorite food is a hamburger

Has a boat and often goes deep sea fishing

Lived in London since he was 15

Lose Yourself by Eminem is his favorite hype up song

Is a Dolphins and Heat fan

Enjoyed “No Man, No Cry” by Jimmy Sax

Drinks iced lattes with oat milk

Pumpkin spice lattes?? Edit 12/16/23: No

Has been to Wimbledon

Knows what cricket is

Has a rescue dog named Coco

Also enjoys hockey Edit 11/1/23: Supports the Florida Panthers NHL team and has gone to at least 1 of their games with his friend Kyle Kirkwood

Does he follow college football?

What does he think of the new Miami head coach? 

If not for motorsport, does he think he would have gone pro in a different sport, and if so which one?

Enjoys listening to 50 Cent (is also a big rap fan in general)

Can he speak any other languages with any degree of familiarity?

Cannot draw

Can make a sandwich (other foods?)

Rates all food from one bite and with weird decimals

Gritty-ed in his f1 car

Makes the Williams photographers look like they take good photos

Does he have an English or a Florida driver’s license? And does he still have US citizenship even though he lives in the UK? What kind of visa is he on?

Top three female athletes? (Serena Williams, Simone Biles, and Megan Rapinoe are all acceptable answers) 

Collects Aussies and Kiwis for friends

Does he like the snow? Prefers the heat but does he like snow?

Does he like Missy Elliot? (Requirement) 

“Basic Halloween Bitch”

Calls people “mate” but in an American accent which will never stop being funny

Eye Crinkles™️

Does not have a set eye color he’s just too mystical for that

Has never been to a concert (presumably too busy with racing)

He can swim, he can drive, but can he ride a bike? Edit 11/15/23: He can indeed ride a bike

American commercial cars or  European ones?

Has an older brother but is like an older brother to Benny’s kid

Likes marshmallows

Does not like black beans

Did not think apple could be chips

Knows how to sail??

Knows how to golf

Can paddle (required for any F1 driver)

Lost the F3 championship in 2020 bc of a DNF in the last race

Can he sing??

Does he drink energy drinks? Red Bull or Monster? 

He and Duracell are passionately making out

Blush is very pretty 

Wears a lot of baseball hats

Somehow beat jet lag (expat king)

Mostly spends his nights in but he has some nights out (presumably very interesting ones)

Has an iPhone with a blue case

He looks very pretty in blue

His eyes are sometimes blue

Blue=fav color?? Edit 11/6/23: favorite color is Ocean blue (credit to @spell-of-the-rain)

Pretty insecure (armchair diagnosed anxiety)

Close with his brother and parents but maybe not his extended family?

Is Florida State his college team?? (Worst thing a man can be is a Florida St fan) Edit 12/16/23: believing that FSU got screwed over this year is acceptable

Did he graduate high school??

Did he ever consider going into NASCAR or did moving to Europe at a young age kind of set in stone his path towards open-wheel racing?

Hair is blond/dirty blond

Does he vote in American elections?? (If he supports RonD I cannot stan)

Burger Sauce™️

Logan Hunter Sargeant, certified Frat Bro, most American man ever

Has seen peaky blinder and presumably stranger things

Knows how to carve a pumpkin but has not celebrated Halloween at home in a bit

Possibly dating some instagram model

Caused $4 million in damages, gets payed $1 million a year, and supposedly brings in $30 million in sponsors

Key phrases: “Locked in”, “Bam/Boom”, “Done and dusted” Additions 11/1/23: "Oh hell yeah", "I think you're a little lost here, Chief". Additions 11/6/23: “Yeh” (gets quieter throughout the word (how it’s one syllable??)), “on the bounce” (credit to @spell-of-the-rain i believe)

Joined the Williams Driver Academy in 2021 

Got stuck in F3 bc he didn’t have the money to move up

Driver for Carlin in 2022

Former teammates include Liam Lawson, Oscar Piastri, Frederick Vesti (Edit 11/6/23: Max Fewtrell possibly?)

DOB: December 31, 2000

5'11

Had a giveaway for gloves he used to win an F4 race on Twitter in 2017 and both Lando Norris and Max Fewtrell replied

Originally his number was 3 but he switched to 2 for F1 (to much fan consternation who thought he had so many better options)

Childhood best friends with Kyle Kirkwood, a current Indycar driver

Logan's older brother Dalton raced in NASCAR until 2018

Did a commercial for Sport23

Does not have cowboy boots as of COTA 2023

Born in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, USA

lived in Switzerland from 14-15(?)

knows the conversion rate for a kilometer

is taller than a tuna fish

Podiumed at the Macau Grand Prix in 2019

Won the CIK-FIA championship when he was 14 Additions as of 11/1/23

Loves waffles but they are not his favorite dessert

Very patriotic (oh hell yeah)

is the first American F1 point scorer in 30 years and the first one to score on home soil since 1989

Went to see the Nets in NYC (but would have preferred to see the Knicks)

has a custom Miami Dolphins jersey with his last name on the back

Claims to know all the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby" (credit to @formulaaone) (Edited 11/6/23)

Additions as of 11/6/23:

Under the same talent agency as Alex Albon

Has the same manager as George Russell

George Russell was his mentor coming up

Went to a catholic private school (credit to @wenevrknew)

Does not like fish? (Credit to @spell-of-the-rain)

He runs weird (in my opinion as he reminds me of my brother when he was 12 (he ran very strangely))

Karted in Las Vegas when he was a kid

Can he drive a stick shift? (Alex believes he cannot)

Enjoys video games

Refers to his car as “she”

Knew how to attach a visor to his helmet prior to February(? Could’ve been March but before the season) 2023

Additions as of 12/16/23

Broke his arm in a 2014 German Karting Championship when Marcus Armstrong took him out at T1 (credit to @spell-of-the-rain )

Has gotten his head eaten by the Golden Knights mascot

If he could have any superpower, he would like to teleport

Has never flown a drone

Favorite racing movie is Talladega Nights (sad Mater noises)

Does not trust other people to drive him

Would rather sleep in then get up early

Considers himself fairly organized

His mother makes a very good sweet potato casserole

Got his habit of worrying from his mom

“Santa’s Little Helper”

Driving for Williams Racing Formula 1 Team in 2024

Got out qualified by his teammate every race of 2023

#logan sargeant #formula 1 #only one other person asked for this and they dmed me #but i'll make a post anyway #this is also an in progress list #so feel free to add stuff #logan lore list

[thetomorrowshow]

a stuffed deer

empires superpowers au masterlist (currently out of date)

this story takes place about one year after the end of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, religious trauma, referenced past death, deadnaming/misgendering of a character (but the person isn’t really doing it out of mailce, and said character is dead)

~

The closer they get, the more anxious Scott becomes. His hands grip tighter on the steering wheel, he checks his mirrors more often, he glances over at Jimmy every couple of seconds.

This is fine. This is normal, even. He knows what he’s doing. He’s done far more terrifying things than this. He’s nearly died several times, he’s graduated college, he’s been a superhero for years.

He can face his birth parents.

He’s been talking to Nora about it for several months, and he’s come to the conclusion that he needs closure. Not about himself—he fully understands their feelings for him, and made peace with them long ago. No, he’s here for closure on Xornoth.

In the last minutes before their death, Xornoth had declared themself to be Scott’s sibling. As far as he knows, he’d been an only child. If what Xornoth said was true, that puts Scott in charge of any and all of their possessions currently being held by the city. Not that he wants them, but the mayor had asked him to pursue any leads he found on Xornoth’s next of kin and, even though it had taken him an entire year and a half, he finally feels ready to pursue the only one he’s ever had.

Jimmy’s fiddling with the radio next to him, switching between gospel and country. There’s not much else that comes through out here, and they’re going through a dead zone for their data plan, so Jimmy eventually just turns it off and sits back, not-so-subtly watching Scott. Scott resolutely keeps his eyes on the road.

They pass the exit for Milford. If Jimmy’s feeling all right after the visit, maybe they can stop by there, visit the library and community college and homeless shelter.

Half an hour until Briarsville. Scott shifts in his seat, taps the steering wheel lightly.

“What did you think of that motel breakfast?” Jimmy breaks the silence. “I thought it was decent—waffles are always good, at least. But I wouldn’t have touched those sausages with a ten foot pole.”

Scott had only eaten a slice of toast with some watery coffee, too nervous already to have any faith in his stomach. “Not the worst I’ve ever had,” he offers. Jimmy’s just trying to help him relax. He can humor his attempts.

“Well, yeah. I can remember a time when I would’ve killed for a motel breakfast—literally.” Jimmy chuckles nervously, tugs on his seatbelt. “Um—how much longer?”

“Half an hour,” says Scott too quickly. He checks the radio clock, then his rearview mirror. They’re almost there. His heart is really beginning to jump now.

The car is quiet again until they reach exit 42. Briarsville.

Jimmy straightens up, looks between Scott and the town that they’re pulling into. It looks like any run-of-the-mill midwest town, Scott knows. Even the Order of Heaven private school isn’t much of an indicator of anything abnormal.

“We can turn around, you know,” Jimmy says softly. Of course he’d noticed the nerves. Scott’s knuckles have turned white around the wheel, his back is ramrod straight, he’s barely spoken all morning. Jimmy’s not an idiot, and he’s more observant than most people know.

Scott forces himself to relax. “No. I need to do this.”

Jimmy nods and doesn’t argue him any further. That’s something that Scott will always love about Jimmy: he understands. He sees that this is important for Scott and would never try to keep him from it.

And then he’s turning onto Bloomfield Avenue, and he thinks that maybe Jimmy’s right. Maybe he ought to turn back now and cut his losses.

It’s still his last name printed above the door of the house three houses down. The welcome mat is that ugly, waterlogged brown thing that it had been before he’d left. His parents still live here.

Scott pulls into the driveway, then freezes.

“What if we just went home?” he says, voice pitched an octave higher than normal. “We can stop by the country music museum. Or the Appalachian one, I heard it’s—”

“Scott,” interrupts Jimmy. “Normally I would be fine with that, but you just told me you have to do this.” He takes one of Scott’s hands, runs his thumb over his knuckles. “This is important to you. I don’t want you to be kicking yourself for the rest of your life because you got all the way here only to turn back.”

Scott takes in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. Then again. Jimmy’s right. Jimmy’s absolutely right. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“And,” Jimmy continues, “if they try to hurt you in any way, I will kill them.”

“You’ve got to stop saying that about everyone we talk to.”

“Hey, I’m just really good at making things look like an accident. Some might even say it’s a superpower.”

“Jimmy.”

“Just saying.”

Scott laughs, kisses his boyfriend on the cheek. He’s ready now. He can go in.

He pulls the key out of the ignition and hops out, then circles round to offer his hand to Jimmy and help him up. Jimmy stops to grab his cane out of the backseat, then gestures encouragingly for Scott to lead the way.

Right. He has to actually go up to the door.

It’s the longest walk of his life, Scott thinks. Even the walk across the stage at graduation hadn’t been this long. But seconds yet seemingly hours later, he’s in front of the door, hand poised to knock.

He swallows, then bites the bullet.

Rat-tat-tat-tat.

It’s only a couple of moments before the door swings open, and his mother is standing before him.

She looks much the same, but changed. Her hair, once grey at the temples, is nearly completely grey with only a few streaks of its former blond. There are a few new lines in her face, only serving to add to the sallowness, the laugh lines he’d once known long-faded. Her hairstyle is the same as ever, her classic Christian mom fashion sense not any different. He takes in all of this, then properly meets her eyes.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, a shiver running up his spine.

She doesn’t say anything at first, eyes passing over Scott to examine Jimmy briefly, sizing him up like a bird of prey. Then she steps aside, pulling the door open wider.

“You’d better come in, hadn’t you,” she says, and the resignation lacing her tone is somehow so much better than the anger he’d expected yet so much worse.

The living room is different. There’s a new couch, pushed up against the wall opposite where it used to be. The easy chair is the same, but also tilted weird and there’s a coffee table for some reason when all it does is take up space. But Scott keeps his complaints to himself and steadies Jimmy as he lowers himself onto the couch, propping his cane up against the coffee table, then sits beside him.

His mother looks at the two of them with something unreadable in her expression, before leaving the room. She returns moments later with two glasses of water.

It’s a test, and Scott doesn’t know if she’s set it up like this or if he set it up for himself, but he takes the water from her hand and sends a little burst of freezing air to chill it, eyes trained on hers the entire time. She doesn’t react.

Jimmy takes his water with a muttered thank you, then she sits down in the easy chair across from them, crossing one leg over the other as she waits for Scott to break the silence.

He takes a sip of his now-cool water (Jimmy passes his own over and Scott forms some of the water into an ice cube before handing it back), takes a deep breath, and speaks.

“Is Dad home? Because—”

“He’s dead,” his mother interrupts. Scott blinks.

Two for two, his mind unhelpfully supplies. 

Is he supposed to mourn an unloved parent? Is he supposed to mourn someone he used to care very deeply about, but proved that they didn’t care for him?

He’s not sure how to feel.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimmy says beside him. “That must be terrible.”

“How long?” is all Scott can manage.

“Nearly two years, now,” she replies. “Heart attack while at work.” She clicks her tongue. “I was always telling him to lay off the salt, stop working so hard. Guess he suffered the consequences.”

Scott’s really not sure how to feel. The last memory of his birth father he has is of his face closing off, declaring himself to have no son, and banishing Scott from the house. Would he have liked to reconcile? Is parting easier with his last words being unforgivable?

“I’m so sorry, Mrs—”

“Heidi,” his mother corrects Jimmy, and Jimmy amends his words.

“I’m so sorry, Heidi. I can only imagine the pain.”

That’s the first thing to incite emotion in Scott, because Jimmy can’t only imagine that sort of pain. Jimmy’s lived through the death of loved ones without a house to live in afterwards or a community to support him. Jimmy’s had it worse off. Jimmy shouldn’t have to be placating his terrible excuse for a mother.

He must be getting tense, because Jimmy’s hand runs comfortingly along his knee, and Scott can almost feel the love and support that Jimmy imbues the touch with.

Heidi’s eyes follow the movement, and after a moment, she says gruffly, “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Right. This could go very badly.

“Mother, this is Jimmy, my boyfriend,” Scott says stiffly, before adding, “as in, romantic partner. We kiss. Each other.”

Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Are you a gay now, then?”

Scott stares her down. “And if I am?” he challenges. “What are you going to do, kick me out again?”

She stares back for a long moment, a moment during which Scott’s certain she is going to kick them out—then she chuckles, shakes her head.

“You always were a bit sassy,” she says. “I ought to have known, really. But that can be said for a lot of things.”

“Speaking of things that ought to have been known. . . .” Jimmy hints, nudging at Scott. Scott nods, takes a deep breath, and forces out the question that’s been on his mind for so long.

“Did I . . . did you have any children before me?”

Heidi looks away suddenly, toward the TV. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing. “I thought that was Noah,” she says eventually. “His voice was already starting to change when he left.”

“Sorry—Noah?”

She looks back at him. “Your brother. He was fourteen when we noticed he was one of them. You were so young, I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Right, because it’s such a normal thing to destroy every trace of your child’s existence and raise the other to believe he never had a sibling.

But that means—

“I’ve seen the two of you on the news,” his mother continues. “Your father, too. He regretted what he did, Scott, after he saw how good your heart was.”

“So he just wanted to send me to conversion therapy instead, huh,” Scott mutters. “And that’s so much better.”

Heidi sighs. “We did what we thought we had to do, for both of you. We always hoped you would repent and come back.”

Scott wants to scream. He wants to scream and yell and freeze the entire house, because that may be the most insensitive thing he’s ever heard and his own mother is supposed to love him unconditionally, not act like this!

His hands are shaking. He doesn’t even notice until Jimmy eases the glass from his grip and rubs his arm. He needs to calm down.

But he can’t bear to look at the woman’s face for a moment longer.

“I think we’ll be going,” Scott says icily, moving to stand. Heidi stands as well, taking their glasses, then pauses on her way back to the kitchen.

“We donated your things,” she says, “but not all of it. Do you want any of what’s left?”

And as much as Scott wants to get out of here, he knows he needs to see whatever it is his mother decided to keep. So, after an encouraging squeeze from Jimmy, Scott follows her into the attic.

There’s only two things in the attic—two small trash bags, leaning against a wall to the side. With a nod from Heidi, Scott opens one of them up.

His monogrammed bible is on top. He has no interest in that. His Boy Scout pins and kerchief are here as well, more stuff he doesn’t care about. His birth certificate, which he does set aside (he already has a copy of it that he’d requested from the government, but it can never hurt to have the original), and a small photo album, which he sets aside as well. At the very bottom of the bag is his plush turtle, scruffy and old.

That he pulls to his chest, burying his nose into it. It smells pretty musty, which makes sense. It probably hasn’t been out of this attic in a decade.

It brings back feelings, looking at it. Not memories, not exactly, but feelings of a simpler time. Feelings from some vague past, where he had no troubles and his only concern was getting to school on time.

And more feelings. Feelings of deception, of hate, of guilt. The feeling of his world being flipped upside down and this plushie not being near enough to anchor it.

He wants to set it with his birth certificate and the photos, but it holds so much of this place that he’s not so sure.

He sets the turtle to the side and looks in the other bag.

Much the same stuff, and at first he inexplicably thinks this is an exact replica for some odd reason—but the name monogrammed onto this bible is not his.

Scott weighs it in his hands for a moment, then sets that aside.

There’s no photo album, but the same boy scout items and a birth certificate. There’s a plushie here too, though, a floppy deer, one of the antlers torn off and the hole it left carefully sewn shut. The fur is wearing thin in places, the beads for eyes have lost their shine.

It’s well-loved, as loved as Scott’s turtle, and for some reason, that makes him want to cry.

He’s not sure what to do with it. He still hasn’t really processed what his mother confirmed downstairs.

This stuffed deer belonged to the sibling he never met.

This stuffed deer belonged to Xornoth.

Can he take it?

Does he want to take it?

He sets it aside next to his turtle. At the bottom of the bag, there’s one last thing—a photograph, bent at the corner.

It’s older than any in the photo album, and Scott knows instantly that the child in the photo isn’t him. It’s a small child with a mop of dark blond hair, maybe three years old, wearing little red overalls and a white sweater, sitting on a push-bike and smiling up at the camera.

He can’t quite force his brain to make the connection. This child, so happy and young, grew up to be Xornoth. This toddler tried to take over the world.

He can process it later, he supposes, and he upends one of the bags to make sure there’s nothing else (there isn’t, so few of what once were his possessions leftover), then stuffs both his turtle and the deer in it, along with his birth certificate. He hikes the bag over his shoulder and picks up the photo of—of the child—and the photo album, before holding both out to his mother.

“Do you want any of these?” he asks brusquely. She takes the loose photo, then waves off the album.

“I’ve kept some of yours downstairs,” she says dismissively. “This is my only picture of Noah, though.”

Scott leaves the attic without another word, photo album chucked into the bag over his shoulder. He meets back up with Jimmy in the living room, who looks up from his phone with a questioning glance.

Scott sets down the bag, pulls out the turtle plushie. “This was mine growing up,” he says. Jimmy’s face immediately softens and he coos, reaching out for it. Scott hands it over, then removes the second stuffed animal.

This one he holds farther from Jimmy, because he’s still not sure if he wants to take it with him, despite the strange sense that he owes it to his lost sibling. “This,” he says carefully, “belonged to Xornoth.”

Jimmy’s face goes carefully neutral, and his hands still. “Oh,” he manages, and Scott can hear the change in his exhales as he immediately kicks into breathing exercises.

“We don’t have to take it if you aren’t okay with that,” Scott is quick to reassure. “We can leave it here, that’s fine. I’m sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“Why—why do you want it?”

That’s harder to answer, because Scott hasn’t figured out why yet. He’ll know when he comes across the answer, he’s certain, but it hasn’t made itself known to him in the five minutes that he’s known of his sibling’s existence.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. He stares at the deer, at the faded pattern of its coat. “There’s some reason I want it, but I’m not sure what that is, yet.”

A little color has already returned to Jimmy’s face, and he doesn’t stutter when he speaks. “Is it part of your closure?”

He doesn’t know how, but Jimmy’s right. He nods. This is, in some way and fashion, a very important part of making peace with his sibling’s identity in his head.

“Then take it,” says Jimmy, handing back the turtle. He stands, slowly, supporting himself with his cane.

But it’ll hurt you, Scott wants to say. It’s clear that Jimmy doesn’t like the idea of taking this deer plushie home, doesn’t like the idea of it being in their house.

“Don’t worry about me, yeah?” Jimmy says, as if he can hear Scott’s thoughts. He smiles weakly, squeezes Scott’s arm. “I’ll be fine. This is about you.”

They leave with a quick goodbye, no attempts on either side to set up further contact. Scott just throws his things into the backseat with Jimmy’s cane, then drives away.

-

It’s just a week later when Scott drives out of the city to a park.

It’s a quiet park, just some trails and benches through the trees, and Scott stops at one of these trees and digs with the shovel he’d brought from home.

He digs alone, in the quiet shade of the trees, a light breeze rustling through them. And when he’s finished the job, a small pile of dirt beside him, he lays a shoebox containing a small stuffed deer in the little hole he’s dug.

He scrapes the dirt back over it with his shovel, pats it down a bit, and stands there. Just . . . stares.

Then, silently, Scott turns away and heads home.

#empires smp #empires smp fanfic #flower husbands #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #empires superpowers au #esh au #mas writes #if anyone is confused about jimmy's cane: #it's because of his bad hip! #if u recall he injured it at the end of 'panic scampered' #and frequently reinjured it over the following months #so now it's a source of chronic pain for him #and he uses a hip brace or a cane on bad days #this fic has been in the works for a while #i think i finished it a year ago #but alas that's how the queue goes yk #i'm still away of course #still on my social media hiatus #it's probably really nice. idk i'm writing this before i start #ok lmk what you think! #love you guys

[youreobsessedwithtoomanyfandoms]

You're Being Mean

Words: 987

Warnings: angst, probably poor writing but whatever

STRANGER THINGS Masterlist Main Masterlist

Based off of the line from Little Women "No. No Laurie. You're being mean. Stop it. Stop. I have been second to Jo my whole life. In everything. And I will not be the person you settle for just because you cannot have her. I wont-I won't do it. I wont--not when I've spent my entire life loving you."

This is literally one of my favorite lines from Little Women. Especially because of how Amy says that Laurie is being mean. She doesn't say he isn't being fair or anything like that. She says he's being mean. Which, to me, holds more power than if she said something else

I kinda left it open for y'all to decide what happens next. But if you would want, I could write a part two for this.

Anywho, enjoy

Y/N Wheeler had known Jonathan Byers and his family her whole life. Her and Jonathan had met at the park when they were about 3. They had been best friends ever since. Wherever one was, there other was there too. They were practically tied at the hip. Everyone found it ironic as their younger brothers were the same. When Lonnie and Joyce were fighting, Jonathan and Will would show up at hers. When Will went missing, she helped in any way she could. Including helping him shop for a casket.

But that was also when her twin sister, Nancy, started to be his friend. All because, what? He had been the last person to see her friend Barb? She found it unfair. Unfair that he had been telling his mom that Will was dead and then Nancy says something about a possibility that he and Barb could be alive and he believes her. She found it all completely and totally unfair to Joyce.

But of course, the worst thing was that she knew he had had feelings for Nancy since they were in Middle School. And now he had his chance, a sliver of a chance, but he still was taking it.

And it hurt Y/N. Not only because she had feelings for her friend, herself. But because per usual, she was second best to Nancy. It always had been that way. In everything, Nancy was better than her at. The only thing that Y/N was better at her sister was, was Softball.

So then, after Will was found, Y/N felt slightly happy that Nancy went back to Steve. So now her sister couldn't make her second with the one person that had been there for her for years. Just as she had been there for him.

But of course, a year past and Steve and Nancy broke up. Jonathan comforted and helped her while Y/N was comforting and helping Steve and the children.

And then that was done. Now it was nearly 4 years later. They all had graduated High School. Nancy being the fucking Valedictorian and Y/N the Salutatorian. Now it was 4 years later. She no longer lived in Hawkins. She hadn't even been back since she left. It was been nearly 2 years since she had last seen Jonathan Byers and now here he was.

Jonathan Byers was standing in the photography store he was interning at for college credits.

Jonathan Byers was in New York City and asking her out.

-

Y/N shook her head at Jonathan as he spoke, "Please, Y/N."

"No."

"Y/N/N--"

"No. Jonathan. Stop it." She brushed hair out of her face, "Stop it. You-you're being mean. Just...just stop."

He looked at her helplessly, "How am I being mean?"

She shakily breathed, "I have been second to Nancy my whole life. In everything." She jabbed at his chest, "And I will not let myself be the person you settle for just because you cannot have her." She shook her head and walked past him, "I wont-I won't do it." She stuttered out, "I wont--not when I've spent my entire life loving you."

His voice was soft, "Y/N--"

"No, Jonathan. Please. Please just stop. Please just go back to Hawkins. I'm sorry that Nancy rejected you after we graduated. But please, that was 2 years ago. Please don't make me reopen that wound."

He softly took her hand, "But I was wrong. Chasing after her when you were right there in front of me."

She looked down, trying not to cry. Trying to not show any weakness. "Jonathan, just go home. Please. I'm practically begging you to do so."

"Do you really want me to?"

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. Everything was telling her to bed him to stay. But she couldn't. "I love you, but...but yes. I do want you to leave. I want you to move on from me. From Nancy." She let out a shaky breath, "It's better if you do."

He nodded silently and walked to the door. His hand hovered over the nob for a moment before he turned back and walked over to her. And before she could even ask him anything. He kissed her. He smashed his own lips onto hers. And no matter how badly she knew she needed to pull away, she didn't. She allowed herself to melt into his kiss.

When he pulled away, he moved his hand up to wife away the tears that had fallen from her eyes. She looked at him helplessly. "Why did you do that, Jonathan?"

His hand had stayed resting on her cheek, "Because I love you. Truly do. I wasn't lying when I said I realized I should had never even tried to Nancy while you were there." He looked at her softly, "All that I'm asking for is one date. Anymore will be up to you. But please, just one date."

"I-I need time to think, Jonathan. Give me some time. How-how long are you in New York for?"

"Till next Wednesday. Here," He handed her a small piece of paper, "I'm staying there. And-and," He pointed to a number, "That's the room number."

She nodded and placed the small paper in her back pocket, "Okay. I'll give you my answer later."

He nodded and walked back to the door, "Even if you don't get back to me...I'm just happy that you're considering it."

She stayed silent as she watched him walking out. She stayed where she was until her boss yelled at her to get a move on. But for the rest of her shift, all she could think about was Jonathan and on if she was going to say yes or not.

And by the end of her day, she knew what her answer was. But she was just scared to tell him.

#jonathan #byers #jonathan byers #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers imagine #jonathan byers x wheeler!reader #jonathan byers angst #stranger #things #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things x wheeler!reader #stranger things angst #x reader #imagine #x wheeler!reader #angst

[friendlylifecherry]

Idea for the Gavin parents since we don't hear anything about them and I want to speculate: Kristoph and Klavier's parents both played favorites. Their mother liked Klavier better, their father preferred Kristoph. Mrs. Gavin seemed to resent her eldest from the day he was born, calling him a "devil child" and never showing him any affection. Mr. Gavin knew how it affected Kristoph and made it his mission to be the parent that could and would be there for Kristoph. Then Klavier was born (he was an accident; not like Kristoph was planned either, but there's a difference between "pleasant surprise" and "life-ruining misfortune" that Kristoph knew all too well) and Mrs. Gavin just loved him from first sight, showering him with affection. That's when Kristoph and Mr. Gavin realized: oh, it wasn't that she resented motherhood, she just hated Kristoph.

Mr. Gavin hated it and thus, hated Klavier. He was always some "spoiled brat" in his eyes. The couple's fights over how they treated their respective sons really only got worse ever since Klavier was born. Every day, Kristoph just wished they could get a divorce. Hell, he wished that they would just both die so they could leave him and Klavier in peace.

Klavier could tell. The boy was not nearly as dumb as some may think he is. He saw how mom would give him kisses and hugs and glare at Kristoph whenever he was just working quietly. He saw how father would readily praise Kristoph for his excellent grades and conduct in school, yet everything Klavier did was met with scorn and disdain.

It was the night that Kristoph graduated from college that it all went to hell. They were home, and their parents made dinner (Mr Gavin had to deliberately make Kristoph's favorites, since Mrs. Gavin refused to, again). Klavier mentioned he wanted to take the Themis Acadamey accelerated legal course. Their dad had opinions, negative ones, and that started their worst argument yet. This wasn't a normal argument, though. This was the kind you only found in songs about toxic romance. Screaming, cursing, throwing things, using everything that ever angered them against the other. And, of course, their sons were caught in the crossfire.

It wasn't until a plate very nearly hit a cowering Klavier in the head that Kristoph decided that he had enough. He stood up, excused himself, dragged Klavier away, and drove Klavier straight to Daryan's house. Kristoph handed him part of his graduation gift money, telling him to go spend time with Daryan and order pizza or something. He'll be back in a few hours after their parents are done. Which was the first sign that something was deeply wrong. Kristoph hated Daryan and never gave anyone money he got for gifts, he always saved it away.

It wasn't until a few hours later into a jam session that really wasn't going anywhere with Klav looking like he's about to puke when Kristoph came back. He looked... bad. When Klavier left the house to see him, Kristoph just gave him a hug, shivering. The second sign, Kristoph never showed affection in public or showed that he was scared of anything.

The whole drive back home was just terrifying. Klavier didn't have the guts to ask what happened, not when Kristoph was deliberately keeping his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road the whole time, white knuckling the wheel as they made their way home.

Then, they pulled up to the house to find it surrounded by emergency services. That's when Kristoph admits it: their parents were fighting, and he got so upset that he punched the old furnace. It's why he's holding his hand like that [this is where he got the scar]. Then, when they just started getting louder, he screamed at them. Kristoph never screamed at his parents before, and when he was done, he left before he could get in trouble. But he got worried when neither of them tried to call after he left, so he called emergency services. That's when they started to wheel out Mr and Mrs Gavin to the ambulances.

They had suffered from CO poisoning since the way Kristoph hit the old furnace managed to let the fumes in. Mrs. Gavin would die in the hospital, having never woken up again. Mr. Gavin survived but needed around-the-clock care due to the mental deficits he had gotten. Part of that was hypophonia or soft speech. He could barely even talk after waking up, and whatever he did speak was slow and full of stammering. As of AA6, he hasn't spoken in 5 years and hasn't spoken to Klavier since he was 15, at least 10 years on.

Kristoph won't acknowledge anything about this, not a single word. But after he turned 18 and started university, he would make a little mark in the side of the furnace once a day, out of sight but with plenty of room for Kristoph to maneuver. It took years, wearing down on the side of the furnace while stuck in that deeply unhappy home. But that night, he had finally grown sick enough of them to set his plan into motion. After dropping off Klavier, he came back and punched the furnace, just as he had told Klavier, but the strike was right at that point that he had been weakening with pinpoints, nails, and anything small and vaguely sharp over these long 4 years. The mark on his hand wasn't ideal, to say the least, but he was able to get out 22 years of burning frustration with them not being able to do a thing as he went out to his car and drove off with a muted phone.

Kristoph covered up the bruising as best as he could, then after waiting another hour, figured that now would be a good time to get Klavier, calling emergency services after he reached Daryan's house.

He knows it's his deliberate planning that killed his mother and crippled his father for life. He's a horrible person and knows it. That's how he got the first black Psyche-lock.

#ace attorney #kristoph gavin #klavier gavin #tw toxic parents #tw murder #honestly Kristoph still liking Klavier (in his own fucked up way) is a miracle in an of itself #long post

[squarebracket-trickster]

Sorry guys, rant incoming. I considered deleting this but I put too much effort in.

"girlboss" "girl dinner" "girl math" "boy math" "gen z are making fun of us for wearing x" "here's how to dress like gen z:" "girlies" "girl's night" "boy's night" "me and the boys" "90s kid"

"I don't feel like an adult" "I'm 34 and I can tell you, I still don't feel like an adult either." "My parents seemed like real adults when they were my age." "I still feel like a teenager."

Maybe you'd feel more like an adult if you started calling yourself one. Maybe you'd feel more like an adult if you stopped trying to dress like a teenager. Maybe you should move your bed out from the wall and get a wallet. Maybe find a calendar app that works for you.

You are an adult. Even if you live with your parents. Even if you do part-time shift work at minimum wage. Even if you haven't graduated college. Even if you are single. These are adult things to do. Because you are doing them. And you are an adult. Start treating yourself like an adult. Fake it 'till you make it if you have to.

In other, writing-related, news:

That trend on TikTok of 20-40 something women authors (and writers yet to be published) promoting their books like,

"Omg! I can't believe I've sold X number of copies!! I never thought I would!" "Ahhhh imagine publishing your book and all your dreams come true and now you get to meet famous authors and work with big names in the industry!!" "Would you read a book where [proceeds to list a bunch of oversaturated tropes that tell me nothing about the actual plot]?"

It reeks of infantilization. If you didn't believe anyone would want to read your book, why should I? You made it on the NYT bestseller list! Stop acting like a mega-fan who got to meet a celebrity. You are their peer! "Would you read a book--" What if I wouldn't? Why does it matter to you what I think of your book? And for the love of god stop hiding behind tropes you know are already popular. "Here is my book: This is what it is about." Have some goddamn confidence.

It is fine to mention in passing "this idea was really far-fetched so I didn't know if it would appeal" or "I was struggling with self-esteem when I wrote this". It's fine to fan a little bit. It's fine to discuss the tropes in your book. But why are you building your brand as an author off of your inferiority complex? You are using your poor self-esteem as a marketing tactic to seem "humble" and "relatable" but it's coming across as unprofessional and desperate for reassurance. You are an adult. You are competent. The more you act like it the more you will believe it.

And of course, I haven't seen a man promote his book this way...

On another note, do any of the 20-40 something women writers who do "write with me" videos on TikTok actually enjoy writing or are they just doing it for the aesthetic?

They all have gorgeous minimalism writing spaces full of white and pink and a macbook beneath a window. Their makeup is done and they are conventionally pretty to start with. But their entire video is just them talking about how little progress they made, how many pages they deleted, how often they got distracted, how frustrated they are. And like, yeah. We all have those days. But what about the good lines you can't wait to share? The days when the words just flow? The cool stuff you learned while researching? Why don't you ever make videos about that?

Is this some other attempt to seem "relatable" by only talking about the "bad" side of writing? Because again, it's coming across as lacking confidence at best and, at worst, that you don't actually know how to write. And that is not the brand you want as an author.

Again, its always women. Why must women market their self-esteem issues in order to sell their art? Why must we be perpetually awestruck children (girlies, book girls) in over our heads?

#also why do I get the sense these women are selling a lifestyle more than they are actually promoting their own books? #I feel like someone more qualified than me could link this to modelling good christian gender roles #and cultural conformity or something #it isn't lost on me how much of this is about trying to seem humble #and how much validation is tied to protestant success and hard work ideas #is this where the indoctrination starts? #give us 'role models' as influencers #also Alex Aster of Lightlark fame is the WORST for this #her content makes me physically sick to watch #and again interesting that it is pretty widely agreed on at this point that she is an industry plant #interesting that the industry plant is leaning so heavy on the humility and infantilization of women tactics #as though appealing to protestant christians is a major concern of the industry #what's that about? is it just sales? or is it related to those evangelical groups trying get books banned? #how much influence does conservative christian america have within the trad pub industry? #maybe I am really reaching here idk #I don't have any sources #it's just speculation I am open to be proven wrong

[elslovers]

chapter one

BLOOD IN BLOOD OUT

synopsis: medical school is hard you knew it would be you prepared for the long nights and breakdowns you prepared to run off only coffee and will power for four years what you didn't prepare for was Abby Anderson you thought after graduation you would be done with her but first day of your internship there she is ready to give you hell...and maybe something more

a/n this is basically going to be greys anatomy tlou version im not sure this is gonna land with people but lord I hope so doctor abby eats so lets see how this go - also this is my first not standalone fic yay for me

you had always been a healer in one way or another, mending healing sick younger siblings back to health from a cold or nasty flu turned to taking care of your friend's hangovers after discovering to never vodka and tequila

you've spent your whole life healing people mending broken hearts and broken women, and mending parents and friends during the lows of their life it only made sense that you would dedicate your life to mending the pain of others its what you do best, and if you're being honest, you loved it at first, you thought you might want to be a vet at the ripe age of eleven. You decided you prepared the company of your pets to those around you (you still do) and thought fixing them might be a decent way to spend your adult life but the concept of seeing animals in any form of pain put you off your dinner then in middle school, you thought maybe a nurse you liked the idea of a hospital, the concept of working alongside brilliant doctors and helping save people's lives by realizing you only wanted to be a nurse because you thought you couldn't be the doctor and fuck that

college, you spent every second of every minute of every goddamn day proving you deserved to be one of the doctors, and after four years of grueling pre-med classes, you were confident you deserved to be one of the doctors then came med school, which knocked you flat on your ass. You didn't go to a shabby school for undergrad, but you ran circles around your peers there - common knowledge was that you were the one to watch, but med school was different you weren't running the circles alone Abby Anderson had been breathing down your neck and your ego from the moment you stepped foot into your first class - the first question your professor asked your two hands were the only ones to fly up

it was world war three ever since that day constantly an all-out battle as to who can bruise the other's ego more you hated her stupid notes and the way she was so above using an iPad like everyone else and was insistent on surviving med school with pen and paper for notes, only using her laptop when needed be you hated her attitude. Her father is a doctor, and she always acted like she was born with a scalpel in her hand, ready to cut she always acted so above you if you were being honest with yourself, Abby made you feel weak. She was tailor-made for this life. She was stoic and hard level headed and cool under pressure. She poked fun at all the things that made you you

she made fun of the way you doodled in the edges of your textbook she made fun of how you dressed 'like an overgrown toddler.' She would say every time you sported your colorful shirts or pants, your cardigans or fun shoes- the day you wore pigtails to a lecture was one of the worst of your years there Abby always quipped that you were better-suited teaching kindergarten than in the OR, and sometimes you started to believe her

in high school, mean girls were blondes with Jeeps and low GPAs, but in med school, the mean girl was a cut-throat soon to be doctor who almost beat you out for top of the class almost

graduation day came and when and you stood on that stage beaming ear to ear - your dress may have been pink, but you were the only one with a gold cord draped over your cap and gown so suck on that, Abby Anderson was the second name to be called and the relief that flooded your body was unexpected

it was over. She was gone, and you would never have to feel that big hand wrap around your shoulder just to tug at your ponytail you had finally gotten rid of Abby fucking Anderson and you existed blissfully with that thought all summer you'd accepted your internship at Jackson Hospital and after four miserable years of med school spent proving to yourself you deserve to be a doctor, you now got to spend the next four years of your life proving to yourself you deserve to save lives when your alarm echoed throughout the four walls of your one-bedroom apartment, it felt like a gift

today was the first day of the rest of your life

it was a fresh start - a clean slate and nothing in this world could knock you off your high at least you thought

the light blue scrubs felt like a second skin right off the bat, and with your hair in a pink clip and two cups worth of coffee In your travel mug, you gathered around the other interns and spotted the only thing that could ruin your day a honey blonde braid hanging idly down the pack of the one person who could make you regret even waking up that morning

fucking Abby

Abby had a special gift for making you feel small, always pointing out the things you love about yourself as if they were the worst flaws she'd ever seen

it blew your mind to think your first impression of her was that she was stunning

"you have got to be kidding me" You meant it to sound firm and harsh, but you know it came out weak

you watched, gawking as Abby turned roughly on her heels to tower over you properly

this was going to be a nightmare

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

to say Abigail Anderson was meant to be a surgeon would be the understatement of the year

where you were born to heal

Abby was born to cut

her father was a healer,

but what she lacked in his warmth she made up for in discipline. Abby was controlled. She was hard-working. She knew what she wanted from the moment she was old enough to vocalize it and she spent every moment of every day working toward it. It would be admirable if she was humble about it but Abby was cocky, and she knew it

she was always the one to beat all throughout her life she spent most of her young childhood inside the walls of Jackson Hospital, absorbing every ounce of knowledge her mind could, and by the time she hit high school, she was a well-oiled goddamn machine Abby lived and breathed medicine, and although out college, every move she made had the sole purpose of bringing her closer to the goal - to the one thing she was made to do it is needless to say, Abby never had many friends. That's not to say she had none. Every overachieving perfectionist can attest that various social clubs help fill the void

Abby was president of the debate team Vice President of Model UN, captain of the girl's basketball team, and an active member of the gay, straight alliance per her father's request (begging) who often worried Abby didn't surround herself with 'people on your team' as he father would put it over breakfast most mornings

Abby had people but Abby was alone. She didn't play nice with others people who weren't on her level she found boring and impossible to converse with and people on her level (people like you) posed as a threat to the territory that was rightfully hers Abby walked confidently into med school posy undergrad, convinced no one could take the wind out of her sails until she met you

for every question asked you always seemed to have the answer a second faster for every quiz test or exam that she got an A on it always felt as though you got an A + she hated the way you showed her up and did so with a smile - did so with fucking pigtails

she hated how good you got and how kind you stayed she spent years convincing herself that the way she was is what it took to become bright that warm girls sweet girls girls who doodle and play nice don't become cut throat and that Abby was made to be cut throat

but there you were personified sunshine and holding a fucking dagger to her throat it seemed unfair so when you made her feel low Abby would make you feel lower she knew her teasing and taunts were pathetic and bordering on cruel but for four years taking the wind out of your sails put it back into hers

she would be a liar if she said tequila and late nights in her apartment didn't force her to think about how soft and broken your face looks when she teases you she would be a liar if she said those thoughts didn't want to make her stop but they just were never enough when she sobered up

after graduation all she could feel was relief sure you had one for a final time you pulling top the class out from under her would chase her down in her nightmares for years to come but she had the summer to nurse her pride and by the time day one of internship rolled around she was prepared to walk though the doors of Jackson hospital exactly what she was A legacy Abby was the second link in the chain of Anderson surgons in that hospital

her father was legend and now she could follow it up build her own reputation of excellence she like he had always intended when she gathered around the other interns sipping on her coffee as they all spoke in hushed whispers about how she was the daughter of THE dr Anderson she was confident nothing could bring her down until she heard your voice small and weak and taunting as she whips around her braid nearly hitting someone in the face

"oh come the fuck on" she hissed feeling the anger rising right to her cheeks

this was going to be a nightmare

#IRISWRITES #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson au #medstudentaby #modern!abby

[itslottiehere]

you’re no good alone (h.s) - part one

hello beautiful people 🤍 i can’t believe this is happening lmao i’m so scared. here it is: my first writing. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember, not necessarily fiction, but even random thoughts, journal entries, everything. i’ve always loved it, and always thought about sharing it with others, but never found the courage to do so. but the other night, i had an idea for a one shot and thought it was pretty nice, so i told myself to get over my insecurities and just go with it. what’s the worst that can happen, after all? so here you go, a little piece of me for all of you who want to take it <3

please do let me know what you think! my asks are open and you can send them anonymously as well, if you feel more comfortable. so, without further ado, happy reading!

tw: angst, prescription drugs and alcohol, swearing

word count: 2.6k

part 2 | part 3 | masterlist | let me know what u think here

—

this sucked.

they both knew this was inevitable, but it still sucked.

being apart sucked.

being broken up sucked.

it was a mutual choice: he was always away, she had to graduate college. he had meetings and tour dates and movie premieres to attend; she wasn’t going to throw away all her hard work, those brutal years of studying and exams to follow him. she wasn’t going to let her own life disappear into his.

they loved each other, but love wasn’t enough sometimes.

the fights seemed never ending. they would end up saying the same things over and over again, going in circles.

“I’m just asking you to think about it.”

“you’re asking me to disappear in your own life, and you know i won’t do that.”

“so what do you want to do, huh? what am I supposed to do when you don’t want to be with me?”

“i’ve never said that. i’ve just said that i’m not going to throw away everything i’ve worked for to follow you like a puppy while you succeed in your career, and i have to forget about mine. that does not sound like something so crazy to me.”

“so what? do I have to throw away everything i’ve worked for? is that it?”

“this is where we’re different, harry: i would’ve never asked you to do that.”

harry. she only called him harry when she was mad. she started calling him pet names almost ever since they met, once they became closer.

now they were as close as strangers.

the night they broke up the fight was along the same lines, but it ended up with her packing her bags and telling him she was really done this time, and that that was it for them. she couldn’t do it anymore, neither of them could. she looked at him, told him her last goodbye, and closed the door behind her, never to be seen again.

he didn’t even try to follow her. he knew that breaking up was the right choice. they were miserable when they were apart, miserable when they were together because there was always something to do. they just didn’t work anymore.

so here he was, sitting on his living room floor, two months after that night.

it was around 2am, bottle of scotch in his hand, some pills in the other. he popped a couple of them in his mouth, and took a long swing from the bottle.

he knew it wasn’t a smart idea, mixing alcohol and prescription drugs, but nothing else seemed to make his brain shut up, make his memories about her stop replaying in his mind for even a second.

he was tired.

memories of them haunted his dreams every night, making him wake up with cheeks sticky from the tears he didn’t even know he was shedding. he couldn’t remember a night when she wasn’t in his head.

god, he doesn’t even know if he lived a second in those two months without her on his mind.

his head started to feel lighter. good, fucking finally, he thought. but then he felt like an itch to his fingertips, and before he knew he had his phone in his hand, starting a call.

maybe she would answer?

the phone rings for a while. it was 2am, she probably wasn’t going to expect a call at this hour. was she going to hear the ringtone? he knew her phone was always on silent. maybe not this time. was she going to feel happy he called? or worried because of how late it was? or maybe annoyed because she was asleep and knew this was a late night drunk call?

fuck, if this is how loud his drunken mind was, you can imagine how it is when he’s sober.

his rambling thoughts are cut short by a voice answering: “hello?”

it was a male voice. he felt his heart dropping to his stomach. who was he? what was he doing with her phone? why was he answering? did she already move on? was he the only one who was still hang up on the way they were? was she happier now?

“harry? you there? why are you calling me at this hour, it’s 2 in the morning for pete’s sake”.

what? did the person on the other side of the phone know him? who was he?

he took away his phone from his ear, and glanced at the screen through blurry eyes that signalled that he was intoxicated.

he manages to understand the name of the contact he actually called, and croaked into the speaker: “mitch?”

“yeah dude it’s mitch, why do you sound surprised?”

“fuck. i-i didn’t mean to call you.” he slurred.

“harry, what’s going on? have you been drinking?”

“yup. and something else too.”

“did you take any pills? what kind?”

“just some stuff i found in the bathroom. they are working though, feel lighter already.”

“yeah i can hear that. but you still didn’t tell me who you wanted to call instead of me.”

he stays quiet. even speaking her name out loud hurt him. he couldn’t even bear to do that.

but mitch managed to put two and two together, and the answer was obvious.

“oh no harry. dude, you can’t do that to her. it’s been two months, she’s still grieving your relationship, what would she think if she picked up your call at 2 in the morning just to hear you drunk and high off your ass? you can’t do that to her, and you can’t do this to yourself as well. you can’t keep going like this.”

“don’t you think i know this, mitch? don’t you think i’m tired of feeling like this every single second?” he sighed.

his friend didn’t know what to do. he was at a loss of words, so they stayed silent for a while, when harry broke the silence.

“her last exam was on wednesday.”

“what?”

“her last exam, she took it on wednesday. she was already studying for it months ago, wanting to ace it. it’s her last one before her dissertation. i wanted to tell her good luck, couldn’t bring myself to do that. chickened out like the coward i am.”

“you’re not a coward, har-“

“i didn’t even bother to run after her, you know that? she walked out of my hotel room, bags in hand, looked at me for the last time and all i was able to do was to stand there, in the middle of the fucking room, while she walked out of my life. i couldn’t even bother to run after her, even for one last touch, one last goodbye, one last kiss. i was a coward then, and i’m a coward now.”

mitch thought about how long harry had to have been holding onto those thoughts. it’s been two months since he saw her as well, he caught a glimpse of her walking out the hotel lobby, shoulder shaking and sobs ripping from her throat. he couldn’t even reach her and ask her what was going on before she got it in the first taxi she saw and drove away from them, from harry.

he went into the hotel thinking that she and harry had had yet another fight, which has been happening a lot lately. he heard it — hell, all of them kept hearing them fighting, even though they pretended they didn’t.

so he walked through the lobby, got into an elevator and pressed the button to his floor. he thought about checking in on harry, just to make sure he was alright. what mitch wasn’t expecting was seeing his friend standing like a statue in the middle of the room, looking at the door like he had seen a ghost. he understood that this time the fight was worse than all the times before. he managed to make harry get into the bed, and decided to sleep on the little couch. they both didn’t get much sleep that night, one because of the uncomfortable couch, the other because of her perfume that lingered on the sheets, reminding him of everything he had lost.

“harry, do you want me to come over?”

“no, i’m fine, it’s all good.”

“no harry, it’s not. you’re no good alone now, i’m coming over.”

“no, mitch, seriously. i don’t want you here. if anyone should be here, it’s her. only her. this was her home too. she should be home.”

he asked her to move in with him a couple hundred times, he thinks. this was his home in london, he always though she should’ve lived there with him instead of her flat. it was a little further from her university, but nothing major.

she always told him no, but didn’t explain why. until one night, during one of the many fights, after he accused her of being afraid of making a commitment since she wouldn’t move in with him, she decided to say it.

“you really want to know why i’m not moving in with you?”

“yeah, i fucking do!”

“because i would end up being here by myself most of the time! because you’re never fucking here. how long have you been in america, huh? three, four months? and i should be living in this house, in what you say you want to make into our home, and just imagine the life we should be living while you’re away for months at a time? to mourn a life that we are probably never going to have? do you really despise me that much to wish me this?” she said as loudly as she could, her voice breaking just like her heart.

he hadn’t thought about this. of course, he thought that she would’ve been alone sometimes, but he actually thought that being in their home, she could find comfort.

his heart broke when he heard her insinuate that he despises her. how could he? he loved her, loved her more than life itself. he would never despise her. didn’t she know this?

that night ended up with harry driving her back to her flat, because she couldn’t stay there, claiming she had an early class and her place was closer to uni.

they both knew it was a lie, but neither of them decided to admit that out loud.

they played this game far too many times, and they ended up getting burnt.

“i know harry, i know you want her there. i wish things could be different.”

“yeah. so do i.”

“are you sure you don’t want me to come over? the hotel is about 20 minutes away, i can call an uber and be there in about a half hour, just say the word.”

“no, it’s fine. i need to be alone. guess i have to start learning how to be by myself now, don’t i?”

mitch sighed. he knew he was feeling sorry for himself, and maybe tonight he needed to do just that. and even though it broke him to ask him that, he couldn’t hang up without hearing it from him.

“you’re not going to call her right now, right?”

the line was silent.

“harry? answer me.”

again, silence was all he could hear.

“if you don’t answer me right now, i’m going to come over.”

“why shouldn’t i call her? what’s so wrong with wanting to hear her voice?”

“harry, we’ve just been over this. give me thirty minutes, i’ll be there.”

harry really didn’t want anyone around him right now, anyone that wasn’t her. but he understood that that wasn’t a possibility right now, so he interrupted mitch.

“no, it’s fine. i won’t call her. i promise.”

“harry, please stick to your word. do not call her. not like this. this version of you hasn’t a shot in hell at getting her back. but sober you might. don’t fuck it up.”

he thought about what mitch said, and even if his head was a bit floaty, he knew his friend was right.

“i know, i know, you’re right. i’m sorry i called you and woke you up. goodnight mitch, thank you for being my friend.”

“anytime dude, don’t worry. drink a big glass of water and go to bed now, please, goodnight harry.”

“bye.”

he saw mitch hung up, and his screen went back to show his home screen.

a knife plunged into his heart would’ve hurt less.

it was a picture of her at a carnival. he remembered that day, it was their second date, or perhaps their real first date.

they were actually on their way to a nice restaurant, when she saw the lights from the carnival and her eyes lit up just as bright. so what could harry do if not taking the next exit and take her there?

after about twenty tries at one of those stupid shooting games, both her and harry couldn’t manage to win the stuffie she wanted. so, while she went to look around for something to eat, he begged the vendor to sell him the price his girl so wanted.

his girl, she was his girl since the first moment he saw her.

so when she came back saying that she found a little place that seemed to have a rather large vegetarian menu (she knew he didn’t eat meat and wanted him to eat as well), she couldn’t understand why the hell he was smiling, with that smirk that only meant trouble.

“what’s up?”

“huh?”

“why are you making that face? what did you do? do i have something stuck in my teeth?” she started rambling, like she always did.

“no, no, nothing is in your teeth, i promise.” he smiled at her overthinking mind.

“alright.. so what is it?”

“close your eyes for me.”

“uhm, okay.. if when i open them i see a spider in front of me, just know that i will be walking home and never talk to you again. i’m telling you.”

“alright alright, i promise no spiders.” he cackled.

he put that bulbasaur plushie right in front of her, and told her to open her eyes.

the look she held in them, he couldn’t even describe. the purest look of happiness he has ever seen. then she looked at him and he was hit by the warmth of her gaze. she looked at him like he hang the stars in the sky for her, when all he did was getting her a carnival toy.

“oh my, oh my god, oh my god, how did you - when did- can i hold it please?” she couldn’t even get a complete sentence out, she was so utterly happy she couldn’t even think.

he handed it to her and she hugged it like it was her lifeline. she squinted her eyes closed and the biggest smile spread over her face.

harry had the same smile on his, dimples denting his cheeks. he took out his phone, having to capture this moment so he could look at it forever.

and ever since that night, that has been his lock screen. and he didn’t even think about changing it.

it made him remember that there was a time when all there was between them was so much happiness, so much love, adoration, and joy. and that they did love each other at one time. that he didn’t conjure up those memories, but that they were real, still are and forever will be.

that she really had looked at him with such warmth in her eyes, before she looked at him with nothing but sadness.

that he didn’t dream about her, but she was real and what they had was real.

before he could even process, his phone started ringing again.

but now it wasn’t mitch’s voice that came through the speaker.

“H?”

—

part 2

part 3

#harry styles #harry styles os #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry styles writing #my writing #already six minutes late #oopsie daisy #harry styles imagine