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#gym chalk cutting
w0rmz-stimmz · 2 years
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♧ ♧ ♧ | ♧ ⚰ ♧ | ♧ ♧ ♧
Sadie Killer from Steven Universe
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thetriumphantpanda · 9 months
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nobody sees, nobody knows
Alright, here we are, me adding my two cents into the dbf!Joel trope which we all love so much. I've read so many incredible fics like this so hopefully mine can stand up with them all. This will be a series, so strap in for more of our favourite neighbourhood DILF.
Pairing | dbf!Joel x female reader
Summary | Back to Texas with a degree under your belt and a school girl fantasy to fuck your dad's best friend. What could go wrong?
Warnings | I mean, dbf!Joel comes with his own warning right? Other than that, swearing, alcohol consumption, age gap (Reader is 25, Joel is 36), dirty talk, and fingering.
Word Count | 3.3K
PART 2 | MAIN MASTERLIST
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There was something about summer in Texas that just hit differently. The way the heat crawled on your skin from the moment you woke up to the moment you tried to sleep at night. The way your father used it as an excuse to cook primarily on the grill, regardless of the food, and the way your mother always made sure the fridge was stocked with cold drinks. The way traffic seemed to cease to exist during the high points of the day, meaning you went to the store every day at midday to buy ice cream. The haze you got from sipping cold beer by your parents’ pool which made you want to do reckless things like you’d done in New York before you realized that the beady eyes of your parents would be all over you if you tried. Reckless things like tell Joel Miller you’d wanted to fuck him for years. 
Every time you’d come home from school, and he’d be there you could have sworn he’d just gotten more and more attractive. The last time you were home, for Christmas and New Year’s, you could have sworn he’d started at the gym, his biceps bulging in the arms of his fitted t-shirt, when your dad commented on it, he's chalked it down to particularly heavy lifting on the job he was working then. He’d had his hair cut in a way that made his face even more handsome and you’re pretty sure the last few times you’d been home he’d noticed how you’d flourished too. 
There were moments where you’d catch his eyes as they drew themselves up your legs, or the time you decided to test your theory and wear a low-cut top and your best bra to a dinner party. His eyes had trained on your chest for most of the night, there was a moment where you’d stood up and leaned over the table to pick up the salt instead of asking him to pass it. He’d choked on his drink and your dad had slapped his back to try and help him. At least you knew he was thinking like you. 
Neither of you had tried crossing the line though. Past the point of no return. You wanted him to make the first move, save yourself the embarrassment of rejection if it came, but it felt like waiting for Joel Miller to kiss you was like waiting for rain in the drought Texas was currently experiencing. Useless and disappointing. You wished sometimes that you could burrow into his brain and figure out what it was that he was really thinking about you. You suspected there would be some code of honour he was sticking to because you were his best friend’s daughter – sure it might complicate things, but you weren’t going to be back in Texas forever – what was the worst that could happen during the secret, torrid affair you’d been cooking up in your head since you arrived back from college a week ago? 
 “Did you hear me when I spoke to you?” Your mother’s voice pulled you from the daydream you were having whilst polishing the cutlery. 
“Sorry mom, I was miles away.” 
“I know!” She exclaims, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you came back, you’ve been away with the fairies,” She sighs, “I said, once you’ve set the cutlery out back can you help your dad with filling the fridge with the beer, please?” 
You hum in agreement which is enough to send her back to the endless chopping she seems to be doing at the kitchen counter. It was just a cookout with the Millers and few other family friends to celebrate your return, but you think your mother thinks she’s catering for a garden party at the White House with the number of sides she’s preparing. 
You make quick work of the rest of the cutlery, wanting to avoid any more questions about why you seem miles away all the time – you can’t exactly tell your mother it’s because you’re thinking about how Joel might eat your pussy.
“Need any help, old man?” You greet your dad in the garage, he’s on his knee’s pulling out bottles of Budweiser to stack in the fridge. 
“Here, grab these and start putting them in,” He’s smiling, he’s always been an overly happy and laid-back man, “I hope we’ve got enough in.” 
“How many people are you expecting?” You chuckle, taking a bottle from him to add to the growing number already stacked on the shelves. 
“Probably ten or so,” Hu shrugs, “But one of those people is Tommy Miller and he’s not changed a bit since you’ve been away.” 
“Between your drinks and mom’s sides we could host the entire neighborhood.” You joke. 
You continue to fill the fridge up with drinks until there’s no room left. Your dad stores the leftover crates next to it for refilling throughout the evening, “Now, go and make yourself look nice, everyone’ll be here soon.” 
*
You’d be lying if you said that you hadn’t picked your shortest and lowest cut dress for the evening. It was a pale blue colour, with pink flowers dotted about the material. It fell to your mid-thigh and you had to keep reminded yourself to kneel down instead of bending over, in case people who you didn’t want to look caught an eyeful of the scant lace covering your ass. 
There are a few people milling around already, cold beers in hand, mainly some of your dad’s older friends, who have all congratulated you on graduating and then moved on to talk about mundane neighborhood gossip. 
“Now, where is that smartass?” You hear from the sliding doors; it’s Tommy and he’s bounding over to you to give you a hug. 
He scoops you up into a bone breaking hug, “Congratulation’s girl, your dad said you graduated top of the class!” 
He’s set you down and you can see Joel standing awkwardly next to him, “He’s exaggerating, I wasn’t top, although pretty close to it,” You turn to Joel, “Hey there.” He bends down to give you a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek. 
“Good to see you back, sweetheart.” 
“Good to see you too, Joel,” You chirp in response, “Where’s Sarah?” 
“She’s at camp for the first part of the summer,” He explains, “Back in a couple’a weeks, she’ll be thrilled to see you again.” 
“Boys!” Your dad’s booming voice interrupts your conversation, “Good to see you both!” He turns to you, “Why don’t you go and get these two some beers, I need to speak to them about fixin’ up the attic.” 
You turn quietly and head for the garage. Of course, you’d become waitress at your own welcome home party. It takes no time at all for you to come back with three beers, two for the Miller brothers and one for yourself. You hand them off wordlessly, but you don’t miss how Joel grips the bottle just above your fingers, brushing against them. Of all the places for him to grab the bottle, that couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? 
The rest of the evening goes by as expected. You spend most of it running around helping your mom set the food out, fetching more beers for everyone and trying to field questions from everyone about what you’re going to do in Texas with an MA in Archival Studies. You bite your tongue every time, and reply with something like, “I think I’ll probably work in an archive.” 
The night is winding down, your mom already in bed having finished her wine too quickly, your dad sat outside in the quickly fading sunlight with Joel and Tommy and a few other stragglers. It fell to you to make aa start on the dishes, which is what you were currently doing. Rinsing them off over the sink before stacking them in the dishwasher, pausing long enough each time to take a sip of lukewarm beer. 
“They got you tidyin’ up your own party?” You hear from behind you. It’s Joel. 
“I’m the only one sober enough not to break anything.” You shrug without turning around to face him. 
“Seems a little unfair if you ask me, sweetheart.” 
“Well, why don’t you make yourself useful and help?” You counter, “Then I can be sat outside drinkin’ beer with you all.” 
You hear his boots on the floor and then he’s next to you, reaching around to grab the pile of cutlery on the side, he opens the dishwasher further to put the cutlery in their designated tray and then stop, “Has no-one ever taught you how to stack a dishwasher?” 
You pause in your rinsing to look up at him for the first time, “What do you mean?” 
“This is awful sweetheart,” He chuckles, “You’ve got the bowls and plates in the wrong place – you’ll be doing three washes if you carry on like this.” 
“Well, go on then, maestro, show me how to stack it.” 
He’s unloading everything you’ve put in so far, apart from what you suspect he thinks was his expertly placed cutlery, and you’re watching as he’s stacking in completely differently to you. Annoyingly he’s not wrong, the way he’s doing it means you’ll likely fit everything in at once, “Can’t believe you’ve lived on your own for five years and didn’t learn how to stack a dishwasher.” 
“Joel, I was in a dingy studio apartment in the ass end of New York, you think I had a dishwasher?” 
“Well, consider yourself taught now, I don’t ever wanna see a dishwasher looking anything less than perfect, you hear me?” 
“Loud and clear, Mr Miller.” You watch as his eyebrows raise at your new greeting, oh. He liked that. 
He picks up your almost empty beer bottle and hands it to you, “Go on, down the rest,” He’s grinning, “Then go and sit down and I’ll get you a fresh one.” 
You decide to push it a little further, “Yes, sir.” You watch as he swallows deeply at your words before you’re brushing past him, far too close than necessary to go and sit down. 
It’s another hour of sitting around in the garden before everyone else is gone – Tommy is finishing off his beer and telling Joel he’ll be heading to his to crash. 
“I’m going to call it a night too,” Your dad says, “Stay and finish your drink though Joel, there’s no rush, I’m sure this one can keep you company with her stories from New York.” 
And then you’re alone with him, finally. He’s taking a long drink from his beer bottle, which you mirror, realizing suddenly that you didn’t eat much, and you’ve drunk far more than you probably should. You’re not drunk, but there’s a pleasant buzz through your body that’s making your eyelids a little heavy. 
When the light goes off in your parents’ room, you figure it’s safe, “I’ve seen you staring at me, you know.” 
He doesn’t miss a beat, “You make it hard not to, sweetheart.” 
“Do you want me, Joel?” You don’t know where you’ve come from all of a sudden, but this confident girl isn’t someone you recognize. 
“It ain’t a question of wantin’ you sweetheart, it’s a question of doin’ the right thing.” You watch as he rubs his hand over his forehead in frustration. 
“But you do,” You push him, “Want me?” 
“Course I do,” He’s swallowing thickly again, just like he did in the kitchen, “But I can’t have you.” 
“Says who?” You pry. 
“Says the fact that I’m one’a your dad’s best friends, not to mention far too old for you.” He’s looking at you and taking another big drink from his bottle, like if he finishes, he can leave you alone. 
“No-one has to know,” You shrug, “Could be our little secret?” 
“You been readin’ too many of them romance novels,” He snorts, “It don’t work like that, if they find out they’ll fucking kill me.” He’s tilting his head to the window of your parents’ room.
You stand from your seat opposite him, walking around the table to stop just in front of Joel, “Come on Joel, have a little fun for once.” 
There’s a moment where you can see the cogs whirring in his brain, trying to weigh up being shot for touching his best friend’s little girl and finally satisfying the craving he’d wanted for a while now. Then, he’s putting his bottle down on the floor next to the chair he’s sat in. You watch closely as he shifts his position to sit more towards the edge of the chair, before one of his hands reaches out to grip the back of your thigh, just above the crease of your knee.
“You’ll be the death of me,” He mumbles before he looks up at you, “C’mere.” 
He’s pulling gently on your leg as he shifts back in the seat, guiding you so your hips are straddling his. You try not to press yourself too fully into him just yet, letting your clothed heat rest above his lap. One of his arms comes to wrap around the back of your waist, the other tangling in your hair at the back of your head whilst he looks at you with eyes that say he wants to devour you. 
“You gonna kiss me, Mr Miller?” You ask, innocently. 
“Oh darlin’, I’m gonna do so much more than that.” 
His head is tilting to the side and looking up at you from your higher ground, perched on his lap. Then his lips are on yours and God all those years of longing were worth it. They’re pressed tentatively against your own, but you can feel they’re slightly chapped. His hand resting in your hair grips a little tighter and he’s moving your head slightly so that when he opens his mouth against yours it’s the easiest thing for you to open yours right back and let his tongue into your mouth. 
You let out a gasp, swallowed into his own mouth when his hands drop back to your thighs before they’re trailing up the small skirt of your dress to cup the cheeks of your ass, “You wear this for me?” He pulls away, speaking before he’s trailing his lips along your jawline, “Thought you’d get me worked up in this tiny little thing, naughty girl?” 
“It worked, didn’t it?” 
He huffs a breath out of his nose as if to say, of course it did. He’s trailing his hot mouth down your neck now, dragging his teeth along your skin before licking with his tongue to soothe any red marks he might leave. Your head is thrown back as his hands drag you down so you’re sitting flush against him. You can’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans when your clothed pussy makes contact with him. 
You’re whining as his hands are on your hips under your dress, the hot skin of his hands setting fire to you, “What do you want, pretty girl?” He asks, his tongue trailing down to the valley between your tits. 
“Fingers,” You rasp, “Make me come with your fingers Joel.” 
He lets out a low chuckle against your skin, “Needy little thing, already beggin’ me to finger fuck her.” 
But he’s already obliging your request, one of his hands is moving down from your hip to the front of your panties, running his thumb over the material from top to bottom, “God, I can feel how wet you are already,” You look down and he’s grinning, “I’m gonna take these off, sweetheart, but you gotta promise to keep quiet okay?” 
You nod in agreement before you’re lifting your hips up, just enough for Joel to hook his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pull them down enough so his hands can touch you. He mimics the same movement he’d done over the material, this time his fingers touching the bare skin of you seam and he’s groaning when he feels the slick gathered near your tight hole. 
“God, you really are wet, aren’t ya?” He chuckles, a flush creeping over your cheeks, “Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about sweetheart,” He reassures, “Means I’m doin’ somethin’ right.” 
You feel one of his thick fingers slip inside you, just a little, before he’s dragging the slick he’s gathered up to run light touches over your clit. You bite down on your lip to keep you from crying out into the dark, hips bucking into his hand to try and get more friction from his fingers. He takes the hint and is pressing his finger more firmly into your bundle of nerves and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to keep quiet. 
When Joel’s hand drops from your clit you almost cry from frustration, put then he’s sinking two of his fingers straight into your soaking pussy and the relief is palpable. He’s moving them in and out of you, curling them in just the right way that has your hips moving in time with him, literally fucking yourself on his fingers. You let your head fall into the crook of his neck, placing kisses to his skin as you ride his fingers. 
“This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks, his free hand coming to cup the back of your head against his neck, at least this way you could make some noise – testing out your theory you let out a throaty moan, listening carefully as his skin muffles most of the sound. 
“I need… god Joel, my clit, please.” 
With his fingers still buried inside you, working you to the edge, his thumb moves to your clit, resuming the circles his finger had been drawing over it before, “I can feel your pussy gettin’ tight around my fingers,” He’s turned his head so it’s buried in the hair at the side of your head, “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” 
You push back from him a little, looking down between your bodies where you can see his hand working you and that’s really all it takes. Your legs are shaking and you’re biting down on your lip hard enough that you can taste blood as pleasure bursts through you – not even you had made yourself come like this. Ever. Joel’s fingers have stilled inside you, but he’s still tracing your clit with gentle movements of his thumb, reveling in the way you jerk through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 
“Did so well for me, pretty girl.” He coos at you once he’s pulled his hand from your pussy. 
You’ve collapsed onto his chest to catch your breath, but you’re already subconsciously grinding your hips into his, God you want more. You’re about to reach for his belt when you can feel something vibrating in the pocket of his jeans. 
He’s mumbling an apology, lifting you just enough to fish his phone from his pocket. He answers without looking at who is calling. You can hear Tommy’s voice through the phone from your place, draped over Joel’s lap. 
“You just turn it to the side, jackass,” Joel is mumbling in answer to Tommy’s question on how to work his shower, “You’ve used it a million times,” Tommy say’s something you can quite make out, “No, not that one, the one underneath it,” Joel is sighing, “You were not this drunk when you left, if I find you’ve finished the good whiskey I’m gonna kill you,” Another sigh to a question you couldn’t quite hear, “Fine, I’ll be there in a minute.” 
Disappointment is pooling in your stomach. You don’t want him to go, not when there’s so much unfinished business here, “I gotta go, sweetheart.” He’s mumbling, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. 
“But what about this?” You ask, reaching between you to cup his cock through his jeans, “Let me help you.” 
His hand is gripping your wrist, “I would love nothin’ more, but I gotta go before Tommy floods my house,” Another kiss to your lips, “Next time.” 
“You want to do this again?” You ask, almost surprised. 
He takes the hand that had been buried in your pussy not minutes before, lifting the fingers he’d fucked you with to his mouth before sucking them right in front of your face, “Now I’ve gotta taste for you, sweetheart?” He raises an eyebrow, “Of course I wanna do this again.” 
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teatoptony · 3 months
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High Enough (Without the Mary Jane)
summary; 'in every other universe, gwen stacy falls for spider-man. and in every other universe, it doesn’t end well'. you don't want to be a mary jane anymore.
or, in which you were the mindy s. mcpherson to miles's prowler
pairing(s); e-1610! Miles Morales x fem!reader, e-42! Miles Morales x fem!reader (r is referred to with she/her pronouns, no physical description.)
warning(s); fem spanish terms are used ('hermosa' etc.), reader’s hand is smaller than Miles’. author can’t write action sequences for shit.
may be ooc but we haven't seen a whole lot of p!miles yet so there isn’t really much to go off of
implied/mentioned parental issues with reader, not proofread, written (mostly) at ao3 hours
a/n; according to google the sinister 6 of e42 are doc oc, vulture, electro, rhino, sandman and scorpion, although i've seen some other ppl say that the eastereggs are vulture, rhino, scorpion, sandman, shocker, kraven and electro. i'm going w the google one, maybe kraven and shocker are their own thing. also they're prolly rich aholes since their signs are on buildings n stuff, so that's what i went with.
also reader was sent to earth 42, but like, a few days before 1610 miles arrives, kind of like how gwen was sent to 1610 a week before she found miles
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Miles — or, who you assumed was Miles, anyway — took you back to his place, going out of his way to avoid alleys where there weren't many people around and sticking to the bigger streets. You found it kind of weird. Back home, you and Miles used to cut through backstreets and even some sketchy buildings all the time to make it home before curfew.
You felt him steal glances at you the whole walk, and you’d be lying if you didn’t do the same.
This version of him just felt so.. different.
Once the two of you reached your destination, he let you up the stairs first before quietly calling for you to stop once you reached his floor. You hesitated for a moment on the steps. It was a higher level than Miles’s flat back home, and the building had looked a lot different from what you’d seen just half an hour ago, even if it still felt familiar. You’d chalked it up to the multiverse doing multiverse things at first, but he was starting to act a little off.
Having been around your Miles for years, you knew all his tells. You could see how his weight shifted on his feet as he unlocked the door. You could see he was overall standing straighter and more tense. You could see the hesitation before he turned the key.
Miles was lying to you. And he felt guilty.
But what were you going to do?
This universe was new to you. Sure, everything seemed just about the same, but it was all so foreign at the same time. There where skyscrapers you’d never seen before, new graffiti on the streets of the same couple people over and over again - all of whom you were sure you’d seen somewhere before but couldn’t quite grasp where. The sight of buildings blocked by yellow tape and more in the process of repair after seemingly being burned down or blown up were common in this world, like it was an active war zone or something.
You really didn’t have a choice but to follow along.
He opened the door and waved you in, closing the door rather hastily after the both of you.
You took a glance around the room. There were metal bars on the windows, to keep people out or trap them in you couldn't quite figure. There was a DJ setup near them that looked awfully familiar. Hooks hung down from the unfinished ceiling, some holding chains and others oddly shaped items haphazardly wrapped with what looked like brown lunchbag paper. Wires and ventilation just about everywhere, most of the wires leading to either monitors or gadgets you assumed were in the progress of being built. An old, beat up couch and some gym gear by the wall, an open kitchen-slash-workshop area straight ahead.
The only source of light was the neon red from the signs outside the window, and even then the farther bits of the apartment remained a dark purple hue.
Then someone came out of the other room.
“What's this?”
The hell—?
From the shadows, Aaron Davis emerged.
His beard was more grown out then you'd ever seen, and his features looked sharper, almost rougher. His shoulders seemed more broad, though maybe that was the heavy jacket he wore making him look bigger than he actually was.
“¿Tío?”
Miles had taken you around to his uncle's a couple of times, which you now realized was why you recognized this place. Aaron raised an eyebrow at you, surprise flashing across his face before it was quickly wiped out. He looked over you, taling in your appearance.
“Miles.” He asked again.
“I dunno,” the boy replied, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets and avoiding his uncle's gaze. “Just found her on the way home.”
“Found her?”
Aaron glanced at you, then back to Miles, then back to you, his eyebrows furrowed in either confusion or frustration. He finally looked back at his nephew, the two of them having a silent conversation you couldn’t read.
“…Fine.” Aaron sighed, turning around—
You felt like you were dying, or being born, or possibly both at the same time. For a split second, you were nothing but particles, your skin and bones and just about everything being ripped apart then sewn back together. Your vision was a mix between TV static and rapid fire neon colors, and it was about the same deal with your hearing (which was concerning, since you couldn't usually hear colors).
Miles had taken a step forward, letting you grab his arms to keep you from falling over as he said something you couldn’t quite hear. Aaron had whipped around so fast you wondered how it didn’t give him whiplash, fists at the ready in case he needed them.
“What was that?” Miles’s voice finally got through to you, the high-pitched screaming in your ears dying down. You blinked at him as your mind went blank.
“I don’t—” You cut yourself off. Wait, was it..? Had you just..?
“Complete cellular decay.” You recalled Miles’s countless retellings of the multiversal mess that had happened just about two years ago. “I’m glitching, aren’t I?”
“Right, and you know this because..?” Aaron asked, his hands now at his sides but not eased yet. He eyed your face as if he was expecting you to grow a third eye or something. Honestly, you couldn’t blame him.
“Okay, so, this might sound crazy,” You started, “but I’m from another dimension.
“We had something like this happen back home a while back — except, y’know, people came into our dimension rather than people from ours going somewhere else.
“The people that came, they were glitching, too. Their atoms were displaced and decaying.”
“So you’re saying,” Miles spoke up, his grip tightening around your forearms just slightly. “If you stay here too long—”
“I’ll die, yeah.” You said, the reality of the situation hitting you like a KTX. “Disintegrate, to be more accurate.”
Silence filled the flat as all three of you processed the information. Miles was frozen, his gaze fixated on the spot where your hands grabbed onto him as if he was scared you’d disappear if he looked away. Aaron crossed his arms, his eyes darting from left to right like he was reading some invisible text.
As for you, you felt unreal. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore, your vision more like looking at the screen of a first-person shooter. Were you going to die here? You didn’t want to die yet. What would your dad think? Would he file a police report? Would Miles’s dad send out a search party to look for you? And Miles—
You hadn’t even said goodbye to him at the party.
You hadn’t said goodbye to anyone.
I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die I don’t—
“Hey,” Miles says, his voice softer than earlier, snapping you out of your spiral. His hands slide down your forearms and slip into your own, giving them a firm squeeze. “No vas a morir.”
You’re not gonna die.
“Te llevaré a casa.” The boy said, his deep brown eyes bore into yours, slowly bringing you back from feeling like you’re looking at a video game to feeling more like you’re lucid dreaming. It wasn’t a total fix, but it’s a start. “I’ll get you home, I promise.”
You took a deep breath, trying and failing to ground yourself more.
“What’s five things you hear?” Miles asked gently, tilting his head and leaning ever so slightly closer to you. You just blinked, overwhelmed with everything.
“Mi vida,” he said again. “Five things.”
You paused for a moment.
Sirens outside.
Yelling from the streets.
Chains clinking in the breeze from the open window.
Aaron shuffling around in the other room. When had he left?
The buzzing of the lights overhead.
“Good.” Miles said encouragingly. “Now, four things you see.”
Miles.
A pan on the kitchen stove.
The DJ table by the windows.
Tio Aaron pulling out the couch to make a sofa bed.
“Three things you can touch here.”
Miles.
The ground if you bent down, you guessed.
Some trinkets on the table just over there, but you’re not gonna touch that.
“Two you can smell?”
Rusted metal. There’s tons of it around; on the walls, the ceiling, tables, even on the shelves. What was that chest plate doing back there, anyway?
That pool smell, which is kinda gross since it came from the chlorine in pool water mixed with all the gross stuff that came from human bodies.
Miles smiled as you said that. “Vuelves a mí, mi sol.” He squeezed your hands again. “One thing you can taste.”
“I dunno, soda? We had a ton of it at the party.” You wiggled your fingers. It was like you were stepping into your body for the first time — nothing was a perfect fit just yet, like a pair of knitted gloves with too much room at the ends of the fingers. You’d have to get used to it again.
It’s then that Aaron called Miles over, the boy reluctantly leaving your side and following his uncle to the other room. He told you to make yourself comfortable on the couch before he went, though, so that’s exactly what you did. The spring cushions feel oddly comforting under you, the familiarity of home twisted just slightly out of proportion.
There’s really nothing to do alone here. You tapped your fingers on your leg. Thankfully, Miles and Aaron came back after just a few minutes.
The first thing the boy said to you, “I’m gonna get you home.” A firmer, more certain repetition of his promise from a minute ago, albeit there’s a bit of a strain in his voice as if it physically hurt him to say it. In a clumsy yet swift motion, he quickly leaned down and kissed your cheek before making his exit rather hurriedly.
You felt the heat rush to your face, your hand coming up almost immediately to touch the spot.
Aaron chuckled and shook his head.
“So,” he said. “You as smart as she was, too?”
-
You tinkered with the gauntlet of a prototype suit that Aaron had dug out of storage somewhere, the man himself working on the main body. The helmet — or was it more of a mask? It was a bit bulkier than Miles's Spider-Man mask, a bit more tech-y. Probably more similar to an Iron Man helmet, now that you think about it, albeit lower in its level of advancement — was plugged into one of the many monitors strewn about the flat.
You'd managed to pry a couple bits of information out of him for the past few hours (during which you hadn't glitched again, thankfully) in exchange for some of your own. So far you knew that this universe’s Jefferson Morales had passed away a few years ago, prompting Miles to take on the mantle of the Prowler to avenge his father’s death — the details of which he stayed frustratingly vague on — and, later on, to keep the city as safe as he could.
“Wait, wait, who’s your Spider-Man, then?”
“Who’s Spider-Man?”
You blinked in confusion. “What? You don’t have a Spider-Person?”
“What, like, a part-spider guy? Nah. Scorpion’s mostly bug though, that count?”
This dimension didn’t have a Spider-Man. That was why the city was so overrun with bad guys.
You gave him a general rundown of the whole ‘radioactive spider’ thing and moved on.
Your own variant, who was Miles’s best friend and had helped make a lot of his gear, had disappeared a while after the Prowler started taking out some bad guys that were a step above villain-of-the-week, the ones who had all sorts of shady connections. Hearing about your presumed death was a strange experience.
“We know they took her,” The older man had said, jamming his screwdriver into a faulty part of the suit. “But the cops are all in on it ever since the Cartel bought ‘em out. Declared her dead after less than 24 hours.”
Oh, speaking of, apparently there was a team of villains bringing Gotham to life in New York, Brooklyn being the heart of it all. How fun.
The Sinister Six Cartel, as the Bugel had dubbed them, was the one Aaron and Miles believed to be behind your variant’s disappearance. The two were certain that the Cartel had worked out a connection between you and the Prowler. The nail on the coffin was when they sent a body double of you in the Prowler’s direction to mess with his head just a couple months ago, complete with some sort of Face Off style mask that made it possible for the fake to look exactly like you. It was only a day or two before Miles figured out it was a setup, but it had shaken him up pretty bad.
“I thought you were another one.” He’d admitted. “But then you did the whole glitchy thing. Looked horrible, by the way, real nasty. It hurt much?”
“You have no idea.”
In return, you told him about home. You told him how Miles’s dad was up for a promotion, practically Captain already. You told him about your Miles’s art and how he made a mural of him after his death. You didn’t go into too much detail about the ‘death’ part, focusing more on the peaceful aspects since it was so clearly missing from his every day life. You couldn’t really read this Aaron Davis that well since he was more guarded than he had been back home, but you could tell he appreciated it; especially the parts about his brother.
You also told him how Miles and the other Spider-People who were sent to your dimension had worked out a solution to fix their situation, and gave him a brief summary of the whole ordeal, the details of which he texted Miles since he hadn’t given you a chance to tell him about it when he left so hastily. He said something you couldn’t quite make out as he did — you caught the words ‘lab’ and ‘property’, but that was pretty much it. He only waved it off as nothing when you asked him about it.
“How’s my dad?” You asked, pushing your hand into the gauntlet to test if it worked right. It was a near perfect fit, which made you wonder who exactly it was for, since Miles’s hand was bigger than yours. “Is he doing okay? After the whole ‘declared dead’ thing?”
“He’s holding up, just like the rest of us,” Aaron replied, checking on the monitor. “Your mom — her mom’s been sticking around. Grief brings people together and all that. They’re trying therapy.”
A weird feeling bubbled up inside. While it was good to know at least one version of your parents were trying to reconcile, it bothered you that your absence had prompted it. Was that what was happening right now back home? Had your disappearance magically brought your parents back together? Had it even been long enough for that to happen, or did time flow equally throughout the multiverse?
Would it be better for them if you just didn’t go back at all?
“Oh.” You said, nodding slightly as you flexed and wiggled your fingers in the gauntlet, watching the way it moved. It was a lot thinner than the claws that adorned the Prowler’s hands from what you’d spotted here and there in the flat, built to be stealthier in the way it functioned. There were no clunks or clinks, just soft whirring noises that sounded almost like a cat’s purr. “That’s good, I guess.”
It was worse this time around, which you didn’t even know was possible. You felt yourself being split in a billion different directions, parts of you re-atomizing not quite in the right places. You’d never known the feeling of having space between where all your joints were supposed to connect, but now you did, and it honestly made you want to die. Not really. Well…
-
Miles came back sometime before dawn. You heard the door opening slowly, almost like he was trying not to wake his parents up as he was sneaking in past curfew. Not that he used the door ever since he could climb walls, but still.
He crept into his uncle’s flat, even leaving his shoes at the door so he wouldn’t make too much noise. He was making his way to the other room when he looked at you on the couch, only to flinch in surprise when he saw your eyes were open.
“¿Qué haces despierto?” He whispered, his shoulders tenser than earlier from the split second of adrenaline. “It’s late.”
“What are you doing that you have to sneak in?” You whispered back. The boy just shrugged.
“Oh, you know…” He trailed off, looking around to avoid your questioning gaze. “…Stuff.”
You rolled your eyes. “That has gotta be the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”
Miles huffed, shuffling over to you and sitting down on the floor in front of the couch, facing you. “Yeah, well, I asked you first. Why’re you up, hermosa?”
You sighed. “Can’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the thought of my impending doom, maybe.”
A couple beats passed by without a word from either of you, a bit of awkwardness hanging in the air, though it was accompanied by a familiar sense of comfort.
“Do you trust me?” Miles asked, his hand reaching out to gently grab a corner of the blanket draped over you.
“Probably.” You replied. You hadn’t known him long enough to trust him just yet, as much as you wanted to. The corners of his lips tilted up just a bit in an almost smile.
“Then trust that I’ll do whatever it takes to get you home.” He said. “I already lost you once, I’m not letting that happen again.”
-
The next day was pretty uneventful. For the most part, anyway, if you don’t count the random glitching throughout. You were advised heavily against going outside since the Cartel had eyes everywhere, so your area of activity was limited to the flat. Miles had evidently snuck back out after your little talk the night before, which made you feel a tinge disappointed since you wanted to get to know him better. Fortunately, Aaron said you could help with the suit again.
The TV played in the background as you tapped on the keyboard, giving the helmet a few final touch-ups as the sun set outside the window. J. Jonah Jameson jabbered on about this week’s biggest disasters and lamented about how ‘if only there was a hero to save this city’, which made you snort.
“He’s gonna switch up real quick if a hero does show up,” You remarked to Aaron, who looked at you questioningly. “The guy hates Spider-Man back home.”
“What, Jameson?” He said, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, he’s the biggest Captain America fanboy out there. Loves heroes an’ all that.”
He thought for a moment. “Pretty sure Miles saw him at Comicon that one time too.”
“What’s a Comicon?”
Unfortunately, you never got the answer as you heard the lock on the door slide open. You spun around in your chair to greet Miles as you knew he was supposed to be coming by sometime in the evening, but your friendly smile quickly faded as his expression turned to one of shock, catching a glimpse of what the two of you were working on.
The boy froze as he stared, wide-eyed, at the suit. “Tio,” He said, looking at Aaron as he clenched his jaw. “What’s that doing out?”
“She needs a suit.” The older man answered simply.
“What?” Both you and Miles asked, though you could tell it was for vastly different reasons.
“We need to get into Alchemax to get her home, and we can’t do that unless she has protection.”
“Which is why I came here to make a plan!” Miles shouted, his hands moving animatedly, the way your Miles's always did when he got upset. “Eso, eso no le pertenece. ¡No es para ella!”
They had a back and forth as the pieces came together as to why Miles was so upset.
The suit was supposed to be for you.
His you.
You were, essentially, fixing up a dead girl's clothes to wear.
“The Cartel isn't stupid, Miles,” Aaron tried to make the boy see his point. “Even if we somehow made a distraction big enough for the big ones to leave base, there's still gonna be someone left to guard it. Would you be able to live with yourself if she got hurt? Or worse—”
“Don't.” Miles's nails dug into his palms, leaving dark cresent moons in their wake. Aaron sighed.
“If she got hurt, you'd feel like that's on you. If you got hurt protecting her 'cause she doesn't have anything to protect herelf with, then I'd feel like that's on me.” He said, his features softening as he reasoned with his nephew. “This is the best bet.”
“We could build her a new suit—”
“And take what? Couple days? A week? Two weeks?”
He glanced at you, Miles following his gaze towards you as well. You knew what was implied. The only people you knew this happened to had gone maybe over a week before the glitching became a real problem, and they were superhuman. Who knew how long you had?
“She can wear mine. We have a ton of old ones, I'll just take one of those—”
“I'm not gonna let you get hurt for her, kid.”
“Don't call me that.”
They went back and forth for a while, and eventually Miles went to the other room to cool off and think things through. Aaron sighed, wiping a hand across his face.
“No offense.” He said to you.
“None taken.” You replied, not really knowing what to do. It felt wrong for you to be tinkering with something that was so clearly not meant for you, even if it was for a variant of yourself.
You could hear Miles pacing the other room, muttering to himself.
“Maybe I could...” You trailed off.
“You could try talking him into it,” He suggested. “He'll listen to you more than me right now.”
“...Should I, though?” You couldn't even begin to imagine what Miles was feeling. All this multiverse shit was too damn complicated.
“Look, kid, I know it's weird.” Aaron said, shoulders sagging just a bit. “But this—” he pointed to the suit— “is the best way to make sure no one gets hurt. Trust me.”
There was something he wasn't telling you, but he didn't have to for you to know what it was. Miles thought you were alive, somewhere out there. You knew it was entirely possible that he blamed himself for your disappearance, as it was your own version of him's go-to for anything and everything that went wrong. The shadows under his eyes, that look whenever he saw you... you wondered how many nights he'd spent outside, looking for some trace of you, a new lead to follow. Especially since your arrival.
Aaron thought this was the best chance Miles would ever get to let go of you. To get some sort of closure by sending you home.
“…I'll try.” You finally agreed, getting up from your seat and shuffling to the other room. You hesitated before going in, but the lack of a door made it awkward to linger, so you just bit the bullet and walked inside.
The room in question was more of a faux-veranda (which explained the no-door thing); a long, narrow space separated from the main living area by a sheet of drywall, with one of the wider walls filled with shelves of CDs and albums and the other decorated sparingly with old band and movie posters along with Miles-brand stickers.
“So...” You said, fiddling with your hands as you took a look around the area. You gestured at one of the stickers on the wall. “Did you make that?”
Slowing to a stop to face you, Miles nodded, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.
“Cool.”
You both stood there in silence for a moment, you working out what to say and Miles trying to come up with some other solution to the problem. The boy had an unhealthy obsession, that much he knew, but he just couldn't bring himself to let go of it. Not when you could be out there, just waiting for him to find you.
“I don't want to push you,” You started hesitantly. “But.. I think your tìo may be right.”
“I know that.” He looked at his feet as if the dirt on his shoes was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, the sight of him reminisent of a little kid getting scolded by his mother. “I know that.”
“I can't say I understand.. whatever's going through your head right now,” You said, taking a step towards him. “But he just wants what's best for you.”
“What's best for me is finding—” He cut himself off when his eyes met yours, frustration and confusion and stubbornness and sadness and who knows what else all mixing into a big mish-mash of conflicting thoughts inside of him. He clenched his fists, tilting his head up as he tried to think clearly. To his dismay, his throat closed up, the familiar sting of tears pricking at his eyes.
“I need to find her.” He muttered, putting a hand over his eyes in an attempt to stop his tears from falling. It didn't work. “I need to find you.”
“And you will.” You were sure of it. Aaron and Miles were both so sure that their you was alive... she had to be. “But right now? Right now, I need you to help me out.”
He looked at you, his gaze almost spaced out for a moment. You wondered if he saw her in you — if she had the same haircut, the same eyes, the same accent...
You could tell he was frustrated by the way that the scrunch above his nose wouldn’t go away. Hesitantly, you reached out, wiping away the tracks stray tears had left on his cheeks. He stiffened for a moment.
“...Fine.” He finally muttered, a hand coming up to grab your arm, though he seemed unsure if he wanted to push it away or pull it closer. So he just held it in place, his thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, the edge of your palm. His posture relaxed, just a bit. “Okay.”
-
Two days later, it wasn't too dark when the plan set into action.
Security at Alchemax — once belonging to Kingpin, now in posession of the Sinister Six Cartel — was thinnest sometime around six to seven pm, when dinner breaks, shift changes and the checkout of regular scientists were prominent.
Miles and Aaron had each set up time bombs at multiple smaller warehouses the Cartel used for storage, each coordinated to go off within minutes of each other. With little to no heroes or police in the way, the Cartel had no reason to keep their lesser important stocks well-guarded, which made it easy to sneak explosives into some of the shipments, support beams and pipes.
Once the explosions were set off, Aaron would use some rip-off Mysterio tech to make projections of some new vigilante gang, with each fake member leading the forces of the Cartel away from Alchemax. During this went on, Miles would sneak you in and to the Super Collider (which, surprisingly, had not been scrapped since its change of ownership) through the vents—
“Wait, wait, isn’t there like, a tunnel that can get us directly to the Collider?” You’d asked, remembering what Miles had told you when he first told you how he became Spider-Man.
“It got sealed off.” Aaron had said. “Some sort of supercharged electromagnetic thing. They did that with all the major underground entry points. Can’t shut it off without blacking out half of Brooklyn.”
“Or getting fried.” Miles had said. “The generators powering each point are all hooked up together a single system, como una mente colmena. You attack one of ‘em directly, all the others shoot a billion bolts of energy into you. And we don’t have time to hack into and get past the firewall to shut the thing down.”
—which you would navigate by memorizing a blueprint of Alchemax that had been conveniently leaked in a mass Cartel server leak a couple months ago. Miles would then plug in the goober he, Aaron and you had made using information gathered via Aaron's 'friends', and send you home.
It was a simple mission. Maybe a bit too simple, but you didn't really have much a choice when you were on a time crunch with limited information. Besides, Occam's razor.
“Copy?” Aaron's voice asked from your earpiece.
“Copy.” You answered, followed by Miles from his own communicator.
“A-6 is a go in 3.. 2...”
Boom.
A couple blocks away, a cloud of dust shot into the air. The building you and Miles were on the roof of shivered slightly as storage unit A-6 blew up.
“A-27.”
Boom.
“C-15.”
Boom.
From your vantage point, you had a clear view of what was going on at Alchemax without the risk of anyone down there catching a glimpse of you. You could see the non-combat scientists scrambling to get to their cars and the armed guards being led by weirdly dressed villains in the direction of the explosions. Although you supposed you weren't quite qualified to comment on the 'weirdly dressed' part at the moment, since you and Miles weren't much better in your respective suits.
Speaking of, Miles hadn't talked much ever since he first saw you wearing the suit. His responses were short if he even gave one, although you could feel him sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren't looking.
Miles fixed the gauntlet on his hand one last time before shuffling closer to you. “Ready?”
His voice sounded strange to you, his actual voice coming through your earpiece overlapping with the voice coming through his modulator.
“Mhm.”
“Going in.”
You hooked your arms around his shoulders and his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tight as a grapple shot out of his gauntlet. He used it almost exactly like how Miles used his webshooters, although his actions were a bit more... forceful? Rougher around the edges, if that made sense.
As your feet left solid concrete, the city sped by underneath the both of you, a pretty blend of neon and gray. Your suit prevented you from actually feeling the air whipping by, but a fraction of the wind managed to seep through the cracks, sending a chill down your spine as your stomach dropped at the sudden decline.
For a moment, gravity seemed to disappear. The laws of physics no longer felt like they effected you in any meaningful way. Anything and everything that had been weighing down on you — this whole situation, Miles, demanding schoolwork at Visions, your parents and their myriad of problems — no longer held you down.
It was exhilarating.
Your 'flight', so to speak, was over almost as soon as it started. You tucked your legs as you reached the roof of the Alchemax building, separating from Miles and rolling to lessen the impact. Surprisingly, the move came quite naturally to you, even without practice. You chalked it off as something you'd learned when you were a toddler, when your mom used to sign you up for all sorts of extracurriculars. You were pretty sure martial arts or something had been one of them; maybe you'd learned it there.
Your heart pounded as the sudden rush of adrenaline faded away, and you found yourself wishing it didn't. The thrill was addicting, as was the freedom that came with it. It was like a rollercoaster, or watching How to Train Your Dragon in 4D for the first time, only a hundred times better.
Miles had never taken you swinging. He'd never exactly told you why, always brushing off your request with something like a 'maybe later' or 'I can't right now', but you knew why.
Swinging together was a him and Gwen thing.
And you were fine with that.
What, like you were gonna be jealous about something as small as that? Pfft. No way. Nope. Nada.
“¿Estás bien?” Miles asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You nodded in confirmation.
The two of you pried open a vent using the gloves of your suit, which was easier than you’d expected it to be. To your surprise, the claws that extended from them were very useful.
“We’re in.” You muttered as you crawled into the duct, hoping Aaron wasn’t having any trouble on his end. He’d been awful quiet… Then again, no news is good news on a mission, right?
Miles crawled in after you. “You remember the way?”
“Yeah.”
Together you made your way to the underground levels of the building, miraculously avoiding any possible dead ends or mouse traps. That musty smell of mold and concrete reached your senses as you reached the deeper parts.
There weren’t many people at the Super Collider, thanks to the diversion and timing. Miles gestured for you to stay put as he swiftly dropped out of the vents, knocking out the few guards there one by one with relative ease. It was strange seeing him fight; so similar to yet completely different from him. You were doing as told and observing from the vents until you saw one of the last three people — a scientist, by the looks of it — sneaking up on Miles from behind while he was preoccupied with the two other guards.
You quickly dropped down from your spot, landing behind the guard and catching him by surprise as he whirled around with his weird-techy-science gun. Dropping to the ground, you swept your leg under his, toppling him over and knocking the weapon out of his hands. You were about to knock him out when—
“Peter Parker?”
Are you kidding me?
You were certain it was him. This Peter was scrawnier, his hair more sandy blond than Peter Parker’s back home (before he passed, anyway), and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that perched awkwardly on his slightly crooked nose. But the ID that read ‘Peter Parker’ in big bold letters around his neck was a pretty solid indicator.
“…Yes?” He almost squeaked out.
Meanwhile, Miles had dealt with the two guards, stepping over them to get to the console. “Sácalo y entra ahí.” He called, fumbling a little as he tried to figure out which buttons to push to fire up the Collider.
“We have a bit of a situation..” You said, pulling Peter up by his arm and dragging him to the console as well.
You gave him a hushed explanation of your unwillingness to hurt the guy, and how you believed he was genuinely a good person. After all, this universe was almost the same as yours, right? Peter Parker couldn’t be that different here…
“And besides, he probably knows how to work this thing. It’d be helpful.”
Miles sighed. “…Fine, I won’t knock him out,” He agreed. Turning to Peter, he asked, “How do you start the Collider?”
Peter gulped, everything in his body language screaming ‘I want to run away’. “You- you need codes,” He stammered out. “Approval codes, from—”
“Don’t care.” Miles cut him off, giving him a brief glance at the goober. “Just start it. ¿Lo pilla?”
Peter nodded hastily and got to work, pressing buttons and switching levers as you made your way down to the Super Collider. There was a catwalk that ran from one side of the machine to the other, connecting the two mechanisms. If you got to the middle of it, you could jump off and into the portal once the Collider was at full output. Sure enough, its huge metal plates clinked and clattered as they slowly sprung to life.
This was it. You were finally going home.
Just then, you heard a thunk along with some choice words in Spanish, and looked over to the source to see Peter out cold on the ground.
“He got to the panic button!” Miles said, scowling to himself as he plugged in the goober, praying that this plan would work out in the next minute or so. Bubble-like particles appeared at the two points of the machine that faced each other, the noise it emitted now making it so that you could only properly make out what Miles was saying through your earpiece.
The Collider whirred and sputtered as the bubbles grew bigger and brighter, eventually bursting into two beams of light that met each other in the middle, creating one big sphere with a bunch of little bubbles going in and out of it and surrounding it. The sphere grew larger and larger until it collapsed in on itself, sprouting thin, curvy lines.
The thing grew bigger and bigger until it was about the size of a person, you could feel it starting to pull you in. You just had to wait for Miles’s go ahead—
Ow.
What the hell?
You were suddenly sprawled on the ground, something having tackled you at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. That something — or rather, someone — skid to a halt just a few feet away from you, dragging a hand across the tiled floor and leaving… scratch marks?
Scrambling to your feet, you crouched in a defensive stance as you looked over the newcomer.
There wasn’t a single inch of skin showing, their suit covering the whole of their person. The suit in question was mostly white, with some gray sprinkled in here and there. It reminded you of Eve from Wall-E or a Stormtrooper, maybe a mix of both. Strangely enough, the mask was just a blank slate; a sleek, white panel with no features or details, kind of like one of those LED face masks.
Overall it was kind of… boring? It didn’t inspire fear nor did it seem very imposing or something of the sort, which you’d think would be a priority for a villain organization. If anything it was bland, the only thing that stood out from the suit being its hands which donned gauntlets that looked similar to yours, but slimmer and more polished, more accurately described as gloves rather than gauntlets. They had claws just like yours, albeit they looked sharper, a bit more gnarled.
“Miles?” You called, your heartbeat quickening. “What’s going on?”
You heard a grunt from his end. You didn’t look to see what was happening, not daring to take your eyes off of your attacker, but you guessed that backup from Peter’s panic signal had arrived.
“What’s going on?” Aaron echoed, his voice slightly fuzzy. Before you could answer, your attacker lunged. You managed to doge a full on body slam, but they grabbed your arm instead, using it to flip you over their body and knocking the wind out of you.
You writhed as you hit the ground, managing to rip your arm out of their grasp and landing a kick on their ankle, causing them to stumble. You took the opportunity to get up and put some distance between the two of you, though you didn’t get far before the lunatic started chasing you. They jumped at you again but you turned around at the last second, and as you were pushed back with their claws digging into your shoulders you kicked both of your legs out into their stomach just as your back hit the ground, sending them straight over your head.
“Tìo, get your nephew, now!” You shouted, rolling away just in time to avoid a punch that landed on the floor where your head had been just a second ago. “It all went to shit, get him out!”
The pull from the Collider was getting stronger, tiny scraps like bolts and papers flying through the air and towards the beam of light. You raced back to the catwalk but were once again stopped by the 29th century Stormtrooper. You yelped as you felt something grab the back of your neck, sharp claws piercing through your suit and digging into your skin as your head was thrown harshly against a metal beam.
And just like that, you were on the ground. Again. What was this, like, the third time? Fourth? Great. Just fantastic.
I’m not even supposed to be here, you thought, grabbing at your opponent’s wrists as their hands wrapped around your neck, slowly choking you. They were stronger than you were, faster, clearly more skilled. What were you thinking? You’re not a fighter — you couldn’t beat them, not like this.
Why was the universe so intent on making you miserable? You were just trying to get home, maybe not die. Not dying would be nice. But no. You couldn’t have nice things, could you? Not your own life, not Miles, your own damn parents were happier in a reality where you weren’t in the picture—
A sudden surge of anger made you lash out. The universe could go fuck itself. You weren’t dying like this. Not when your ticket home was right in front of you.
Your gauntlet caught your attacker’s mask, knocking it off.
You knew that face.
It was the same face that looked back at you every time you looked at a mirror.
Well, not exactly, you supposed. There was a certain roughness in her features, the same as how Miles looked different from Miles. But you’d know those eyes anywhere. But they were… what’s the word, fuzzy? Unfocused? It was like her body was on autopilot while her brain was off in Hawaii or something.
The thing you did next could’ve won you the prize for ‘smartest dumb decision of the year’.
In all your oxygen-deprivated brilliance, you retracted your mask.
It might shake her, was your reasoning. It would confuse anyone to see a doppelgänger in a fight.
Or, you know, it could go totally wrong and she could punch your face in. But you were already getting choked, so, what was there to lose?
And it worked.
Her eyes shifted back into focus as her grip slackened, and you quickly shoved her — or is it you? yourself? — off, gasping for air. You could vaguely make out the outline of a giant scorpion-guy going one-on-one with Miles, who seemed to be holding out pretty well. He was favoring his left hand though, when usually he used his right.
“I— wha—? Where—” You heard from your left. Your alternate universe counterpart looked around the lab, her eyes wide and movements jerky like a wild animal on drugs.
You were about to say something when a loud buzzing came through your comm, which had evidently been damaged in the whole head-beam connection thing. Miles’s voice came through in broken pieces.
“Col— get..t— ov-rload—”
The Collider. The goober could only force an incomplete system to run for so long. Your time was up.
Wonderful.
A flash of blinding light came from the machine as it malfunctioned. The goober could only make an incomplete system work for so long. You were just able to get your helmet back on before everyone in the vicinity was pushed back in an explosion. Was that Aaron—?
After your temporary blindness wore off, you made out the aftermath, a high-pitched ringing in your ear as you dazedly looked around. The glass that separated the control area from the Collider had been shattered, the Scorpion twitching as he tried to get to his feet — did he have feet? Now’s really not the time — There was no sign of Miles or Aaron anywhere, which was either very good or very bad. You decided to believe it was the former for your own sake. A short distance away from you was another you, that one unconscious but still breathing, from the looks of it.
Grabbing your variant, you ripped open a vent on the wall before the Scorpion could take notice of either of you, shoving her in before following suit and placing the vent cover back on. You had to get out of here. Fast.
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xo-cod · 3 months
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simon gaining happy weight and becoming insecure over it because he thinks its unnatural 🥺
i loved this, nonnie. i hope you like this <33 v rushed/ooc, lmk if you'd like a longer version :") 🤍
cw: mention of body weight/insecurities
simon hadn't even noticed the weight gain himself until he couldn't fit into his old trousers, the waistband had become uncomfortably tight while he raised his brow. utterly confused at what had happened, chalking it up to the washing machine shrinking it up. he was just going to grab another pair and call it a day until he had looked down at himself for a moment and feeling his heart drop all the way to the floor
he'd gained weight, simon had actually gained weight
one thing had led to another and for hours he stood in front of the mirror, in disbelief at the weight gain. he had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed you coming back from outside, observing himself in the mirror with a deep frown. feeling more and more self conscious by the second
"what's the matter?" your voice cuts through and he pulls his top back down hastily, embarrassed to have been caught at such a time.
"s'nothing" he only offers one worded answers, unable to believe he'd let himself go to this extent. he was a trained soldier, a lieutenant. how could this be the message he was sending out to his task members and the new recruits, how could this be
"simon" your voice was a little firm, raising your brow as you walked close to him again. and there you see it, the pain and the insecurities practically swimming in his eyes as he gazes at you wordlessly. you were used to him being comfortable in himself, confident and dominant in his every day life. though now when he stands before you, you see all the cracks behind his facade revealing a vulnerable boy behind the mask
"i've gained weight" he muttered lowly, feeling almost embarrassed as he shifted on his feet awkwardly. feelings were hard to speak on, he didn't like airing out his insecurities even though he trusted you implicitly. but he didn't like having his weakness shown about
"gained weight?" your voice came out as a confused question, looking at his body. whenever he was away on deployment or in training his body would always be in top shape. he was constantly on a strict diet and coupled with him fighting for his life out on the battlefield, he wasn't exactly the most healthiest when he returned back to you. but on his off days when he had proper meals with plenty snacks, his body was relaxed and the muscles weren't as sharp though still huge and prominent on his person.
a healthy layer covered his stomach, softening his abdominal muscles. and you loved it, you liked seeing a bit of weight on him.
"look at it. i've gone pudgy. soft. lazy" his tone was sharp and cold, each word punctuated with annoyance though not directed at you as he pinched the skin of his stomach but his frustration remained all the same. the same niggling voice in the back of his mind rearing its ugly head and berating him for even coming to this stage.
he should've done better, he should've hit the gym more frequently. he shouldn't have eaten so much of your cooking and he certainly should've been upholding the image of tf141. not to mention, you. how could he call himself your lover and look this way? he should've been maintaining his muscles properly so you could've enjoyed them for longer. and he only felt shame burning at his cheeks, knowing the possibility that you might not find him so attractive now he was like this
"you look healthy-" "bullshit. that's just another word for fat" he interrupted your sentence with a scoff, growing increasingly more frustrated with himself as he paced the room a little. you sighed softly, holding his hand which prompted him to pause and look at you while your thumb rubbed the inside of his wrist. a trick you had picked up that helped him calm down and become grounded whenever he was caught up too much in his head
"gaining weight isn't bad at all, you're at a much healthier weight now than you've been in before. you deserve to feel safe to eat, you deserve to be relaxed and to take a break especially when you're constantly fighting for your life" your voice carried through gently but firm on your words, your thumb rubbing soft circles across his knuckles.
"and honestly to me, you've never looked better" a gentle chuckle left your lips as you finished, holding his hand close while he simply observed you for a few moments in pure shock and silence.
"you really mean that? you think so?" he asks softly, brown eyes shining under the lights as he scans your face for any doubt or insincerity but he could find none. your face held nothing but love for him, pure warmth and tenderness in your smile and in your eyes
"i know so" you promised, lacing your fingers with his own as you reach up to plant a sweet kiss on his lips for reassurance. he only squeezes your body closer to his, bringing you in further to his warmth.
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A Perfect Score - Chapter 4 - Thin Ice | FigureSkating!AU
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Summary: Moving on to Casterly Rock for the next round of the tour, Aemond has some explaining to do | Word Count: 7.4k~ | Warnings under the cut~
Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist
Warnings: Aemond being a general raging dickhead, classism, sexual tension 😘, swearing, heavy petting
A/N: I feel like apologising for long chapters is beyond me at this point. But ohohoho we getting into itttt~
Comments, reblogs & likes are always appreciated in this household. I love u 😚
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It turned out that alone, never really meant alone.
Alone in the sense that Aemond and yourself would be carted around by the various staff at Hightower Management, put into various hotels and expected to keep up with training, without the keen eyes of Otto nor Alicent watching over either of you.
Part of you was excited about the notion of a tour. But the more dominant part was immensely nervous. Without Helaena or Aegon to take the edge of Aemond’s personality, it might be silent torture or it might be entirely indifferent, as you and Aemond had been throughout the match and after-party well over a week ago and, as well as the time in between.
It was sort of routine now, the way you both trained. Only speaking to one another if you had to.
Even then, he did seem a little chattier. But it was a miniscule difference.
He’d not said a thing about his ex-dinosaur-girlfriend (as Helaena so carefully put it) being at the after-party. Not like he would say anything to you anyway, but still, what was that all about?
Helaena had told you as much as she could really, given all she knew being on the outside. Alys was twenty years Aemond’s senior, now in her mid-forties you surmise from the timeline. Besides grossing you out mildly, Helaena had bestowed her knowledge that as soon as Alicent found out about the supposed relationship, it was immediately put to an end.
Enter. The pregnancy scandal. Alys had approached Otto in a very business-like manner, breaking the news she was pregnant and that it had been Aemond’s, despite the timing of it clearly not matching up. Alicent was absolutely beside herself, which knowing her now you’re not sure if you could picture it, and insisted that it was entirely not true and that Alys had just wanted money.
Aemond’s or not, she was paid a handsome sum to keep quiet. And in the end? It turned out she wasn’t pregnant in the first place.
“I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t seen her at the party, as it’s not really my story to tell”, Helaena had said.
It left a bad taste in your mouth when she finished explaining. If that was all true, why the hell would she turn up to the after-party with the necklace Aemond had gifted her all those years ago? Why would she even get involved with a man twenty years her junior? It reeked somewhat of grooming, etching a permanent frown into your features at the memory of Aemond at the party, his shoulders rolled forwards, looking down and shrinking in her presence.
He looked so small then.
That’s all you could think about as you both sat in the back seats of the car driven by a man called Arryk Cargyll, who would be transporting and looking after you both since Criston was attending to Helaena and Aegon on the other side of the tour. He was significantly chattier and less stone-faced than Criston, which you chalked up to him being probably younger.
But even then, he barely spoke a word the entire way to your first stop of the tour. Casterly Rock, hosted by Jason and Johanna Lannister, representing the Westerlands.
At least the hotel was nice. You and Aemond had separate rooms next to one another. And aside from the odd light switch and the hum of the shower, he didn't make himself known.
Even now, as you sat on the bed, clad in black sweatpants and a sports bra, having visited the hotel gym, you listened to the shower through the walls in the quietness of the late evening. Staring off into space. The intrusive thought of Aemond showering briefly zipping through your brain and not at all imagining-
Incoming Video Call from El 🦌
Thank the gods for that.
You swipe the screen, greeted with the smiling face of Ellyn sat on what used to be your shared sofa.
"There's my hoe" she lovingly calls, stuffing a crisp into her mouth.
You hum a laugh, "Charming El" you smile, moving to lay on your front so you can prop the phone up, "What's the occasion? Do you miss me that much?"
She rolls her eyes, "Fuck off. I always miss you" she smiles brightly, "Forgive me for wanting to check in on my amazingly successful figure skating queen"
"Amazingly successful, huh?" You joke, "High praise coming from Floris' sister. How is she by the way?"
"She's fine. Getting discharged soon they think, she messed it up pretty bad" Ellyn shrugs, "hey, you might see Maris when you're out there"
"I'll give her a big sloppy kiss for you" you smirk.
Ellyn pulls a face, "Don't do that she'll punch you in the face"
You laugh. She absolutely would as well. The Four Storms indeed.
"I saw your Instagram pictures. You look fit" she says with a mouth full of crisps, "Anyway, who you dressed up for in there?"
You look down at your outfit, furrowing your brows, "A sports bra?" You joke, "Hardly dressed up, El"
She smirks, "How are things with Aemond?"
"Oh for fucks sake…" you roll your eyes, hearing her cackle through the phone, "Well, we didn't start the greatest"
"Tough crowd?"
"He may have insinauted I wouldn't handle it because I wasn't from any notable house"
Her mouth drops open.
"Death. He deserves death"
You laugh loudly, covering your mouth, "El!"
"Did you put him in his place?"
"Tried to!"
"I bet he went real quiet after you showed him up at that match!"
You smile at her, "Oh you watched that?"
"Course I did!" She returns, "not fair you looking like a snack on the ice like that. You could tell you didn't like each other though"
Ooft. "Yeah…" you trail off, "...it's a work in progress"
"I take it you haven't smashed yet then?"
"El!"
"What!" She shouts back, making the phone crackle due to her volume, "Just cos he's a dick doesn't mean he's unfuckable"
El, you're making it really hard to deny it right now by confirming my exact thought process.
You sigh, "I'm not fucking him, El. He hates me"
"Do you hate him?"
You bite your lip, "I tolerate"
"Fucking liar" she sneers, "anyway I gotta go, I'll watch your next match. Slay all day, love you!"
You sigh, dropping your phone, listening as the hum of his shower stops, and the bedroom light switch clicks against the wall.
How did you end this conversation thinking about Aemond having a shower more?!
Stop that. Bad girl.
You could hear him plug in what you assumed was a phone charger into the wall, something akin to bed slats cracking a second later with the weight of him slipping into bed.
His bed was right next to the wall, the same as yours.
You tapped your phone anxiously, biting your lip as if something were on your mind.
But you didn't have the heart to even tell yourself what you were thinking about.
Or rather who.
The bitterness of hotel coffee never fails to make you wince as you sit in the fancy hotel foyer, dressed in your usual all black sportswear while the space around you looks indicative of a Greek palace, all cream and decorated with keen detail.
Casterly Rock is unnaturally hot right now, so all you’re able to manage is a sports bra and a thin crop top on your torso, with of course, leggings on your bottom. Your foot taps impatiently, waiting for Aemond to come out of his room so Arryk can drive you to the ice rink for morning practice, raising an eyebrow when you look at the clock on the wall and see it’s already 6am.
He’s never usually late.
Arryk walks towards you with an unnatural spring in his step to say how early in the morning it is, smiling beneath his facial hair, looking entirely put together in the suit he wears. Does he wear that everyday?
“Aemond will be a while yet, shall I get you to the rink first so you don’t lose out on practice?”
You nod, downing the rest of the coffee to give you some semblance of life, standing up to follow him, “Sure, thank you”
You follow him to the car, sliding into the passenger seat, rubbing your eyes.
“Is he alright?” you ask, as Arryk pulls his seatbelt on.
He nods, putting the car into gear and setting off, “He’ll be alright. Just a small headache. The eye sometimes gives him some bother”
You drive in silence for a bit, the roads mostly clear from how early it still is.
“Have you been with them long? Working for them I mean?” you ask, trying to fill the silence with something.
“A while. I joined after Aemond’s accident”
You swallow.
The accident.
Sensing your silence, Arryk looks over briefly, “You don’t know?”
You shrug, shaking your head, “I figured if he wanted to tell me he would”
Arryk nodded and turned away again, clearing his throat with his eyes back on the road. He didn’t say anything else until you arrived at the ice rink, obviously not wanting to let slip any sensitive information that Aemond wouldn’t have wanted to share. But it was clear he knew.
It felt like everyone around you knew some kind of secret, and you were purposefully being kept on the outside, but just within reach.
This ice rink was by no means large and you’re thankful at least that it’s empty, so that you can do the pre-practice stretches in relative peace. You just stick your airpods in and play whatever you have on shuffle, using the free time Aemond isn’t here to start on the ice.
It’s nice every once in a while since starting training with Aemond, to have everything to yourself, music in your ears, hair down, the breeze of the air conditioning through your locks. Sometimes you find yourself just gliding, eyes closed and inhaling slowly and purposefully through your nose, letting the smells around you fill your senses.
After doing countless laps and trying certain jumps you know you’d be doing with Aemond later, you look at the clock. 45 minutes have passed and still no sign of Aemond.
Feeling entirely too hot from the exertion of practising, you huff and tug the shirt you’re wearing off, leaving yourself in only the sports bra.
Modesty be damned, I’m too fucking hot for this.
Tugging it over your head, adjusting the sports bra underneath, you don’t even register the double doors opening with the airpods blasting in your ears. It’s only when the flash of white hair passes as you slide along the ice, that you nearly jump out of your skin.
“Fucking hell” you mutter quietly, pulling out your airpods quickly.
Aemond shucks his bag onto the floor, not making eye contact as he slips onto the bench with his skates in his hands. He looks more irritable than usual, dropping his skates with a sort of carelessness you wouldn’t usually associate with him.
You watch his face, tense and irritated, looking down as he ties them, his eyebrows drawn together.
Skating up to the edge, you bite your lip, wondering if you should say anything at all. Would it just make him more difficult? Would he just stay quiet?
“Are you okay?” you ask, coming out more weakly than intended.
“Yes” he answers harshly, unconvincing, “Fine, clearly”
Woah, okay.
You lean over the edge on your elbows, watching as he fails to tie his skates the first time, cursing to himself at having to do it again, irritably looping them once more.
“Arryk said you had a headache”
Sighing once he’s double tied his laces, he leans on his knees, finally looking up at you, his whole body tense and rigid. He doesn’t say a thing. He just stares, as if he’s shocked you had the audacity to even talk to him, his glass eye reflected in the sharp blue tone of the lights.
It's like all the air has been sucked out the room. And the world only has you two left in it. The way he stares makes you both uncomfortable and breathless at the same time.
And you're unsure if you think it's a good thing.
A glimpse of what he acted like when you first met is there, watching the way his grip is tight, his forearms taut and shoulders hunched.
He opens his mouth, but you beat him to it.
“I have some ibuprofen…if you want it”
His mouth closes instantly. And his brow softens somewhat, although not unwinding entirely. His gaze falls to the floor for a moment, and he nods, looking completely resigned, much like he did on the night he talked to Alys Rivers.
Like a child in pain.
Hopping off the ice, you rifle through your bag that’s seated next to him, eventually extending the pills to him. He moves his head, his good eye starting at your legs and running over the entirety of you, before looking at your eyes. It makes you go all warm, watching the way he pauses at your middle, where the slightest bit of skin shows beneath the sports bra.
“Thanks” he says quietly, taking the pills from you and popping some out the foil. His fingers graze yours only slightly, and you press your lips together, turning away from him quickly to get back on the ice.
Your chest feels all hot and tight. Must be the hotel breakfast. That bacon did taste funny.
Something inside tightens as you turn to watch him swallow some water, watching the muscles of his neck. And then his large hands palm at his hair, pulling it to the back to tie it haphazardly, with no real care as several strands fall out from his grasp.
Why is that kind of hot.
What is wrong with me.
This is Aemond we’re talking about.
Despite knowing that there is no way those pills have kicked in yet, he tugs at his shirt as he gets out on the ice. He has one hand occupied with his phone as he meets you in the middle.
“Fuck. Speaker’s not working” he murmurs, fumbling with the settings on his phone.
“Oh”
You move from right leg to left leg, anxiously. Pulling at the fabric of your leggings while you think of a solution.
“We could uh…use my airpods” you respond, pulling the case out, “one each?”
He only moves his eye to meet you, his mouth wrinkled down in disgust. For some reason it makes you laugh.
“Oh come on, they’re not dirty” you smile, handing him one, “business partners, right?” you say, sticking the left one in your own ear.
Not friends.
Business partners.
He sighs, reluctantly sticking the right one in. You put the music you’ll be performing in a few days on repeat, sticking the phone into your sports bra in lieu of pockets.
“Give it to me” Aemond says, one hand limply extended.
“What?”
He looks at you, “Your phone” he adds, “I have pockets”
You pull an awkward face, swallowing thickly.
For some reason retrieving the phone from the sports bra feels weirder than putting it there, especially when you hand it to him and he presses it against his thigh to stuff into his zip pocket. God his hands are so massive now when compared to the size of the phone.
Stop. That.
Oh gods, was I sweaty. That’s so gross if I was.
He luckily doesn’t comment on anything like that. A small mercy.
You practise one. Two. Three times. The clock ticks by quickly as you're both immersed in training. Trying various parts of the routines, as well as a particularly difficult new jump, one that at first you have some trouble with.
Aemond throws you in the air and you have to spin three times, timing it perfectly so that your front is against his in time for him to push you back for the exit, hands joined.
It’s had…questionable results so far.
Misjudging how quickly you need to spin in the air, your feet aren’t in the right position and you fall chest to chest with Aemond, his arms reaching around you to make sure you don’t slip.
“Shit!” you whisper, annoyed at yourself, “Sorry”
You hate that when he catches you, his grip on your bare arms, that you can’t help but blush, every hair standing on end. Especially when he looks down at you, hoisting you up back on your skates once you’re balanced, “You okay?”
Completely too annoyed at yourself to care right now about the proximity, you shake your head, “Can’t hack that one”
Aemond bites his cheek, “Let’s try a double spin first then”
Realising you’re still very close, you skate back, clearing your throat, “You sure?..”
He shrugs, “We can work up to the triple if we want, but as long as we do a throw, still counts”
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ears, “Sure..”
If there is something you’ve noticed since you met and began working with Aemond, it’s that his style of skating, much like Helaena’s and Aegon’s, is very technical. Calculated. Overly-thought out.
Much like ballet, figure skating is as much about performance and emotion, than technical ability. Unfortunately for Aemond.
He’s so pragmatic about his approach that there’s barely room for any real emotion in his performance. He’s always straight-faced, tight-lipped. So much so, you wonder if he actually enjoys any of it.
As much as you hate to admit it, he was right. Starting with the double was an easier approach, and it came more naturally. So when you did several attempts after the triple, tucking your arms in on yourself for the spin, the last few were landed, making your insides swell with pride. Eventually, you look at the clock and wince at the time, so both of you take a break for a much needed drink.
After having crossed the technical bridge, time for the emotional one you suppose? No harm in asking, right?
“Can I ask you something?” you ask quietly, leaning backwards against the ledge, arms rested on it.
Aemond’s eye finds you mid-sip of his water bottle, and he licks his lips, his weight on one leg, wordlessly urging you to continue.
You swallow, wondering how best to word it, “Do you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy what?”
Isn’t it obvious?
Your eyes zip around briefly, “This? Figure skating?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Answering your question without needing words.
“I enjoy it enough”
Enough.
Aemond is so guarded. Even now, he holds his arms over his chest, protecting his heart. Silence stretches between you at his answer, as unconvincing as it was, you nod your head with eyebrows raised, not wanting to say anything more that might dampen the mood on your training for today.
Being around him is like stepping around a sleeping dragon. One brush against it, however soft it would be, it’d wake in a sort of angered panic, assuming danger.
That is how you would describe him. Whatever you said or did, it’d be interpreted as an attack.
“You don’t believe me” he responded after some time.
As much as you feel you dislike him, you can’t lie to him, so you shrug, “Not really”
He narrows his eyes, “Why”
Fucking hell. Here we go. Now I’ve done it.
You sigh, already feeling an argument brewing where you hadn’t intended, “I think it’s no secret that when you perform you look like you’d rather be anywhere else” you say, shifting about on your skates, stretching your arms anxiously, “Unless you’re just like that with me” you add, under your breath.
He rolls his eye somewhat, humming. In neither acceptance nor denial.
Was that a yes? No?
“I just think if we’re going to stand a chance in these Championships we should at least make the effort with performance. For the scores” you nod to him, “That’s all I’m saying”
Aemond scoffs, “Oh, so you think you’re giving me advice now?”
Oh there’s the sleeping dragon.
Your head retracts, shocked by the sudden sass. Maybe the ibuprofen has kicked in, “We’re skating partners, aren’t we? You don’t value my good opinion, seeing as, shockingly, I existed as a skater before I met you?”
He shakes his head, as if amused, “Just find it funny”
You bite your lip, now visibly annoyed. Your skin blooms in frustration. Not this shit again. No fucking way.
“Funny in the sense that you still think that just because I’m of no notable house, not so far up my own ass I can’t see the sun and not such a nepo-baby that-”
“I fucking told you not to call me that” he snaps, his eye now serious, his stance too as he pushes off the ledge to stand before you.
You shrug, “Is that not what you are?” you challenge, “Your brother and sister get to represent the Reach just because your mother is from Oldtown, and you make it to the Championships every time despite not being able to show a slither of emotion on your face-”
“It’s because I’m fucking good at it” he counters, “Emotions has nothing to do with it”
“Doesn’t it? You can be good at it, but you don’t fucking like it”
He goes all quiet, his fist clenched at his side, shaking.
“It’s as clear to the judges as it is to anyone, you don’t enjoy it. I don’t doubt you probably did at some point”
He swallows, as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say.
“And because you’re so perfect?”
“Didn’t say I was-”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re not” he interrupts, making you go quiet and still, “Don’t you dare try to act all high and mighty to me. My family is well-established and good at it. There doesn’t need to be a deep and meaningful reason why I do it. I don’t need to dig deep to find any semblance of purpose in my life, unlike your shitty one. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let the likes of your class skate at all-”
Aemond stops his chaotic ramble when he finally turns to look at you, seeing the horrified and tearful expression on your face after you’d heard him say it in his fit of rage. His face drops instantly, replaying what he’d said. It didn’t seem like him at all, to go on such a rampage of horrible words.
It felt like someone was speaking through him. Like he was a puppet on a string, performing the actions of others.
But he had said it nonetheless.
You laugh weakly, feeling your insides twist painfully.
“My class, huh?...” you repeat, shoving the knife inside him deeper. The word seems to make him shudder now, despite him being the one who said it.
If you didn’t laugh you’d cry. So you did just that.
“Well, I’m sorry you feel so disgusted to have people of my class doing your sport” you respond, skating backwards away from him.
With tears covering your vision, making the ice look like one big blob of white, all you manage is, “Fuck you, Aemond”
You hear his voice, once, twice, calling your name. The last time is exasperated, carried with a sigh once he realises that you’re too angry right now to even hear him. It all happens so quick you don’t have time to think, the way you pull your skates off without untying them first, hurtling your bag over your shoulder and pushing the doors open so hard they bang against the wall, filling the empty sounding room with an echoed slam.
You don’t look back at him. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.
You don’t even text Arryk to come pick you up. You just walk, legs carrying you as quickly as you’re able, one in front of the other and counting up and down in your head in an effort to calm yourself down. The air was hot and oppressive around you, closing in, making you feel even smaller than Aemond had just a few minutes before.
No tears. Don’t cry. He doesn’t deserve them.
He doesn’t deserve them.
If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let the likes of your class skate at all.
The replay of the words breaks you and you hurl your bag at the closest wall, but it does nothing to expel the annoyance and frustration you feel inside. The skates inside the bag make it so heavy that it falls to the floor with a thud. You stand there watching, breathing heavily in the air of the early afternoon.
For a small, brief flicker of a moment, you regret throwing your bag with the skates inside. Knowing that it was Rhaenys who gifted you them, and that an argument with Aemond didn’t excuse treating such nice things in that way. All the emotions you have kept back are still there, sitting behind your eyes.
Not in public.
So with a resigned sigh, you pick the bag up and walk the fifteen minutes it takes to get back to the hotel, hoping and praying to every god there is that Arryk or Aemond doesn’t see you on the way back in the car.
The hotel is luckily air conditioned. You can't tell if you're hot because it genuinely is hot, or if you're just so angry you might literally be steaming.
So intent on making a beeline to your hotel room, you nearly collide fully with a familiar brunette.
"Shit! Sorry, I wasn't look-Johanna!" You sigh, red-faced, looking right into her deep brown eyes, that are crinkled up with a smile.
"Gods, you look…hot, and not in the good way" she remarks, her eyes looking over you. You can't help but look at her outfit, all a lovely golden colour that suits her in its entirety.
Instinctively, you wipe your neck, embarrassed at how you must look.
"Yeah, I uh, just came back from training"
She looks around, "Where's your partner? Aemond"
"Oh, uh, he decided to hang back" you lie with a smile, hoping it lands. But her smile indicates that she knows it's not entirely true.
Her deep brown eyes look over your expression, her lips tightening into a reassuring line that’s akin to a smile, “I get it, you know” she says, to which you cock your head, “Not being on good terms with your skating partner”
She sees the way your eyes go wide, and your mouth opens to contradict, “Save it. It’s obvious”
Fuck. Is it really that obvious?
“If it were up to Jason, he’d have stopped competing ages ago” she muses, eyes flickering to the floor every once in a while, tugging her jacket around her tighter, “It’s me who’s the competitive one”
“But you two skate so well together?” you ask, confused. They’d always been very good skaters together, only spurred on by the fact that they were married.
Johanna laughs, “I’m not stupid. I know Jason’s fucking around on me” she admits without a hint of weakness in her tone, “It’s the least I can do to get back at him, forcing him to compete with me”
Part of you feels sad for her that she knows he’s cheating, but can do nothing about it. But you can’t help the mischievous smile on your face at her so-called ‘revenge’. You’re at least grateful that the person you’ll be up against tomorrow isn’t so hell-bent on winning that she’s outright mean to you.
After a moment, she taps your shoulder, “It’ll be alright. Show him what you’re made of”
You blink, still smiling from her quip before. Even when she leaves the foyer, you stay planted on the spot, bag digging into your shoulder from its heavy contents, feeling the familiar heaviness in your stomach as well.
Show him what I’m made of?
I tried that already. And it still wasn’t enough.
If there’s anything to be grateful for, it’s that Aemond isn’t back at the hotel yet.
But it is only in the sweet relief of silence in your hotel room that you realise…
Great. He still has my phone.
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It doesn’t take long for you to really wallow in self-destructive feelings. Stipped down to your baggy clothes, sat in bed, flicking through the terrible hotel channels that are just not doing it for you, and picking at several crisps and popping them into your mouth.
Knock Knock.
It almost makes you jump out of your skin, however soft the knock was.
Your jaw clenches when Aemond’s voice calls your name, staring at the door as if looking right through it.
He sighs, his voice muffled, “Come on, I know you’re in there” he says quietly. You can hear him shuffle from foot to foot. You can imagine him, standing there, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his leg shaking while he turns his thoughts over in his head.
He sighs again.
"Please"
Part of you wants to smile at the way he says it. Like it's hurting every little bit of him inside to even consider apologising. But the thought of the smile never really comes to a full one on your face, and your lips continue to turn down into a frown, watching his shadow moving side to side underneath the crack of the door.
You didn’t move an inch. You just watched as he stayed for longer than you thought he would.
The shadow moved, and your phone slid face down under the door, before his footsteps were muffled and far away down the hall. You heard his hotel room door close softly, the light switch clicked against the wall, and the bed slats once again creaked louder as he flopped down on it.
Knowing he is right there, on the opposite side of the wall, no longer gives you that fluttering feeling. It makes you feel somewhat uncomfortable that he’s so close without seeing him. Restless.
Padding over to the door to retrieve your phone. Several messages line the home screen, obscuring the view of your background, you and Ellyn at the ice rink for Christmas and her falling into your arms, not being quite as adept at the skill as her sisters. It never fails to make you smile.
Rhaenys - Manager: 3 unread messages
El 🦌 - 1 unread message
Unknown number - 5 new messages
You cock your head somewhat at the unknown number. And with 5 new texts from it too.
Swiping open your phone, you're met with the absolute essay of the text from the unknown number.
Fuck that, I'm not reading it without a drink in my hand.
So you sit on the bed, a can of gin and tonic in one hand, scrolling through the long text.
At first it doesn't really make sense.
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You raise an eyebrow. Reading on.
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You swallow, reading all of the words.
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You hate that you laugh at that last bit. You can imagine him pacing around, seeing the unread texts he'd sent and hitting himself realising your phone had been in his pocket the whole time.
Something squeezes tight in your chest, reading all of it over one more time.
Aemond hadn't apologised. Not specifically anyway.
I didn't mean any of it.
You sigh, tipping your head back against the headboard with a light thud, staring up at the ceiling of the hotel.
It's late. The match against the Lannisters is tomorrow.
Do you forgive him?
It felt wrong to forgive him for what he'd said, especially after all the times he'd been rude to you before.
Forgiveness would imply that he'd apologised, which he hadn't. You felt like you at least deserved that. And if he couldn't give that to you…
You save his number under ⛸️. Not having the energy to write his name right now.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, your leg moving erratically. Thinking of what to say back.
Be civil. But not too nice. Otherwise he might think it's all good.
You didn't want him to think that.
So you settled for something simple. Something indifferent.
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Being in the dressing room without Alicent to fuss over your skates compared to now, sitting in front of the vanity, alone, with your hands clenched tight in front of you, it makes the loneliness tug at your heart. Sitting heavily in your chest.
You should feel pretty. Your outfit is a standard leotard with mesh detailing at the collar, short sleeves, little rhinestones dotted on the skirt to catch the light. The fabric was white, similar to the one you wore at the first match, but not exactly the same, and you can imagine what it would look like when you were skating, capturing the glimmer of the lights and cutting through the air like a whisper.
You’d done your hair yourself, half up half down. With a silver ornament at the back to keep it secure. The pieces that were pulled at the front were waved to the best of your ability, hair sprayed within an inch of their life to stay that way. Your makeup was the same, a barely-there approach, as it was all you were comfortable with.
But you didn’t feel pretty.
Aemond hadn’t replied after what you’d said the night before. You watched as the three bubbles appeared and disappeared a few times, but in the end it was clear he was intent to leave you to your thoughts and give some semblance of space. Since he said himself, he knew he’d fucked up.
You weren’t sure if you were relieved or not that he didn’t reply. All you could think about right now was the match, the move you had practised the day before, and how you were going to best execute it.
“Triple spin in the air, land on the right leg…” you mumbled, tracing the steps of the routine in your head.
The door to your dressing room swung open and your eyes locked eyes with Aemond’s in the mirror. Your heart lurched into your throat seeing him, after what had happened in the last 24 hours, with your partnership potentially hanging by a thread. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, sensing that you really didn’t know what to say.
He briefly met the gaze before looking down, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. His hair, as opposed to last time, was in a loose bun, straight strands framing his chiselled face.
“We’re on in 10” he said simply, his left leg twitching in barely-contained anxiety. He bit his lip harshly, something akin to irritation gnawing on his insides.
Anxiety you knew didn’t come from performing the routine itself.
He was afraid of what you would do. Or what you would say.
Swinging your legs off the chair, you pull one of your feet up to the cushion, making sure the laces are well tied and in their place, your eyes trained solely on them and not on him, who was still standing by the door, as if guarding it.
“Look, I-”
“I’m fine, Aemond” you interrupt him, lacing the other one, “Let’s just get this over with please”
Aemond looked as if he’d been slapped. Like he did that night when he’d spoken to Alys Rivers.
“I didn’t mean any of it” he continues, despite what you’d said. When you look at him now, standing up on your skates, he chews on his lip, taking his time to make himself look at you. His eye rakes over your outfit for this routine, leg still bouncing, “You look nice, by the way”
You can’t help but roll your eyes, “Will you stop saying that like we’re friends, Aemond” you snap, “Just business partners, right?”
Aemond sighs, “Will you stop twisting anything I say into an insult about you?”
“So, is that what that was yesterday? Me twisting your words?” you look at him incredulously, daring him to deny it.
“No-fuck-I didn’t say that” he barks back, his volume increasing, clearly struggling to string together the right words he wants, “What I meant was-”
You shake your head, having had enough, “Just leave it, Aemond. I don’t need to hear it, from you in particular. Can you move please?”
He stays stock still against the door, blocking your path, even stepping forward as a means to say he is most certainly not finished. For a brief second, panic flits through you, not quite remembering how tall and broad he is compared to you.
“What I said yesterday was wrong-”
“You’re fucking right, it was wrong!” you bark back this time, stunning him into silence. He wears a stoic look, his chest rising and falling steadily.
“Do you know how hard I worked to get where I am today, despite my class as you so nicely pointed out. If it really offends you so fucking much to be paired with me, then why agree to it in the first place if you’re just going to bitch and whine about it all the damn time!”
“I-”
“No! I deserve to fucking be here, Aemond, just as much as you. I don’t know if I will ever be good enough in your opinion, but I am slowly realising that I don’t care about that. If you don’t think I am good enough to be associated with you or your prestigious family, I am totally fine with th-”
“You are good enough” he says flatly, his eye twitching somewhat as his muscles tense up, “Better than most, in fact”
You scoff, not affected by it now. No way.
“Well, you have a funny fucking way of showing i-”
You didn’t realise it at the time, how close Aemond had really stepped towards you, so embroiled in the argument with him that it didn’t seem to matter. His stance, his attitude, didn’t make you flounder.
But what did make you stiffen up and go hot all over was when Aemond’s hand made its way around your waist to pull you close to him, and his other hand cupped the back of your neck to tug your face flush to his, silencing you with his lips on yours. 
His fingers curled over your skin in a desperate hold, the one around your waist feeling like it was burning a brand right through your outfit. Your hands braced on his chest in shock of what he’d done, fingertips barely touching the skin above his black shirt, so much so you swear you’re able to feel the thrum of his rapid heartbeat.
Just as quickly, he pulls back, his cheeks flushed near-undetectably and his mouth open to breathe, with soft pants coming from his plush pink lips. Your wide eyes flit over his own, from one to the other, to gauge a reaction, despite him being the one who had kissed you. The sapphire glistens in the somewhat low and harsh light of the dressing room and his good eye doesn’t nearly look as blue, but almost so dark from how wide his pupil is dilated, that it’s completely black.
Neither of you wait to see what the other has to say, now that a line has been crossed, it cannot be uncrossed. 
It’s unclear who moves first, but all you know is that you’re kissing again, your hands on his shoulders, his own tightening impossibly around you. You feel the weight of every movement behind his lips, tilting his head to gain better access to your hot and waiting mouth as he slips his tongue against yours, sending off each individual kiss with a wet click. It’s a mess, your teeth knock near-painfully against one another, tongues fighting an ever-losing battle.
Aemond moans low in his throat, almost inaudible as he savours the taste of your mouth, his lips anchoring yours open the entire time. With his weight falling forwards, your backside meets the harsh edge of the vanity, making you wince a gasp quietly into his mouth. It only serves to spur him on, his hands fall to your hips, squeezing the flesh beneath the outfit in his large palms, kneading it as if to commit the contours to memory. As if he thinks he may never get to do this again.
He moves like it’s instinctual, his hands falling to grasp at your buttocks, he growls, lifting them onto the vanity, his hold so tight there that it sends a gush of arousal straight to your centre, especially when Aemond leans forward once more to stand between your legs, his obvious erection slotting neatly against your clothed core. His hips move with the rhythm of your desperate kissing, chasing the friction against your flesh he so desires, and you can tell by the way his lips part against yours, a breathy moan slipping into your mouth.
"Fuck" he breathes quietly.
You moan back when he squeezes your waist tightly, his fingers digging in. Thank the gods, this isn’t a cutout dress, otherwise his fingerprints would be clearly visible in red, digit shaped marks for everyone to see. For some reason, that excites you, a dull buzz making its way up your spine as you increase your hold on his shoulders and then his neck, hanging desperately onto him as he pushes flush with you, his chest almost touching yours.
Aemond’s hand drops to your thigh, squeezing the skin in his fingers, his thumb making its way up until it grazes over your clothed heat. It’s like he knows exactly what to do to you, and his fingers tease your clit through your leotard, pressing softly and drawing a desperate breathy moan from your lips. Your hips move towards him, chasing the brief, softened contact he applies, core clenching around nothing-
“On the ice in 2!” someone says from behind the door.
 
Aemond immediately withdraws, cheeks now genuinely flushed against his pale skin. His wide eye continues to hold your gaze, searching your expression for a reaction to what the two of you just did. 
His throat bobs as he swallows and steps back, peeling his hands off you and adjusting his trousers to hide the tent that has formed, the size of it shamefully impressing you for a second. Your hands pull back slowly, slipping off the vanity on wobbly legs and smoothing the skirt back over yourself, briefly noticing the imprint of his hand marks on your bare thigh.
His hair somewhat dishevelled, he uses his hand to smooth it back down. He wets his lips, missing the door handle once before finally catching it, “See you out there..” he says shakily in a weak voice, before he disappears, leaving the door open.
Leaving you to comprehend this sensation that tugs in your stomach. Leaving you to remember the way he’d just kissed you, just touched you, like nobody had ever done before. Even the mere thought of it makes your chest erupt in pink and flutters settle in your core.
Aemond had just kissed you.
And you liked it.
Shit.
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Taglist 1 (Bold means I could not tag!)
General Taglist: @blairfox04 | @hb8301 | @jamespotterismydaddy | @nenelysian | @natty2017 | @randomdragonfires | @risefallrise | @theoneeyedprince | @thelittleswanao3 | @tsujifreya | @urmomsgirlfriend1 | @valeskafics 
Aemond Taglist (1): @asp3nxx | @avidreader73 | @bellaisasleep ​ | @boofy1998 | @cathy1514 | @dahlias-and-marigolds | @fan-goddess | @gaeela-6
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jupitercomet · 7 months
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this is for the og Boxer Bob Baddie™ @bradshawsbitch I don't really know what to tell you besides otter Bob supremacy
warnings - language, mentions of violence, brief mentions of blood, soft Bob
sweeter than sugar masterlist
Jake would be the first to admit that he didn’t know Bob especially well. By the time Bob had started fighting at Maverick’s, Jake had already left for Texas. And while, yes, it did mildly irritate Jake that Bob had been able to cut out a place for himself where Jake couldn’t, he couldn’t even focus on being mad about that because he was too busy trying to figure out how the hell a guy like Bob ended up where he is.
Jake hadn’t thought anything of him when he first walked into Maverick’s again. Bradley, he knew, and some of the other fighters too, but the first time he laid eyes on Bob, he found him easily forgettable and hardly chalked him up to being a threat. And yet somehow he was? Other boxers whispered about him like he was some sort of ghost story—a fighter so great he’d been immortalized like a Greek god. Bradley respected him too, which was already enough for Jake to question his initial judgment on the dirty blond. And you certainly don’t get the name Grim Reaper for nothing.
It was the first time Jake watched Bob fight when, suddenly, he understood what everyone was talking about.
To an onlooker, the kind of person who had never stepped into the ring and been in the position Jake and Bob have been in, there probably wouldn’t be a difference between the way Bob fights and the way everyone else does, but Jake knows better. Where a lot of fighters build up a strong vibrato, their ego only fueled with every punch they land (and don’t get him wrong, Jake is very much included in this category) Bob is different.
Bob doesn’t take pleasure in fighting the same way Jake does and he doesn’t lose himself in it—blacking out and acting on straight instinct—like Bradley does. No, Bob gets angry. And it’s a deep anger, an anger he’s clearly held onto for a very long time. Bob doesn’t fight to win, Bob fights like it’s imperative to his survival, and that difference is usually what results in his opponents being carried out on stretchers.
Bob leaves every fight in the ring but whatever anger he carries? That stays with him. And agreeing to fight Bob is like signing up to be the punching bag for all that anger. The difference between Bob and Jake is that Bob fights every fight like it’s personal. Jake will never admit it to anyone, but that fact is borderline terrifying.
Overtime, Jake’s perception of Bob shifted. No longer was he the quiet figure in the corner that Jake treated like just another object in the gym. Now he was the Grim Reaper, the guy all the boxers collectively agreed had probably spilled the most blood on their mats, despite him being around for the shortest amount of time. He was a guy that Jake respected and trusted, an ally to him and Bradley with all the shady shit going on around them. Jake could probably even call him a friend, but he had learned to never underestimate the formidable force that was Bob Floyd.
With all of that in mind, Jake feels like he shouldn’t be seeing this.
It had started off innocently. Jake had been passing by a delicious smelling bakery and couldn’t help but think that his girlfriend would probably like a snack once he picked her up from work. Quite literally, all he wanted was a croissant. Then he asked if they happened to have a bathroom, and they did, and he took care of his business with every intention of grabbing his food and going. Maybe he took a little long in the bathroom though, because when he got out—
“Bob! You can’t be back here!” 
Jake freezes, stopping just short of the half wall that would reveal him to the bakery floor. A giggle echoes through the small building and Jake peeks his head out just barely to confirm the sight in front of him.
You—the baker who had rang him up—is biting back a smile, clearly trying to focus on typing something into the cash register. Behind you, Bob’s towering body is wrapped around yours, his chin resting on your shoulder as he tries to distract you with light nips to your cheek. “No one’s here, sweet pea. ‘Sides, if you wanted to keep me out, your counters shouldn’t be so easy to jump over.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you shake your head fondly and Bob’s arms travel down to tighten around your waist. He squeezes you gently, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 
His knuckles are bruised—with his habit of fighting without gloves, they almost always are—and it’s weird to Jake to see the same hands he’s seen shatter jaws, wrap around you delicately. Honestly this whole thing is weird, like some alternate universe version of Bob that he’s never met.
“You gonna let me go?” You tease, once you finish up at the cash register.
Bob grumbles at just the suggestion. “No.”
“Bob—”
“Otters wrap their babies up to keep them from floating away, did you know that?” Bob interrupts you, his grip on you tightening, the veins on his arms slightly bulging at the effort. “I gotta make sure you don’t float away from me.”
You laugh, ruffling his hair before ultimately succumbing to his desires and leaning into his weight. “We’re not otters, Bob.”
“Well yeah, otters understand the importance of snuggling, unlike some people.” You let out a squeak of surprise when he nips at your pulse point.
You don’t say anything after that, letting Bob rock you slowly as his head hides in your neck. Jake’s looking for an exit that won’t reveal himself to you, feeling like he’s watching something he shouldn’t anymore. After a moment, you nudge Bob’s head with your cheek, waiting for him to raise his head so you can catch his lips gently.
“Why don’t I close early and we can go home.” You bat your lashes at him. “Then you can show me everything I should know about otter snuggling practices.”
Jake waits for the two of you to head into the kitchen before he rushes quickly out of the bakery. Outside, he looks down at the croissant in his hands as he processes what he’s just witnessed. Normally, he’d be living for this. He’d go into the gym tomorrow and tease the shit out of Bob and whatever his deal with otters was, and refuse to ever let it go. 
Jake spares the bakery another glance, letting out a breath because he knows that he’s actually not going to do any of that.
Really, all Jake can think is that he’s happy to know that, at least, Bob’s anger doesn’t seem to follow him everywhere. And as he continues on his walk once more, turning his back to the bakery, Jake decides that he’ll keep this moment to himself.
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deadbranch · 25 days
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Last Train Out of Philadelphia (2)
Author: @deadbranch Pairing: Frank Woods x fem!OC Anya Stilwell Warnings:  18+ MDNI, impolite language, eventual smut, discussion of firearms, no real warnings for this chapter. Summary:  Woods finds an excuse to get to know Stilwell.  It’s written into the official training schedule, but Woods does it his way.  Stilwell manages to surprise him. Word Count:  1k A/N:   This may be a boring chapter to most.  Ignore the firearms tech-talk if that’s not your gig, but it’s the moments between that matter here. Previous A/N:  Thoughts are bolded and italicized.  Flashbacks are italicized large sections of text, not bolded (where applicable).  Dialog in languages other than English are written as English bracketed with “<” and “>”.
SERIES MASTERLIST
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LAST TRAIN OUT OF PHILADELPHIA (2)
“I’m still not clear…”
“Yeah.  Nothing’s clear these days.”
Anya shuts her mouth as Woods cuts her off.
Petra warned her about Woods.  He does things his way, and he’s got a rough manner about him that’s not worth trifling with.  Just stay out of his way and don’t agree to anything too quickly with him.  Half the time he’s just trying to get a reaction.
He pauses in his movements, the 1911 slide in one hand and its corresponding receiver in the other.  Laying both parts on the mat in front of him, he sits back in his chair, hands laying loosely on his lap.
“What?” he asks gruffly.
She stifles a laugh, but her expression gives her away.  Too late.
“Nothing.  Just not sure why I’m here.  I don’t carry a 1911.”
“Beretta 9 mil, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re in Europe now, in a very different kind of conflict.  You need to familiarize yourself with as many small arms as you can.”
“But the Colt M1911?  In Europe?”
Woods folds his arms across his chest.
“You really think there aren’t 1911s from three wars floating around with the serial numbers filed away?”
“But the ammunition…”
“Is cheap.  Think about it.  Consider who we’re fighting here,” he says with patience that still feels vaguely menacing.
She can’t decide if his eyes are blue or green.
“I…you’re right,” she places both hands on the empty mat in front of her.
Without further tarrying, she tugs at the fingertips of her leather gloves until both lay neatly beside the fully assembled 1911 to her left.
He smiles with an all but triumphant exhalation through his nostrils.  The muscles in his arms tighten across his chest as he adjusts his posture.  Even through several layers of fabric, a man his size is hard to miss.  There’s no gym at 620 Kilo, but Woods has obviously been taking care of himself outside his regular duty schedule.
“So…” she concedes softly as she takes up the 1911 in one hand, catches the ejected magazine with the other, and pulls back the slide. “I’ll begin tear-down.  Please stop me if I make a mistake.”
He smiles, uncrossing his arms to scoot forward in his chair.
“With pleasure.”
She clears her throat in lieu of rolling her eyes.
Just great.
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The hours pass slowly as Woods reviews a small armory’s worth of sidearms with Stilwell.
He’s surprised with each positive identification.  Eight out of eight, all correct.  He chalks that up to her obvious ability to memorize.  The US Army isn’t known for educating its officers in various non-issued firearms.
She’s done her homework.
He discreetly admires the strength in her hands.  As delicate as her fingers appear to be, they know their way around the basic mechanisms and variations presented to her.
Honestly, he expected her to be all thumbs when she picked up the 1911.  His attempts to fluster her have mostly failed.  Any pause in her movements was clearly calculated, purposeful, and...productive.
When she picks up the East German Pistole M, she places it back on the mat and excuses herself from the room.
Woods gives her five minutes before deciding to follow.  Rather than wait outside the ladies’ room, he decides getting a cup of coffee sounds like a better idea.  The clock above the coffee maker reads 09:13.
The familiar sound of Stilwell’s heels clicking on the floor emerge from the ladies’ room, then move away as she approaches the training room.  He smiles to himself as he sips his coffee, his back to the doorway, eyes on the second hand as it sweeps from number to number.
The clicking stops, then changes direction.  The diminutive sound gets louder as she approaches.
“Woods?”
“Yeah.”
“Any coffee left?”
He looks down at the empty pot, the burner turned off.  Another brief smile before he turns around.
“No.  But you can half the rest of mine if you’d like.”
She takes the cup from him without hesitation, protest, or reservation.  She takes a cautious sip, likely to gauge temperature before gulping it down in three swallows.
As she tosses the paper cup into the waste bin, she looks Woods in the eye, hands neatly folded in front of her, arms and shoulders relaxed though her posture is no less diminished.  It’s something about that JAG uniform.
Christ.
He keeps his eyes above her collarbones, or where they would be if he could see them.
“Why do the East Germans use the Pistole M? Is it not essentially the same as the Makarov, the favored model the Soviets have been using since the 40’s?” she asks with that annoyingly crisp confidence that usually comes with rank like hers.
The corners of his mouth curl upward as he presses his lips together in thought.
“That’s a good question.  But I wouldn’t worry too much about any logic there.  They use what they’ve got on hand, just as we do.  Similar fucked up supply chain, just fucked up in different ways.”
She doesn’t flinch, not even a little.  She shifts her weight toward her left, putting about ten inches between her feet, the wider stance doing her all kinds of favors.
Like a damn Valkyrie.
He’s determined to get her to crack.  Not cry, necessarily, but he wouldn’t mind if she did.
All women cry.  All men cry.  Just a matter of pushing the right buttons.
“Well,” she smiles in the plastic manner that comes with the uniform.  “Shall we get back to reviewing teardowns of our enemy’s various fucked up pistols?”
He laughs, looking down at the toes of her heeled shoes as he rubs the back of his neck.
The cold weather's been doing a number on an old shoulder injury, right where it connects to his neck.  It’s unclear to him how much of his need to rub the injury now is from the dull ubiquitous ache, or from an attempt to mitigate his surprised reaction.
Woods didn’t expect her to use profanity.  He wonders what it would take to get her to do it again.
My kinda gal.
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Next Chapter [coming soon]
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@efingart @smoggyfogbottom @brewed-pangolin @sofasoap @glitterypirateduck @valkyri @lollycotton @macravishedbymactavish @luciferstempest @miyabilicious @cathnoneofyourbusiness @crunchlite @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @mango-parfait @homicidal-slvt @http-paprika @fel0ny-01 @adnauseum11 @bluerosetarot @writeforfandoms @socially-awkward-skeleton @astraluminaaa @pastawench @argella1300 @gazs-blue-hat @sans-chara @kiki-is-hyperfixating @thegreyjoyed @tiredmetalenthusiast
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babyrunsforfanfic · 1 year
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Cheerleader, OVER | e.m.
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summary: the scene where chrissy cunningham goes to eddie munson’s trailer and almost gets… yknow’d, until you show up and save the day
eddie munson x cheerleader fem!reader
warnings/tags: it’s the vecna scene you guys you all know it so just prepare, angst?, yeah angst, the reader and chrissy are childhood bffls / ‘platonic with a capital p’ soulmates, reader and jason get into a fight, buckingham if you squint not even very hard, fluff too i think?, allusions to chrissy’s ed — it’s over quick i swear, eddie is immediately infatuated and flirty with the reader to be honest
wc: 2265ish
•••
“found it!” eddie thumped the small plastic bag against his free hand, grinning as he walked out of his bedroom. “peaceful bliss just moments away.”
eddie internally chuckled at his own joke as he came into his living room, but froze at the sight in front of him. if he was being honest with himself, he already couldn’t believe that the chrissy cunningham, had asked him for drugs. i mean, it was hawkins- and by all accounts, chrissy was the perfect representation of what the town stood for.
but eddie could close his eyes and remember a small grinning girl from middle school who was nothing but kind; so really, who was he to judge?
“chrissy?” eddie kept his voice soft as he watched as chrissy’s eyes fluttered. “hey! wake up!” eddie snapped his fingers in front of chrissy’s face, a frown painted on his face. “i don’t like this-”
he really didn’t fucking like it when she started to fucking levitate.
•••
you thumped your thumbs against the steering wheel of your car, sun visor down even though it was pitch black outside. you couldn’t help but eye yourself in the little mirror on the visor, a thin cut across your lip. you tongued at it, giggling to yourself as you shook your head- before you turned into the trailer park.
you hadn’t fully believed your friend chrissy when she’d called for you at the school, and asked you to pick her up from eddie munson’s house. she’d been off lately, though you had honestly had just chalked it up to being off due to her boyfriend, jaspn carver. specifically, the jason carver you had just left detention because of- and the reason for the cut on your lip.
walking in on him making out with some girl had definitely not been a surprise- but him grabbing you by the collar of your cheerleading sweatshirt definitely had been. however, honestly, after the things you had experienced the past few years? it was something you welcomed with open fucking arms.
you’d spat in face, called him a couple of names, and he’d accepted it… until you informed dear ol’ jason you were one thousand percent telling chrissy; and you’d be right next to her when she dumped his ass. he had backhanded you then, his class ring catching your lip, and you’d spat a mouthful of blood into his face… just as the gym coach walked in.
he’d given all three of you detention immediately, though you knew he hadn’t necessarily wanted to give you it. he had let you go to the nurse’s office first for a bag of ice and some disinfectant wipes, and your “detention” had been sitting quietly while jason got his ass handed to him and had to run drills up and down the gymnasium.
you grinned to yourself as you pulled into eddie munson’s driveway, parking your car next to his van, though you made no move to actually turn it off. you pressed on the horn a couple of times, giggling as you and chrissy’s favorite song in the entire world came on your car’s radio.
“i come home in the morning light-” ♪
you sang quietly along, but paused when the lights inside of the munson’s trailer flickered. you weren’t a stranger to flickering, and while you hadn’t had anymore… experiences, the sense of dread in your stomach immediately nauseated you. the lights flickered again, and you didn’t hesitate to practically launch yourself from your car- looping to the trunk, and pulling out your cheer bag. while the lights continued to flicker, you could hear eddie munson inside screaming, pleading for chrissy to wake up.
and that just would not fucking do.
you’d given too much already, you’d seen the crazy shit in hawkins more than once; and you refused to let it take one of the last things you had. it could take as much as it wanted from you.
but it would not take chrissy cunningham.
not if you had any fucking thing to say about it.
“but girls, they want to have fun-” ♪
cyndi lauper’s voice accompanied your hurried walk up eddie’s steps, a crowbar tight in your grasp of you right hand, as your cb radio was held in your left. you didn’t bother to knock, ramming your shoulder against eddie’s door- successfully causing it to open without having to turn the knob.
you’d learned that trick from max when she had moved into the trailer park and forgotten her key.
“chris-” your friend’s name died on your lips as you met the wild eyes of eddie munson first, before your eyes darted to the back of chrissy. while facing away from you would’ve been normal, her levitating several feet off the air was really fucking not. “munson, what the fuck?”
“she just started doing that!” eddie loudly hissed, and you nodded as you tossed your cb to him- before you rounded to face chrissy.
“chrissy wake the fuck up!” you hissed, trying your hardest to ignore the way the whites of her eyes fluttered in your direction. “i swear to god christina eloise cunningham i will kill you if you fucking leave me, you hear me?”
“when the working day is done-” ♪
chrissy’s eyes fluttered rapidly as the music continued to play, and you shot a glance to eddie. chrissy had stopped floating, and while you couldn’t see the blue you knew of her eyes- her head was unmistakably inclined toward you.
“keep talking to her!” eddie lowly ordered, and you nodded- immediately tossing your crowbar toward him.
“don’t let that fucking song stop, munson.”
•••
chrissy cunningham flinched away from the creature in front of her, swallowing back bile at the incessant smell of rotting food. flies buzzed near her as the creature chuckled lowly, his eyes almost slits as he extended a clawed hand.
“it’s time for your suffering to end-” the creature purred, and chrissy sobbed as it raked one of it’s clawed fingers almost gently against chrissy’s throat. “it won’t hurt-”
“CHRISTINA ELOISE CUNNINGHAM-”
you. that was your voice, accompanied by cyndi lauper. chrissy swallowed again, looking past the creature’s shoulder as a blue tinged portal seemed to open up. she could see you, in eddie munson’s living room, looking up at her with a crowbar in your hand.
you were blurry, but it was unmistakably you.
“she can’t save you, no one can.” the creature hissed, voice distorted. “she hates you, chrissy-”
chrissy clenched her eyes shut.
memories flashed before her eyes as she listened to you call her name over and over, with cyndi lauper’s ‘girls just wanna have fun’ playing in the background.
you and chrissy as little kids, promising to always be the best of friends.
you and chrissy as tweens, you with braces and her with a perm; giggling over boys in a magazine together.
you and chrissy just last year, cackling as you darted around the starcourt mall together- both with ice cream cones in your hands.
you, just a couple months ago- cradling chrissy as she leaned over a toilet in the hawkins high girl’s bathroom, the taste of bile in her mouth.
you, a couple months ago— promising that you still loved her when she talked about how pretty a girl from band was.
you, telling her that her mom was wrong. that chrissy was enough, more than enough.
you, packing food for her for after cheer practice.
you, with scars that you couldn’t fully explain.
you, with hands that shook and a shorter fuse.
you, with a crowbar in your trunk and a cb radio you never touched— but always had on you.
you. you. you. you. you.
all things in chrissy’s life were entwined with you, you her soulmate. you, a girl who never judged her, not once (except for that crush she had on tammy thompson you would never let that go).
chrissy swallowed when she felt the creature drag a claw against the gold necklace she wore; a tiny dainty chain that had your initial on it.
you wore one that matched it; with a tiny ‘c’ that hung in the hollow of your throat.
whoever, whatever this creature was- chrissy knew one thing for certain.
he, it… it was so fucking wrong about you.
chrissy opened her eyes.
•••
eddie watched as chrissy fell.
you caught her immediately, slamming onto your knees in a move eddie could only tie to cheer- and then you had the strawberry-blonde girl cradled to you.
you both haphazardly tipped to the side, and you stopped the both of you from cracking your skulls against the carpet. the lights stopped flickering, and it was silent as chrissy sobbed against you.
eddie couldn’t help but watch for a moment, before he stepped out- quickly walking to your car. he turned it off, grabbing the tape- and was quick to come back in, jamming it back into the radio that was propped near the television.
you were watching him with calculating eyes, chrissy still cradled against you. you’d tugged her ponytail out in the mere moments eddie had been out, and he watched as you ran your fingers through her hair in a practiced movement.
he didn’t even flinch when chrissy gagged up bile onto his carpet.
“chrissy… what happened?” your voice was soft, a coaxing thing really- and eddie watched as chrissy sat up off of you, coming to lean against the bottom of the couch so she could face you and eddie both.
chrissy’s hands trembled as she used the heel of her palm to wipe at her nose, head shaking slowly from side to side.
“you won’t believe me if i tell you.” chrissy’s voice was shot to hell, and eddie watched as chrissy swallowed sharply.
you shook your head, and eddie felt something roll in his chest at the look that flashed in your eyes as your mouth opened.
“try me, cunningham.”
•••
you listened as chrissy spoke of the creature, and you tried to ignore the tremble that started in your hands.
you listened as chrissy spoke of how everything around chrissy changed.
the rotting food.
photos of you and her; with you burned out.
the man, the creature, the thing.
of how all of a sudden- she’d seen and heard you.
you and cyndi lauper.
how she’d bit the thing in the hand and it dropped her, and she’d just fucking bolted.
eddie had excused himself at one point, coming back with apple slices and water, as well as shirts for both you and chrissy to change into.
you weren’t fully sure what the ‘hellfire club’ was exactly, but you’d seen the party and even eddie himself wear them on several occasions.
you both took it easily.
after eating several apple slices and huddling all together, you swallowed several times before you cleared your throat.
“if i tell you both about this… i’m violating not just signed ndas but also several pink promises.” your voice was soft, and you kept your eyes on your hands. your hands were scarred, and you tried to remember back to just three years ago when they were as smooth as could be. “but if you want to know-”
“tell us.” eddie’s voice was sharp, and chrissy made a soft noise from next to you when you flinched.
“you’ve been protecting me from this for three years… haven’t you?” chrissy asked softly, and you didn’t look at her when you nodded slowly. eddie let out a noise that sounded closer to that of a wounded animal than a human, and you kept your eyes set on the palms of your hands. “the mall?”
“yeah.” you nodded, swallowing slightly.
“before that? when you were in the hospital after the byers boy was found?” chrissy questioned, and you barely dipped your chin in a nod. “more?”
you folded in on yourself, pulling your knees up to your chest- resting your chin on your knees as you wiggled your fingers toward eddie. his hand went to the crowbar first, and you let out a wet sounding giggle as you shook your head. when he touched your cb you nodded, and once it was in your hand- you let out a soft trembling sigh.
“i’ll tell you guys everything, but i have to make a call first.” you murmured, and you leaned into chrissy when the strawberry-blonde girl threw her arm around your shoulders. you sunk into her side, and pressed a couple buttons on the radio.
“make the call then, skirts.” eddie teased, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat as he tapped his foot against your white ked sneaker.
you were fucked. the radio crackled in your hand as it was turned on, and you fiddled with finding the station- before you held the button down and spoke.
“party— this is cheerleader, over.” you spoke loudly, and you watched as eddie’s brow furrowed slightly. chrissy made a noise from her spot next to you, but you didn’t look at her as you spoke again. “party this is cheerleader-”
“babysitter and birdie, go ahead.”
“bard and ranger, go ahead.”
“journalist, go ahead.”
“zoomer, go ahead.”
you couldn’t help but laugh at the overlapping voices, and especially due to the way eddie’s brow was furrowed. chrissy was giggling against your shoulder, and you licked your lips as you held the button down- before you spoke again.
“cheerleader has a code red, over.” you, chrissy, and eddie waited in silence for a few moments, and you swallowed nervously.
after a moment of silence, the radio burst to life.
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jermer10 · 1 month
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Helloo can I have the mercs taking care of a very sick gn reader?not feeling very well so some hurt comfort could help if you can! Tyyy
TF2 mercs taking care of a very sick reader
gn reader | i hope you get well soon anon! thank you for the ask :)
drabbles under the cut :P
Scout: - most likely just as sick, if not WORSE - he already can't keep his paws off you, he'll wanna smooch your sick little face until you feel better - he will bundle you up in blankets and cuddle you whilst you watch movies <33333333 - he runs out to get you a warm drink from your local cafe, tries (keyword tries) to make you your favourite warm meal - he will burn it, doesn't matter what it is, and you are forced to try and scoff down the meal - you throw up shortly after and scout just chalks it up to you getting even more sick - it's all in vein when he wakes up a couple days later feeling worse for wear and is stuck in bed with you - medic opts to take care of you - you both decline
Soldier: - he would firstly encourage you to work it off, trips to the gym, pushing you into battle - when he realizes that the respawn machine isn't fixing you, he forces you into bed rest - you play up your resistance, he pushes you further - "YOU MUST REST THIS INSTANT, CUPCAKE!" "auuughhh noooo i think you're riiiiight" - you giggle to yourself when he leaves the room - that amusement is short lived when he soon brings back some unidentifiable, viscous, black liquid in a small ceramic bowel - he says it's supposed to be soup - you throw up then and there from the stench - cooking isn't his strong suit, so he opts to tuck you in and kiss you goodnight - you graciously sleep off the illness
Pyro: - they're surprisingly good at taking care of you whilst sick - they, first of all, provide you with actual medicine, then they make you some soup and bread - you're pampered like royalty, your every little request answered by the pyro - they watch movies with you, cuddling you from behind - opting to keep their mask on, of course, to prevent the illness from spreading to them - that doesn't stop them from lifting it up slightly to peck your head as you sleep in their arms <33333 - gives you back massages, foot massages, traces their fingertips along your flesh - like i said, you are absolutely pampered. the other mercs would be shocked to see this side of them - you recover quickly!! all thanks to pyro <3
Demoman: - opts to leave you alone so that you can actually get some rest - when you do see him, he's bringing you medicine and food, giving you a quick peck on the lips, and leaving the room - it makes you a bit upset, you haven't really spent time with him in days!! :( - you wake up sometime during the night to find him curled up next to you, arms wrapped around your frame and nuzzling into you - you figure he's already going to get sick from this, so a couple of little kisses couldn't hurt - "mmm that tickles y/n...." he mumbles tiredly, giving you a squeeze - he soon wakes up, groggy and half drunk, to the feeling of you squeezing him back and peppering kisses all over his face and neck - "i missed ye too, lovey" - in his attempt to stay away from you, he ended up smothering you anyway, such is the way of demo
Heavy: - takes every precaution - growing up in the middle of russia with harsh winters that often left his sisters sick and vulnerable, with no easy access to medicine, it's a wonder that he would even let you get sick in the first place - so if you manage to, he is doing everything in his power to help you heal - he won't even let you get up to pee by yourself, you'll need him to carry you there so that you don't use your energy - well he's joking about that....partly... - absolutely refuses to have any physical intimacy with you whilst sick, he is the beating, murderous heart of the team and can't risk an illness - he still lets you know that you're loved, of course - showering you with words of love, providing you with all the care within his means <33
Engineer: - knowing engie, he would be too caught up with work to provide extensive care for you - he provides medicine, cooks you warm food, makes you warm drinks, etc - essentially the bare minimum of taking care for your sick partner - you don't mind, you know he's busy, but you still miss his warm touch and sweet words - "eenngggiiiieeeee plllleeeeaaasseeee taake caaaaree of meee" "i'm comin' darlin', just gimme a minute..." - he is NOT, in fact, 'comin'' - at least not for another hour or so because he is stuck in whatever he's working on - you are forced to drape yourself over his desk, immediately grabbing his attention, and passing out from the exhaustion - he carries you back to bed, feigning annoyance at your antics
Medic: - he's....literally a doctor - and an experimental one at that! - medic will give you plenty of different medicine, not entiiiiirely legal medicine, or medicine that has been tested in any capacity...but still medicine! - you're likely to end up more sick after letting medic take care of you - but he makes up for it! - you're petting archimedes whilst medic's cooking you a warm meal - is this what heaven feels like? - and then he feeds you another mystery pill and you're back to shitting your guts out and oh your skin is glowing! like nuclear green glowing! - yes you died from the mystery pills - but upon respawning you're....cured? - "zhe pills may need some more workzhopping!"
Sniper: - has pretty much no idea what to do - he doesn't really get sick, and when he does he does not give a shit, he will work in health and sickness - so when you're sick, he just grabs you some painkillers and tells you that you'll be alright, to take the day off, and drink some water - when he comes back from the match and you're lying in bed, pale, sweating, and shivering, he realizes that maybe you're a bit worse for wear - he consults an actual doctor, not medic, he has more common sense than that, and manages to get some advice for looking after you in this state - whilst he adores you, he can barely take care of himself, let alone you on top of that - awkwardly tries to make you feel better through cuddling and acts of service
Spy: - another merc who prefers to leave you to essentially take care of yourself giving the bare minimum to support you - he loves you, but he doesn't want to get sick and he doesn't really have the time or capacity to take care of you in a personal, meaningful way - so he will opt to giving you meds and nice foods, will occasionally kiss your head and stroke your hair, but that's the furthest he will go in terms of providing for you in this state - he will feel bad about it, often contemplating telling the other mercs to piss off and sitting with you, missing out on work to take care of his partner - he probably gives in eventually, especially if you're acting like you don't need him, it makes him want you more - will end up smothering you slightly, helping you heal whilst pampering you with kisses in a fake begrudging way
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theghostofashton · 15 days
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wip wednesday
thank you to @welcometololaland @strandnreyes @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @sanjuwrites @lemonlyman-dotcom @alrightbuckaroo @heartstringsduet for the tags <3
it occurred to me that i am planning an olympics au and this is an olympic year (aka the perfect time to post one) so i have picked this story back up as i wrap up the you saw the truth in me sequel. here's a bit of that:
“It’s not you,” Marjan says quietly. She beckons him closer so she can whisper in his ear, then continues, “He’s not really talking to any of us. We’re not sure why.” “Oh,” TK says, unsure if that makes him feel better or not. “He looks great, at least.” He’s only been back in the gym for a few months, TK knows. The recovery was long and Carlos took some time off afterward, but no one would ever know that from how comfortable he already looks. His transitions are fluid, as if he’s moving through water as he does his skills, and his handstands are perfect. TK’s never seen anyone do them better. Marjan shrugs. “He’s practically lived here for the past couple weeks. Dude doesn’t know when to quit.” That doesn’t feel particularly strange – TK’s had his own fair share of injuries, and after his last one, a strained rotator cuff, he was itching to get back into the gym. The only thing that kept him away was the doctor’s warning that reinjury would put him out of training for much longer than a few weeks. He knew he’d have his work cut out for him once he was cleared. Marjan adjusts the strap on one of her grips and nods over to the bars. “Could you spot me?” He smiles and nods, and then lets her lead him over to the chalk bucket sitting a few feet away from the bars. She starts chalking up her grips, and TK turns, as if an invisible force is pulling his focus, back to the high bar, where Carlos is swinging once again.
no pressure tagging @bonheur-cafe @lightningboltreader @reyesstrand @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @louis-ii-reyes-strand and anyone else who wants to share!
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pinkrelish · 2 years
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𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.
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bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader
✶Back in town, and back to your old ways, Eddie asks if you want to hang out for old times' sake, and you can't resist. It feels so familiar, sharing a blanket in the back of his van. Your relationship almost seems on the mend.. until he gets a little too high and admits something he shouldn't have.✶
NSFW — hotboxing in eddie's van, porn mentioned, lots of flirting, fluff with angst, hurt/comfort, 18+ overall for eventual smut
chapter: 5/15 [wc: 6k]
↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11
AO3
Chapter 5: Sausage Pizza
He could always find you.
“Bingo,” Eddie said, spotting your car at the rec center.
Pushing open the double doors, he made a right, past the basketball court, to the end of the dawn blue hallway where the shadows led him to a stretch of orange light coming from the last room. Smacks from the spring floor echoed like thunder in the lonely building. Rhythmic beats in sync with the music playing over the speakers, drowning out the squeaks of Eddie’s Reeboks on the polished tile and the jangle of chains adorning his jacket as he crossed his arms in the doorway.
It was as if nothing had changed.
The gym was painted the same dingy shade of white and decorated in Hawkins-green-and-gold banners hung on the walls, along with plaques and trophies. In the corner adjacent to where Eddie waited, there was a simple power rack and bench mostly used by the basketball team before they bought their own on school grounds. Extra pompoms lined the wall. Otherwise, there was room for one gymnastics apparatus each, save for the two balance beams in the back. And at the center of it all, you stood on the raised blue floor, a hand on your hip. Head down. Moving your lips in what he could assume was a self-deprecating comment.
Your midnight purple leotard was covered in chalk, glittering with each heave of your shoulders on your way back to the corner near the power rack. Inhaling deep through your nose, out your mouth. Zeroing in on the opposite corner where there was a padded mat hanging off the side.
You were in your element.
The world stilled for you. Dust motes filtering in from the high ceiling windows avoided your charge. Pure power. Muscles and grace working in coordination to perform tumbling feats Eddie didn’t know could be achieved at heights which slackened his jaw.
Twist after twist; a dizzying amount, as proved by your landing. Not having enough room for the last turn, your move was cut short. Getting your feet under you by a prayer to break your fall and launching backwards, slamming onto the mat.
Coughing, you rolled and groped at your thigh, reaching, digging your nails in as you caught a breath and hissed it out.
How he didn’t notice your pain earlier spoke volumes of where his wandering attention lied. Your right knee was wrapped in layers of sports tape; a few of your fingers and your ankle, too. New and old injuries supported by temporary bandages to stave off the inevitable. Maybe he should’ve stepped in to convince you to give yourself a break, but you were already pushing yourself up and shuffling to the corner you began at.
Like a ceremony, you drew yourself to your full height. Your hands were made into fists at your side, bouncing them off your thighs as you went into your zone. And then, at once, you smacked your legs and slapped yourself across the cheek. A ritual he recognized when you needed an extra boost of adrenaline.
You attacked the sequence again.
“That’s it,” he whispered.
Impressed was an inadequate word to describe the feeling residing in his chest when you stuck the landing. Not a step or hop out of place. Feet together. Chin up and proud. A shine of accomplishment in your eyes, staring ahead at the wall painted with a mural of your former high school, replacing it with a vision of a standing ovation.
“Wow!”
His enthusiastic clapping had you clutching your heart. “Jesus Christ, Eddie!”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” he said amidst a laugh. “And hey, you’re not actually doing a routine to a song about falling in love with Lucifer, are you?”
“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, turning off the stereo and walking over to him. “Actually, better question, how did you find me this time?”
He trained his gaze on your face as you chose to stand less than a foot away, head craned to look up at him. He hadn’t even answered and your hands were on your hips. “I just know.” He paused. “Plus I saw your car on the way to school.”
You read the clock above him. “Didn’t school start an hour ago?”
“Right on time, baby.” He flashed a smile and spun his keys on his finger.
Rolling your neck side to side, you imbued your disappointment in your sigh, “You’re impossible.”
“I try.”
Things weren't what they used to be. A casual string of tension entwined itself in the knowledge he was supposed to graduate two years ago; however, thirty-nine business days made a difference. The anger ebbed. It didn’t seep into his thoughts quite so ferociously, turning them hostile for the purpose of inflicting you heartache equal to his own. The scar was there, under the surface, but the silence was no longer tainted with stages of grief. It was an acquaintance. Always existing beside him. Closure; hand in twisted hand with his addictive impulse to keep you in his company.
Not realizing he’d spaced out while talking to you, you drew a circle on the floor with your toe, glancing at him from under your lashes. “Is it weird seeing me in a leotard again?”
“Miles better than that annoying tracksuit you were wearing.” He curled his lip in light-hearted disgust. “Swish, swish, swish. I hate the sound of that fabric. Grates on my nerves.”
Kicking something just out of his view sounding an awful lot like windbreaker material, you forced out a loud giggle. “Ha-ha, yeah! Totally! So annoying.” Your laugh petered out to the tune of his raised eyebrow. “Anyway, uh, they’re demolishing the trailer today.”
“It was a little hard to miss all the equipment blocking my driveway this morning.” He nodded along to what he was saying, waiting for you to steer the conversation in an emotional direction, and when you continued to mirror his nodding, he asked, “Did you want to watch them do it?”
“Not really.”
“Are you busy later?”
“No.”
Now or never, Munson. “Wanna hang out? I can pick you up after band practice, at around 7.”
“Sure, would love to.” You narrowed your eyes. “Do you need me to tell you I’m staying at the Motel 6, or do you like, already know that because you keep tabs on my whereabouts at all times?”
His smugness was the champion of your annoyance. “Could’ve found out for yourself if you didn’t tell me,” he said, making his exit. Digging the sharp edges of his keys into his sweaty palm. Rolling his lips inward as he locked his gaze ahead, chastising his brain for doing this to himself.
~~~
Calm. You could do this. Calm, like you’re on the balance beam. No fear. No hesitation. One motion linked to another. Dressing in jean shorts and a tank top, all cotton. Not because he said something about your tracksuit, but because this was just as comfortable. Totally. Comfortable and not at all like you were trying too hard. Calm. Unlike your dumped out suitcase spread across the floor. Wearing this was your own choice. Totally calm. Definitely calm. Until his van came to a screeching halt outside your room.
Eddie greeted you as his usual self, headbanging to the end of a song before thinking to turn down the volume–not because people were glaring at him, but because he wanted to ask you a question.
“What’s in the duffle bag?”
You set it between your feet. “None of your business.” Reaching over your shoulder, you buckled your seatbelt, pulling on it to make sure it was extra tight. “And if you would be so kind as to keep in mind I’m trying to survive until Nationals, that would be lovely.”
Your sarcastic, saccharine smile was matched by his identical one. “I wouldn’t dare to drive recklessly with you in tow.”
Liar.
~~~
“Where are we even going?”
“You’ll see,” he said, grinning over the steering wheel. Not at all concerned with you cursing his ability to avoid mailboxes at this speed. “Just a few more minutes.”
Cresting hill after hill, narrowly missing a curve of trees, Eddie shifted his van into a lower gear and stomped on the clutch and break, veering into the grass. He gripped the back of your headrest to see where he was reversing. Upper body twisted. Hair everywhere. A wondrous line of anatomy from the hollow of his throat, where he cut out his shirt’s collar, to the soft underside of his jaw, flaunting his pulse. Nerves alive. Singing, sending a zing to your core when he flexed his hand. Alluring pressure just behind your neck. And what a shame it was when he took it away.
“You okay?”
You arranged your face to one of neutrality. “Y-Yeah, fine.”
Not entirely convinced, he made a doubtful “mhm,” and stood up. Having to hunch over against the roof as he wedged himself between the seats to reach the back doors, unlatching the lock and throwing them open to a sprawling field of flowers flowing like kaleidoscopic rives to the horizon of Hawkins. Your awe was evident, stumbling over yourself to take it in.
He used his foot to shovel loose wires and guitar pedals out the way. “We’ve been here before, do you remember? It was dark, after I got my license in December, so the flowers weren’t in bloom. I thought you’d like to see them and the sunset. No one really takes this road to leave Hawkins, so we don’t have to worry about being bothered.”
“Holy shit,” you gasped at the swathe of pink clouds basking the untouched meadow in an ethereal glow. “Who knew this shitty town could be beautiful.” You followed Eddie to where he had spare blankets stashed, helping him unfold one and spread it out. Going through the motions as a thought occurred to you.. One which clenched your stomach.
Tumbling the words out in the most casual manner you could summon the courage for, you asked, “Do you take all the girls up here?”
Obscured by his shaggy bangs, his eyes held a mischievous edge to them as he regarded you. “I’m not exactly the lady killer you think I am.”
“Guys, then?”
Blossoms did not unfurl for sunshine. Flora did not emerge for spring. Shy buds did not fan their petals to drink the rain.
Flowers bloomed for Eddie’s snort.
“Can’t even deny it. My van’s usually packed with equipment for our shows, I only cleaned it out for you. Gareth’s passed out back here more than any girl has.” He grabbed a lightweight throw blanket and shook it out, laying it on top of the makeshift bed he made. “But uh..” he faltered. “Why I brought you here.. What I wanted to do, that’s just–uh–that’s just a you and me thing. Kinda sacred, I guess.” He was no longer paying attention to you. “Old times’ sake.”
“Just band equipment, huh?”
At the opposite end of the van, Eddie peered at you from where he was crouched, lifting his head to get a better look at what you were giggling at in your hands.
Dragging your finger from your neck to your sternum, tugging your tank top down with it, you shifted your wry tone to a deep, sultry octave. “Home alone for the weekend, 18-year-old Missy orders a hot, and savory medium size sausage pizza.”
“Stop!” He lunged.
You spun around and used yourself as a shield to keep the VHS out of his reach, snickering at the picture of a guy’s cock flopped onto the aforementioned sausage pizza. “When Josh shows up with more than she bargains for, and she can’t remember where daddy left her allowance–”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He was draped over you. Chest to back. Arms wrapped to confine your squirming, scrambling for the porn you had locked in a hug. He was strong, but you were stronger.
“–She pays the only way she knows how!” you squeal and smack the VHS out of the sleeve, erupting into silent convulsions of laughter, water at the corner of your eyes, going limp in his embrace upon seeing the tape had spools of movie left on either side. “Oh my God, you didn’t even make it to the end.”
Prying it from your devilish grip, he flung it out the back of the van like a frisbee, landing somewhere amongst the flowers.
You clapped your hand over your mouth. “You’re not gonna return it? But you’ll have to pay full price to replace it.” Slumped into the curve of his body, you struggled to see his face, but his burning cheeks were hard to miss. As was his arm loosely hanging around your waist.
He noticed as well and ensured there was space between you. But not too much. Looming over you. Formulating a response, bouncing a single finger pointed at you, eyes narrowed, mouth open. Rising chest pressed to your forearms. You stared transfixed on it all, still suffering from the burn of his arms digging into you as if they were still there. Cold-to-the-touch leather on your naked skin. Dissipating warmth along your spine. The taut ruggedness of his jeans rubbing against yours. His grunt in your ear. His hair sweeping your clavicle.
Fuck. This one interaction could last you a lifetime.
Eddie warned you, “If you ever bring this up again.”
“Wanna know a secret?” You appealed to him with pure innocence, bringing your shoulder to your chin in a shrug. “They don’t eat the pizza in the end.”
His eyes followed you as you sidestepped him to the passenger seat. “You’ve watched..?”
“Were we having a picnic or something?” You held up your duffle bag and sat on the bed of blankets, blinking at him with doe-eyes.
Muttering choice words, Eddie found his handcuff-shaped belt buckle to be uncomfortably tight and adjusted his pants on his way to grab his metal lunchbox. He sat in front of you, a hand on the latch. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, impish grin growing when you grabbed the zipper of your duffle. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
He threw open the lid. You ripped your bag down the center, tilting it to show him.
Both of you fist pumped and yelled, “Knew it!”
“Just like old times, huh?” he teased you, pulling out copious amounts of weed, a glass pipe, lighters, and rolling papers.
You, on the other hand, set out an array of snacks–cookies, packaged cakes, chips, cheese crackers–and water bottles for the inescapable cottonmouth. “We know each other well, don’t we, Munson?”
“That we do,” he agreed softly.
He began setting up the fun for the evening, heeding your suggestion to start off with bowls first. “The NCAA doesn’t start testing for street drugs until next year. Might as well go out with a bang.” That would not be a problem, for you had a long night of celebrations ahead of you, made apparent by his smirk and unending supply spread out on a black book he used as a tray. Deft fingers working with an expert’s finesse. Grinding and rolling. Bringing the papers to his tongue to lick the adhesive, careful to not make eye contact when he did so.
Finding another goodie at the bottom of your bag, you asked him a pointed question, “Are you excited for Dio’s new album?”
Eddie’s instantaneous smile was infectious. “Just two more days.”
“And what if.. say, you got it two days early?” His eyes grew watching you pull something from behind your back. “Turns out, if you flirt with the cashier enough, he can find a copy in the back. Here, it’s yours.”
“You’re kidding me.” He snatched it and tore the cellophane off, holding the tape to his face like it was the second coming of Christ. Rushing to turn the radio on and put his gift in the tape player, he delivered his gratitude with an unassuming ache, “You know just the way to my heart.”
Painful words spoken to you in a playful inflection.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, “Guess I do.” Calm. Smothering the twinge of hurt until it no longer throbbed at the unfair accuracy of his statement. You took the packed pipe and sat at the edge of the van with a lighter. Resting your feet on the bumper, willing to do just about anything to avoid looking at him. Though, you could feel him approaching behind you, headbanging to King of Rock and Roll while you stared at his jerking off material laying atop a patch of white wildflowers.
After your second hit, you passed it to him as he sat down gratuitous inches away from touching you. Just like old times, indeed. Keeping his distance. Establishing some invisible wall to ensure you never accidentally brushed your leg alongside his like you did at the diner, or, God forbid, graze his hand in any meaningful way that couldn’t be excused as reaching for the same thing at the same time.
It was as if you never left.
“So,” he started, igniting the lighter and tilting it to the bowl, putting his lips to the pipe and pulling smoke into his mouth, filling his chest with the drug and exhaling towards the sky, “Penn State, huh?”
“Penn State,” you repeated absentmindedly.
“What’s it like?”
“It’s fine.” You shook off the remnants of his rejection wearing you down year after year. “Classes are tough. Gymnastics is okay.”
“And your knee?”
“It’s fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
Taking the pipe from him, you emptied your lungs, depriving yourself for the sake of a longer hit. Composing yourself for the rant this man was about to endure. “College fucking sucks. I love my classes and professors, but it’s like everyone can tell I’m not supposed to be there. Like I’m a charity case that got in by an athletic scholarship alone and not because I’m educated, or whatever. I just feel so fucking stupid all the time, like I’m missing something, and I can’t figure out what it is. Everyone treats me like there’s some sign over my head telling them I’m not actually smart. I mean, my grades improved after I moved, but they all use vocabulary words I’ve only ever read, and when I try to use them, they laugh at me because I didn’t pronounce them right. They joke about things that go over my head. They don’t use ‘fuck’ every other word. I never made real friends.. I couldn’t find someone who likes the same things as us.” Another toke and you were fed up with the universe. “The girls on my team are nice, but we never hang out. I don’t fit in with them. I think it’s because they can tell I’m poor. My scholarship covers a lot, but not everything. When they ask me out to the movies, I have to turn them down because I work that night. Or if they want to eat out after a meet, I’m alone in the hotel with my stupid Cup Noodles, panicking over if I can rely on what gas I have left in the tank to get back to the dorm.. Oh, that’s a positive, I guess. I live in a dorm and my roommate watches wrestling with me.”
Eddie paused with the pipe to his mouth and handed it back to you, sensing you needed it more than him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you, I just don’t really have anyone else to talk to.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about your mom anymore.”
“Too true,” you said, lifting the lighter in a cheers and handing it to him as you blew smoke the other way. “It’s not all awful, I promise. I’m just bitching. Things will get better once all her bullshit is over with, and I’m done cleaning up her messes; I have faith. Even so, my GPA is pretty good and I’m one of the best on my team, so that's something.”
“I’m not surprised after seeing you earlier.”
You squirmed under his unrelenting gaze pursuing your muscles. Enamored over your biceps, the flex of your thighs as you swung your legs, catching him stopping more than once to admire just below the patch on the back of your jeans. He hadn’t noticed he’d been caught staring, and your modesty went out the window at being the subject of his compliments. “I’m not one of the best.. I am the best.”
“That’s..” You strained to hear him. The flick of the lighter muffled the rest of the sentence.
Too shy to ask him to repeat himself, you pestered him to fill you in on his life. “What’s been up with you?” He gave you a condescending look.
“Do you really want to know about my pathetic life here in Hawkins, going through my third senior year of high school?”
“I want to know everything about you.”
Regardless if he could read the honesty in your statement or not, he answered you apathetically, voice raspy from smoke, “Not much has changed. Dad’s still in jail, obviously. Mom’s probably sucking off some guy behind a McDonalds in Ohio. I skip class when I want, sleep at my desk when I can’t. With you gone, there’s no one fun to hang out with, or pass notes to anymore, so it’s fucking boring. And I guess other than that I play gigs at the Hideout. Not a whole lot of turn out, but I think the lineup of me, Gareth, Jeff, and Lloyd has potential.” He gave you the last hit of the pipe. “You’d like us if you went to one of our shows,” he ended with a suggestive tone.
“You tryin’ to drag me back to this forsaken place?”
“Just something to think about,” he said, nonchalant. “When were you leaving?”
“Saturday morning.”
It was as if a lightbulb burst above his head.
Eddie laid back and stretched for the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Player’s Handbook, sending a cascade of joints across the blanket, leaving you to be rendered speechless by the trail of hair on his stomach leading to the top of his jeans.
“Have you ever played?”
“Huh?” Thank Satan weed dulled both your senses. “Oh, hey, I remember when you got this.” You set the book on your thigh and flipped a few pages, landing on one illustrating the different races you could choose. “Never played it, no.”
“We have a little DND club at school. No big deal, just me and the guys, and a few freshmen. Would you wanna.. tag along, y’know, if you want to and you’re not busy. I mean, you don’t have to, but we meet every Friday, and I could just swing by and pick you up after school tomorrow. All you have to do is fill out a character sheet. I have one with all the stats laid out for newcomers and a spare bag of dice around here.. Somewhere.” He began scouring his empty, yet disorganized van. “Got ‘em! And here’s the sheet, I’ll put them in your bag. If you want to play. No big deal if you don’t. No pressure.. Uhm, I’m the Dungeon Master.”
“Do I have to call you ‘sir’?”
There was no missing the subtle spark in his eyes when you voiced the title.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “But.. If you want to.. Hey, is it hot in here? I think it’s kinda hot in here.” He was a stuttering whirlwind. Stripping off his leather jacket and vest, tossing them on the floor, and gathering the joints before he stepped on them, unnerved by the way you stared at him. “S-Shall we?”
“Since when did you get tattoos?”
~~~
With the van doors shut, a soft glow from the dashboard lit the side of your face against the backdrop of early night. The B-side of Dio’s Sacred Heart played from the speakers in the front, considerably quieter now that an opaque fog hung in the air. Heat of your bodies fogging the windows. Eddie tapped your knee to rouse you to another joint he prepared. You graciously accepted it. Starting on his own, he watched your eyes fall closed again, swaying to the music; cherried end of your drug getting lost to the smooth guitar solo you bounced your head to.
“How come we never do shrooms instead of smoking pot for hours?” you asked.
“Dunno,” he answered. “Never tried them. We can next time, if you want.”
“I think you’re just trying to trick me into coming back again.”
Exhale by exhale, dense smoke filled the van, and still, he could feel your stare across from him, searching for a reason to flee. Or to stay. “Is it working?”
“Oh, yes, very tempting, Mr. Munson. And throwing DND into the mix? Oh, ho, ho, you spoil me.”
Laughing at what little he could see of you puffing on your joint like a cigar, putting on an old Englishmen’s accent, he yielded, “I get it, I get it. It’s just awful hanging out with me again. Terrible, even.” The tape clicked and the music ceased. “Over already?”
“I’ll turn on the radio,” you said, back to normal.
It could’ve been minutes or seconds later, you were both on your backs–a fresh joint in hand–sinking into the blankets as if you were made of bricks. “Or maybe putty,” one of you spoke out loud, and the other laughed. Side by side. Not touching, but almost. Letting the high wash over you both. Liberated from the past. Existing in bliss. Writhing in the giggly phase of feeling good, but not good enough. Wanting more. Needing more. Another hit. Still not enough for him to commit to rolling onto his side and capturing your euphoric smile for more than the split second required to tap the ash from his joint. Taking a longer drag than necessary before affixing his bleary eyes on the gray expanse above. Embracing the tumultuous journey of forgiveness.
“You’re not a failure,” you whispered in his dream.
“I’m not exactly an achiever.”
“I think you’re perfect,” you faded in and out, swimming in his head.
“I just wanted to be different from my old man.. I wanted to graduate. To be something. To make something of my life.”
An ethereal, everlasting ring like chimes. “You will, Eddie. I’ll make sure of it.”
His guards were evaporating. His armor was shed. Your hand rested upon his bicep and the thinness of his t-shirt unthreaded itself to bow before your split knuckles covered in scabs from your artistic endeavors worth far more in merit than his inked skin deserved. Your sweetness was on him, touching him. Eliciting his arm hair to stand on end. Thrilling the part of him that couldn’t indulge. Ways he could confess, in wholeness, that would scare you off.
“Eddie.. They’re playing our song. Isn’t that amazing?”
Wish you were here.
Wish you were here.
Click.
Play it again.
Click.
Play it again.
If he had more time, more time. More time. Time. Time. Time. If he had more time, he would’ve confessed. Then you wouldn’t have left him. Maybe, if you knew, you wouldn’t have left him.
If he had more time, if you hadn’t left, maybe he wouldn’t have been a coward.
Wish you were here.
More time. He needed more time. And you wouldn’t have left.
Thirty-nine business days was not enough to heal a broken heart.
––1981––
It took two pebbles thrown at your window for you to open it this time.
“Shh, she just went to sleep,” you said as he crawled in. Placing one foot on your bedside table and stepping down, holding his breath, listening for your mom to make any movement in the living room.
When nothing alerted her to Eddie’s presence, you set the lamp back where it was and moved your blanket, motioning for him to sit next to you on your bed.
“I thought my toes were going to have to be amputated from frostbite, you took so long to answer,” he moaned and groaned, sifting through his backpack for the book he brought, setting it on his lap with a pencil and sheet of paper.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, whatever. I told you the season finale was on tonight.” Hunched at the edge of your mattress, you engrossed yourself in your show, forgetting he was there.
Doing his own thing, he opened to a page in the Player’s Handbook and continued his sketch of a chimera. That is, until his pencil was ripped from his hand.
“Are you–kidding me?” You flopped onto your back in utter dismay at the man laying in a pool of his blood on the TV. Eddie would’ve asked if you could continue living life after the plot twist, but you were already arguing with the screen and turning the dial off. “They killed my favorite character,” you supplied as an excuse for your tantrum.
“Uh-huh.”
“I already said sorry.” You handed him his pencil and paper.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Shush.”
Picking up the comforter, you first snuggled yourself inside its cocoon, then he experienced the warmth of it draped over his shoulders. The weight of your arm around his neck. Patting him. Shifting closer, closer. Becoming one in the dip of your mattress. Body against body. Dressed in a thick sweatshirt that belonged to his father, and yet, he could feel you intimately. Cheek on his shoulder. Hand on his hand. Skin to skin contact.
It had been two years since he touched you. Two years since he showed you any sign of affection.
He wondered if you could hear it–what he was always hiding. Whispers of truth transpiring in your fingers turning his palm upwards, examining the burn mark he earned from neglecting a pot holder when making dinner. More than friends. More than friends. These treacherous misgivings. You were supposed to be friends. Best friends. And he wanted more. Needed more. But he couldn’t. What if you rejected him?
What if he confessed and you rejected him, souring your friendship?
He couldn’t risk it. You were everything.
He couldn’t risk touching you. Snatching his hand away. Recoiling from how near your lips were to kissing his. It must’ve been an accident. An act of subconsciousness. He got too close. Too close to ruining what he cherished above all else.
For now, he’d keep his epiphany in his lungs, never to escape his throat, nor his betraying tongue. He’d keep his confession locked away. Maybe, in time, he’d mature and learn to make the first move. Or perhaps you would do it for him; then, there would be no guessing. No risk of failure.
––1985––
Thirty-nine business days was not enough to heal a broken heart.
Dozed off, or in a daze, you opened your eyes to the sting of smoke. A nub of a joint nestled between two fingers. Groggy from whichever state you had succumbed to, you surveyed your surroundings, and blinked at the strange sound coming from next to you.
An opaque screen separated you. Extending your arm, fingers outstretched, you found your companion, and your stomach sank.
Eddie shook with another sob. Hand covering his face. Shoulders curled in, gulping in air as soon as it was choked out.
You were suddenly very, viscerally, sober.
“Oh shit,” you exhaled. Clumsily getting to your feet, you opened the back doors to let smoke out, and oxygen in. Radio off. Peace. Quiet. A breeze to cool the sweat on your neck. Sifting through the swirling images in your mind palace to focus on the one in front of you.
You knelt beside Eddie, encroached into his personal space, the length of your folded legs against his arm. “Did you get too high?” You doted on him. Rubbing your hand in circles on his chest–a gentle pressure–encouraging his hand from his face so you could assess the damage.
Tears pooled at the outer corner of his eyes, flowing into his hair as he looked up at you. You caught them on your thumb and index, devoted to alleviating his distress. His bottom lip trembled. There were too many emotions passing in his gaze. Confusion, panic, the ugly sheen of bitterness.
“It’ll be okay,” you assured him. “It’ll pass.”
Stroke of your thumb. Circling your hand on his chest.
“There’s water right behind you,” you whispered. “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”
Eddie clenched his teeth. In the span of a suppressed breath, his expression changed to pure resentment. Loathing. He spoke, and it echoed. It infiltrated your mind’s home. Haunted you from the walls. Chased you as you ran.
“I still hate you for leaving me.”
“Oh..”
The years of rejection piled. Another burden on your shoulders. A swipe of your palm from pec to pec, bunching the graphic on his shirt, shifting the guitar pick necklace stuck to his throat. An agonizing gesture. Tender touches. Running your fingers through his hair. Thumb tracing the edges of his face; cheekbone to temple. Soothing him. Feeling his shudder beneath your hand. Becoming the reason he closed his eyes and underwent another sob.
I still hate you for leaving me.
Pec to pec. Best–friend. Best–friend. Over his heart. Best. Friend. All you could ever be. Afflicted by each word he threw at you with perfect clarity.
You knew Eddie. And you knew he wasn’t as high as he appeared to be. He was far too coherent compared to other times when he couldn’t string a single sentence past the first word. This wasn’t him babbling nonsense. This was intentional. Intentional and therapeutic for him to slide into a place where he was vulnerable. And you would take care of him in this place where he could utter the truth. Your friend. Suffering at the hand of unaligned fate; experiencing the lurch in your muscles–bones–sinew to feel him again after all this time. His smile, his admiration, his skin on yours. Incomplete without his affection, but you stole it. For just this moment. To cope.
“You can hate me. You can be mad at me. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” I can take it, Eddie. Years and years of watching him develop crushes on other girls while you sat beside him in complete loyalty. Waiting for your turn. And it never came. But that was okay. I’ll be strong for you, Eddie. You were attuned to the misery you hid beneath a mask. You’d be there for him again, even when you caused his pain, and you’d make it better. “Sit up and have some water. I’m still here.”
Guiding him up, you allowed yourself a passing second of extra shamelessness in the spare moonlight. Combing his hair back from sticking to his wet cheeks. Grasping him below the elbow, where his flight of bats soared. Squeezing your hands up and down his biceps. Telling him everything would be okay scant centimeters from his lips. Foreheads almost pressed together. Enveloping him in a shroud of dear kindness without the relief of hugging him.
“When you’re ready, we can move you to the front. I’ll drive you home.”
Willing his eyelids open, he mumbled, “Back to the motel.. I can drive by then.”
~~~
“Are you sure?” you asked, parking outside your room. A somber end to what started as a fun evening, now scarred with his heavy sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll make it home.”
You stepped out into the middle of the night. A void feasting on the noises you dared to make, shivering at the goosebumps crawling up your legs in the stark loneliness, shuffling the treads of your shoes across the cracked concrete where weeds grew, grabbing your bag and ignoring how sad he seemed in your periphery. “See you tomorrow.” He didn’t say it back.
You closed the motel door behind you. Calm. Waiting. Hearing him switch seats and shift the van into drive. Listening for the rumble of the engine to fade up the street, and then you collapsed face-first onto the bed, drained.
“Why is my life so shit?”
Taglist: @xxhospital-for-soulsxx @myfavoritesareproblematic @henhouse-horrors @tlclick73 @sidthedollface2 @i-will-duckyou-up @qnsfwthoughts @captainonaboat @eddiemuns0nl0ver @godcreatoreli @harrys-tittie @eg-dr3amer3 @trixyvix88 @venomsvl @lacrymosa-24 @sashaphantomhive @sharp-and-swift 
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jendevgi · 6 months
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okay so random question, but is there anyone else that really enjoys those gym chalk crushing videos? i'm not sure why, but i have. i say the fluffier the better. also the soap asmr videos where someone has like a box cutter and they just start cutting the soap. i'm not sure why, but it strangely just relaxes me. there's nothing that feels better after a long day than just laying in bed and just scrolling through tiktok to watch those. please say it's not just me. anyways, i'm jennie and you could either know me from being in blackpink or from my role as dyanne in the idol. me and the girls recently finished our world tour and now i need new hobbies. @hfrpstarters
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Super Psycho Love Part 1
In which the star of the football team can't understand why you're so mean to him.
Yandere! Jock x Nerd! Reader
Part 2, Part 3
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Content Warning: Manipulation, Sexual Themes
His dad had always recognized something off with his son but like most fathers had chalked it up to being a boy. When he was in elementary school his mom would discuss his behavior in quiet, hushed tones while hunched over her baby blue '#1 Mommy' mug – the way he was frequently written up in school for roughhousing and how her fellow mommy friends were hesitant to arrange playdates between the kids. He dismissed it as parents coddling their spineless, sheltered children and pushed her to drop it. It was easy for him. His dad thought all of the world's problems could be fixed with a little less bitchin' and a lot more backbreaking work. It wasn't until eighth grade when he had broken Eric Hartwin's nose in a fist fight and his lawyer parents were threatening to press charges that his dad decided that outlet was going to be good old-fashioned American football.
He loved it, even if he initially resisted and threw week-long tantrums over it. It was his hall pass to jostle and 'play rough' with the other boys without getting yelled at and it teased out an almost childlike glee. His handsome features were perpetually twisted with cruel elation under his thick football helmet. He carried out his job as an offensive lineman with pride. There was never a moment where his smile faltered, even if he walked off the astroturf covered in blood. It didn't matter if it was his; he reveled in the brief warmth on his skin. For the first time in his life, the kids at his school had an equal amount of respect for him as they had wariness. They wanted to crowd around him like moths and be invited to the afterparties, but they also didn't want to be beaten to a pulp by one of the strongest kids on campus. They thought of him like the old testament god – equal parts revered and feared. The football team could invite an underclassman to a party and launch them into popularity just as easily as they could bully one into doing their school assignments. They dominated the school as they saw fit.
With his power came almost unlimited pussy. He admitted that after losing his virginity in sophomore year sex quickly lost its taboo appeal; you see the power itself was the real aphrodisiac. Girls from freshman to senior year (and occasionally college) threw themselves at him. They were willing to do whatever he wanted as long as he gave them occasional attention. Of course, the cheerleaders were the only ones they would be seen with around campus, but that didn't stop any of them from hooking up with other girls at parties. A peppy, too-thin flyer would wear his number at games but at in the strobe-lights of parties he would take girls to bed knowing nothing more than they were there and he was there too and really bored. He probably would have continued living that lifestyle well past the point his hairline receded into the back of his neck had he not met you.
His kinda-girlfriend, Bella, reveled in her status and made sure everyone knew she considered everyone to be less than the grass stains on her uniform. They were cutting Physics (as they frequently did) and she was complaining about this prude in gym who refused to change with the other girls. She had mentioned a name, but he didn't have a face to pair it with. So he nodded along giving little affirmative noises here and there to give the impression he cared.
"She is probably the ugliest girl I've ever met. The only chance she'd have of landing a date was if she put a bag over her head." She huffed, shuffling through papers in her locker. "I swear, half of the girls at this school have never even heard of a diet. Her butt is so big. I don't know how some guys find it attractive. It's so gross. Imagine all the cellulite underneath those gym shorts." Bella turned to him and mockingly shoved a finger down her throat and fake gagged.
He shrugged. A fat ass actually sounded pretty hot, but he knew her standards for big were much lower than any normal person. She thought that anything above 105 was morbid obesity territory. Suddenly Bella shushed him and adjusted her high ponytail.
"Oh, don't say anything. Here she comes," She rolled her eyes, "dressed like goddamn Carrie White. What is she, amish?"
You wore your hair neatly braided around the crown of your head and a tartan collared dress, courtesy of weekends spent at thrift stores and estate sales. There was a steely, fiery look on your face that caught him off guard. If he didn't know any better he thought he could feel heat radiating from you. Your lip curled in a slight scowl. He thought is was kind of funny that someone so harmless looking could be so visibly livid. It sparked something deep in him, something he hadn't ever felt: genuine interest to know the 'why' of a woman. He gave you a once over before making eye contact; if anything your expression got more hostile. Your eyes narrowed further and you scrunched your nose before you opened the locker next to Bella's.
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
An avalanche of the belongings of your locker spilled into the halls; several textbooks, a few bent and frequently dogeared paperbacks, as well as binders, homework and quizzes with A's marked in big red ink piled at your feet. You groaned. It was a free period and you had nowhere to be, so it wasn't a big deal. But the thought of kneeling before Isabella Marsh and scrambling to pick up your things was awfully humiliating. It was your fault though, you had a tendency to throw things haphazardly into it between periods without paying much attention.
"Well, are you going to pick it up?" Bella looked at you expectantly and you chewed the inside of your lip. She crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her fingers on her upper arm. You had looked into transferring out of your shared gym class, but all the other ones were filled and you needed it to graduate. It was one of your worst nightmares to be in the gym with half of the cheerleading team. Despite having never won a single competition since the school's founding, they all had raging superiority complexes over the rest of the female student body. You chalked it up to their proximity to the football team and their status as two-time state winners.
He watched the two of you glower for what seemed like minutes before you slowly squat down, carefully staying on your oxford-clad feet instead of getting on your knees. He thought it was a shame because you'd definitely be cute looking up at him. Taking you in, he imagined that it was impossible for you to have even seen a dick in person. You looked so straight-edge and pure based on your grandmotherly style and A papers. He had never seen girls on campus dress like that, probably not even girls from the last decade.
"Here, I'll help." He announced, startling himself by his generosity.
You shuddered slightly and continued to sloppily bunch papers close to your chest. "I'm okay. Thank you though."
He had never met a girl who rejected his attention outright, much less show such blatant distaste.
"Are you sure?" He knelt down to look you in your face. You had a grimace on your face that didn't quite suit your wide, doe eyes. There was almost a feral dog look to you. It didn't intimidate him in the slightest but his cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. He could still tell that you were cute despite such an ugly expression. Your lips were tinted a rosy red, like you had been picking at the skin. He lamely picked up a copy of 'The Bell Jar' and dumbly pretended to read the back.
"Yes. I'm sure." He didn't need to look at you to feel the intensity of your Kubrick stare on him. It wasn't the 'I want to fuck you' daydream-gaze from starry-eyed women that he was accustomed to, but the 'I want you dead' glare that nobody (especially a girl) would dare give him even as a joke. He limply held his hand out, offering you the book. You took it curtly, your fingers scraping by his. He stumbled as he stood up, trying not to feel awkward.
You hadn't noticed the effect you had on him. Maybe if you did, you would have been more careful after. Before he could say anything, you had stormed off again, clutching the book so tight your knuckles were white.
"God, what a stuck up bitch." Bella commented under her breath.
"I wonder what her problem is." He mumbled. What he really meant though was that he was going to figure out what your problem was.
He had a reputation; he was a bad person who went through teenage girls like tissues to jack off into. He was the antithesis of anyone you'd ever respect, much less date.
You had seen some of the girls. Not that you had many friends to gossip with, but it wasn't uncommon to see a girl or two crying in the bathroom before first period after the weekend of a big game because he never texted them after. It was the first week of autumn the first time you heard about him and it wasn't like you were eavesdropping or being weird about it. You always arrived early to put on makeup in the bathroom, since your parents didn't allow it at home. So you'd stand perched on your tippytoes with a mascara wand in one hand while listening to a small group of girls comfort their distressed friend. She'd weep on their shoulders, barely able to stand because of her burning humiliation. You'd multitask: watching through the mirror out the corner of your eye while applying a thin, barely-there swipe of taupe eyeshadow with your fingertip.
"Shhh," A brunette with braces stroked a redhead's back softly, "It's going to be okay sweetheart. We all make mistakes."
A lanky girl with a small patch of acne on her cheek sighed, "Not to be that person, but we told you that he's not a good guy."
Sometimes you wished you had friends like that. They seemed so supportive and kind and in a way it made you feel like a friend by association. It became somewhat of a routine during football season; you'd take your contraband cosmetics into the bathroom and listen to yet another heartbroken girl recount their time at a party thrown by the football team. It didn't take long before you grew to hate them all, even if you've never interacted with any members of the team. It didn't help that they sucked school funding dry so there was nothing left for the debate and chess team...
When you hurried off, you didn't know that he took it as an invite to chase after you.
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worldsover · 2 years
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The Wrong Person ft. Heejin
Co-written with @kaedewrites
words ✦ 11231
genres ✧ cheating; road head; Daddy kink; doggystyle into pronebone; breeding (of course); shower facefuck; just a stranger!Heejin
Thanks to @v1ntrix and @ggidolsmuts for the feedback as usual!
✦✧✦✧✦✧
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Wipe the glass. It’s already clean. Wipe it again. It’s still clean. You’re staring at the woman walking toward you. You’d say your gaze is intense, but her allure is more so. You’d say she’s walking toward the bar to which you’re tending, but her eyes connect with yours for a split second—the target is you. You’d say something.
But you can’t.
She looks away. Again, you can’t.
Why can’t your eyes find the strength? Is she really that fascinating? Chalk up your small fixation to the phenomenon of the recurring stranger. Everyone has one or two or a few in their life. It’s more than déjà vu. Mutual. Coincidental. Should be inconsequential. You’ve seen her over and over, enough that stranger becomes a misnomer in a manner. Somewhere. Somewhere. Even if your glance is innocent, guilt sets in—after all, the woman isn’t your girlfriend Hyunjin. The woman is the wrong person.
“Hey.” Her greeting cuts through the bassy music well enough, even if her voice has similarly low frequencies that should clash. She sits on the stool in front of you. 
Though the headcount is lower than usual, the clubbers on the dance floor are as soulless as usual and the DJ plays the music just as loud. You should invest in earplugs. You see all kinds as a bartender at a club. Everything from women in stuffy suit jackets to guys who definitely should have been kicked out for not wearing a shirt. But something about her casual outfit—the loose plaid blouse, the tube top, the denim shorts—throws you off more than most.
Still staring. It’s dark, yet your eyes keep snagging on the defined lines of her abs. Even when you peel away from her middle, you’re raising to the subtlest cleavage, then lowering to her equally toned, meaty thighs. Earplugs won’t help here. Do your job.
She waves, giggling to herself. “Hello? I’m Heejin.”
“Oh. You’re not ordering?” You set the glass aside. “Oh. You’re… uh.”
“Heejin, yes. And I am ordering. I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri.”
“Of course.” As you rummage for the rum, you say, “I was going to say, I know you from somewhere.”
“Ooh, really? Where do you think?” Cutely, Heejin holds her head in her hands and tilts her head.
You retrieve strawberries and citrus soda from the fridge, then mix them with ice in a blender; its whirring is annoying. After grabbing some scrap paper and a pen, you write down the word “earplugs” with a big underline.
“So I should know,” you say. “Dammit.”
“Yeah, you should.” Heejin harrumphs, her arms crossed.
The more she throws you off, the more you have trouble finding the words. However you knew Heejin, it seems to be trouble, or at least some sort of alarm is going off in the back of your head. You should finish making her drink, deal with a couple more customers, so you can finally go home to—oh, right, Hyunjin. She’s away, back at her hometown for the week. You wouldn’t consider yourself a clingy boyfriend, but the expectation of coming home to Hyunjin has just been so entrenched in your mind ever since she moved in with you. 
“Hey.” Heejin waves in front of your face. “Are you okay?”
“Huh?” You realize you’ve just been frozen in thought, rum bottle in hand.
“Seems like you have something going on.” Her voice lulls you into a false sense of security. Or maybe it is genuine and you’re thinking far too much about a small interaction. You thought you had these nuances ironed out having worked at this bar for long enough.
“No, no. It’s just that work is almost done and my girl—Ah! Right, I remember! You go to the same gym class as Hyunjin!”
Heejin has a weak smile on her face. “That’s all? She doesn’t talk about me? Well, for your information, we hang out too.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You’re her friend. Sorry, just slipped my mind.”
“Tsk. Meanie.”
You can’t follow Heejin. One moment, she acts cool, then the next, she plays like she’s as cute as a button. Again, a weird, subconscious alarm goes off. It’s her body language, how she’s leaning over and inching closer to you. 
“Can you help me out? You seem like you’re good with girls,” Heejin says with an undecipherable low tone. Her stare is not directed at you but inside of you. Your initial reaction is to draw the line right in the middle of this countertop—you’re too slow, so she continues, “Your girlfriend won’t stop talking about how good you are to her. S-so I just thought maybe you could give me a hand.”
Think about it deeper. What’s wrong with talking to Heejin? She’s just a friend of a friend, maybe a tad tipsy, maybe a bit bizarre. You’re doing your unwritten job description as a bartender by entertaining the woes of your customer.
“Uhh. Um, like… No, I’m not. Not good with girls. Really.” You’re coming out of the gates swinging with your sage wisdom. Good job. Pour out the strawberry daiquiri and garnish it with a lime. Why are you stumbling? This is the easiest drink to make. “I just got lucky.”
Heejin takes the glass, brushing your fingers. That was purposeful. But you notice more the lightest scrape of her long nails against the back of your digits, and that shouldn’t raise the hairs on your arms to their ends.
It does.
“Oh. Lucky?” Heejin takes a sip. 
Though a bar counter separates the two of you, her charismatic pull removes any perception of space. People on the dance floor are grinding into each other, and it feels like there’s more distance. Okay, so Heejin is flirting. Now that you recognize the dangerous situation, you can disengage, back up, not get sucked into her gravity. All you have to do is—
Heejin takes your frozen hand. Once again, her touch is soft, near imperceptible: her thumb just rubs a small circle on your palm. The heat from her hand turns you into ice.
“Do you want to get luckier?” she whispers.
You hear it. Loud and clear. The club’s blaring music can’t challenge a single decibel.
Heejin backs away, sensing your discomfort. She sits straight, and with the pout on her lips, it’s like she’s a whole different person again. “See, I’ve been having trouble with guys.”
You shake your head. “I-I can’t help you.”
“Sure you can. You’re a bartender.”
Just leave. Lose out on the tip. Who cares? Hyunjin finds out you were cold to one of her friends. Better yet, tell her the truth. Say you were a good boyfriend and rejected Heejin’s advances. You don’t want to ruin one of Hyunjin’s friendships, though. Or maybe you should ruin this friendship—Heejin is bad news.
However, your feet are planted. More than anything else, when a customer asks for advice, you help them out. You’ve dealt with much worse such as rowdier and more violent drunks before. Heejin could be messing with you; she seems the playful type. She could just be touchy. Your life is filled with misunderstandings leading to problems—for example, you could’ve asked out Hyunjin months earlier but didn’t because you heard she wasn’t ready to commit (turns out that was about work)—so it’s best to assume people’s sincerity.
Heejin raises her brows, her eyes wide in anticipation. Seems that she really needs the help.
You relax your shoulders. “Okay. Fine. What sort of boy problems are you having?”
“Geez, you really like to stiffen up when you stare at me.” Heejin laughs to herself, maybe more of a soft exhalation out her nose.
“Uh.”
“It just seems like every guy I meet wants to fuck me. It doesn’t even matter what I wear. But I guess I can’t blame guys for staring at my abs or my thighs”—Heejin grins when she catches you doing just that—”when I try to wear something casual like this.”
“I’m sorry, I’m—”
Heejin plows on through with her point; you can’t seem to get a word in edgewise. “I want someone committed, you know? Someone with real experience in a relationship. It’s so fucking sexy when a guy is just so devoted to a girl.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what? You’re all jittery even though we’re just talking.” Once more, you didn’t notice until she pointed it out, which is more of an indictment of your overwhelmed thoughts considering how carefully Heejin is speaking. She sighs plaintively. “But I heard Hyunjin was going to miss this week’s gym class. Why didn’t you go?”
You don’t have to tell her. You tell her. “She… she said she wanted some alone time.”
“Alone time? Ha!” This is Heejin’s biggest smile, a blinding light in the dark club. Her fingers rap against the countertop. “I’m lying about the commitment part to be honest. But… maybe I’m not the only one lying about commitment.”
You want to hyperventilate. The sheer thought of Hyunjin hours away with another man makes you want to throw up.
Heejin has the most pitying look on her face. “Aww. It’s okay. See, I can at least be honest about myself. I said I lied, right? I did. I don’t want a committed guy. Well, I do, but not just any guy. I want the kind of guy who would give me presents every day. The kind of guy who would show off his relationship on Insta even if she doesn’t really like to post couple pictures.”
Any sort of survival instinct you had has been burned off by possibility, by innuendo, by thoughts of adultery that should be so far from a man standing and a woman sitting across from him, but you can’t ignore the truth of the present tension.
Heejin downs her pink icy drink. “The kind of guy who gets nervous at the mere thought of other girls is so hot. I’d let him do so much to me. I would suck his dick whenever we drive home from dates. I’d let him fuck my face, then pound me until I become part of the bed. I’d warm his cock while we cuddle. All that just because he’s such a nice guy. Isn’t that funny?”
You lick your lips. Everything you do is a mistake. It’s not that funny—you can’t even retort out loud anymore.
“Do you know any guys like that?”
At your silence, your stillness, Heejin stands up. Bending over the bar, she grabs you by the collar of your dress shirt. There’s so much strength in her grip—not even physical, but her mental hold on you. This whole time, you’ve been looking away from her eyes, and that only leads down her legs. Of course, Hyunjin’s thighs are just as rippling. So why are you comparing now? Is the grass greener? Keep asking questions. That’s what makes you you. That fundamental shakiness in your core that you forgot about stops you from stopping Heejin—your heart joins the stopping train as her eager mouth presses into yours, catching a bit of drool. Violets are a symbol of love and honesty; Heejin smells like them. Do Venus flytraps smell like this too?
“Mmm,” Heejin moans into your mouth. A simple kiss feels far too good. It feels far too good to taste the drink you made her. As if you made your own sugar-tinged death.
Stop her. 
Push her off of you. 
Do it. You have to. 
You have to not fall into the soft, slick embrace of her lips now mixed with the slithering temptation of her tongue. 
You can’t.
Hypocrite. What are you thinking?
Heejin wraps her arms around your neck.
Other bargoers are cheering. Luckily, this isn’t the kind of place to have regulars since new people rotate in and out all the time, but you’re hoping that none of your coworkers are watching too. You never shut up about Hyunjin. 
Your priorities are wrong.
“Do my lips taste good, Oppa?” Heejin says in the cutesiest voice.
“Yeah.” The honesty slips past a ragged breath. Heejin’s lips are like candy and they’re luscious and they will be your perilous new addiction because you’re falling right back into her mouth without a second thought.
When Heejin lets go, a flimsy saliva thread drips. “She doesn’t let you cum inside her, does she?”
You nod dumbly.
Heejin brushes through your hair one last time, then gives a small tug on the strands before she releases. “Let’s go then. I can do at least one thing she can’t.”
When you leave your spot to get your keys from the staff storage, the same bargoers that cheered you on are now booing.
As you collect your personal effects in a rush, your coworker Jaehyo joins you in the small room. You wave weakly at him. “Perfect. Man the bar for me.”
“Oh, thank god. I thought you weren’t ditching early this week. Honestly, you should just give me your job at this point since you’re always—Hey! Why are you sprinting so…”
Heejin is taking selfies in the parking lot. As you point out your black sedan, she gives you a pretty smile.
Your head is spinning when you get in your car. You’re the one who’s been serving drinks tonight, yet it feels like you shouldn’t be driving. Your body is moving on autopilot, commanded by Heejin’s every word.
“Drive.”
Drive.
Seatbelts click. Engines roar. You thought you were done with loud music, but you turn your stereo up to drown your thoughts which have been led so astray today that you’d rather they just sink to the ocean floor; their weak bones can rot in the water, fine. The song’s lyrics might as well be gibberish in your ears. Your overwhelming car speakers might as well be a piddly Bluetooth toy. You put the whole weight of your being into driving. 
At these speeds, you shouldn’t look at your phone screen, but the notification in the corner of your eye draws your attention—Jaehyo. 
“Hey,” Heejin says, twisting the volume knob, “he says there’s a bunch of tabs that haven’t been closed and he doesn't know who bought which drinks.”
“Text him back for me.”
“Of course.” She grabs the phone from the mount. “Uh, PIN?”
“Eleven fifteen.”
Heejin scoffs. “I could’ve guessed that.”
“Tell him I’ll pay for all the drinks.”
“Wooow, Mister Big Shot over here.” Heejin types away. “Alright. Sent. Wait a minute, does that include mine?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. You still have to pay me back.” You realize how flirty this comes across when you shouldn’t be flirting with the idea of flirting.
“Wow. You’re a liar. You look so conflicted and anxious like you're fighting demons. Yet here you are, saying pickup lines like a porn star. I know how you can pay this rent,” Heejin says in a purposefully low and exaggerated voice. Her similarly deep giggle disarms you by making you laugh. Then you’re quieted by Heejin once more. “What do you really want? I think I know. You want me to fuck my face on your cock in this car, bring my lips to the bottom of your dick, hit the back of my throat with a sticky load.”
You manage to temper your erection during Heejin’s advances, though that’s not so easy when her lips are next to your ear, whispering breathy, sweltering nothings.
She fondles your crotch over your pants, and you’re doing everything to hold back—everything short of turning the car around, dropping Heejin off in the middle of the road. You should do that. You should really do that. 
Your foot is made of lead.
Heejin unzips your pants, fishes your soft dick out. Her eyes widen.
“It’s that long? Even when it’s not hard? I am mad at Hyunjin. You know that? Wasting such a beautiful cock.” The bassier notes in her voice tingle from your ear straight to the inside of your brain.
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Oh, okay. I have one way of keeping quiet.” Heejin takes off her seatbelt—you’re in no place to teach her safety. She leans over the center console and places her striking visage a hair’s breadth from your flaccid shaft. The light grip of hands weighs on your thighs like anchors, digging, tickling. You want to laugh.
Heejin has an unwavering resolve to keep her eye contact despite having to twist her neck to look at you. She runs her spit-wet mouth up and down along the underside of your shaft, puckering and kissing. Still twisted sideways to face you, a hand gripping the base, Heejin pops your cockhead in and out of her lips; each pop leads to a small bead of pre-cum happily slurped up by Heejin.
“Do you like it when I play with your cock like this? Or should it be my throat milking your cock instead? Mwah. This is for… proper payment.” 
“You don’t have to keep talking.”
“Good point. I should just be your oral fuck hole, right?”
“That’s not what I—”
Heejin swallows your length in two motions: halfway down, your dick hits the back of her mouth, causing a gag and pause and a glob of saliva to spill, and then she breaks a barrier, your erection gliding in so easily.
Soon, you’re freed from the beautiful confines of her throat, though your sensitive tip is still nurtured by her lips. 
“Ghah, I thingh…” Heejin mumbles, “klh, you meant like thih. See? Gooh, blph, good fuck toy. Nhm.”
Heejin puts her hands behind her back. Now the only thing keeping her lips from kissing your crotch is your cock, and why would she let that get in her way? With much less control, subject to the whims of the car’s shakiness, she has to choke herself down your length. When Heejin goes up, thick spit strands fall from her giggly mouth. 
Control is slipping away from you too; in particular, it is wrested away by the choking grip of Heejin’s throat around the tip of your dick. A dangerous game, considering you’re in the driver’s seat. Truthfully, it’s a miracle you even made it this far without crashing, and luckily, you’re not too far from your destination—you’re not that far from home either. Four-lane wide roads become narrow streets leading to your neighborhood. There is no real race happening since Heejin can’t even see much past the tears in her eyes as she bounces her gorgeous face up and down, ruining her gentle makeup. However, it certainly resembles a race. The ending is obvious. The LED of the dashboard, streetlamps, headlights far behind and ahead of you. All pales next to the blissful light of…
To the blissful light of…
To the bliss…
An audible smooch as Heejin releases. “Now, now, not yet, Oppa. Didn’t I promise you something earlier?”
“You, you, f-fucking—”
“Well, we’re at your place now, silly. No matter how much I wanna taste this cum, I’m not gonna do it here in this parking lot.”
Oh, but you’re okay with your head bobbing up and down for other drivers to see? That’s what you would say. Instead, you’re silent. How is your car in your driveway in one piece? You certainly aren’t.
Heejin wipes her mouth with her forearm. “You almost hit a light pole! You’re lucky I was holding the wheel.”
You don’t even look at Heejin as you get out of the car. At the club, you couldn’t take your eyes off of her. This infinite doubt is your downfall. You worked so hard to fix this worst trait of yours.
That was with a different woman.
Years of memories in this house. The front yard where Heejin’s lips flatten against yours is the same place you and Hyunjin had picnics, fed birds, planted new flowers—these get trampled as the two of you clumsily inch toward the entrance. Whenever you came home with Hyunjin, you had this dumb little game where you took turns knocking on this very front door even though no one answered. Every knock-knock joke that followed was even dumber, but you savored every second with your beautiful girlfriend. 
That’s not knocking; that’s the sound of Heejin being pushed again and again against the front door in your impassioned kiss. You fumble for keys somewhere under your phone inside your pocket; it shouldn’t be this hard to fish them out; it shouldn’t be this hard to figure out access to your own home—your dick shouldn’t be this hard pressing into Heejin. Hope the neighbors aren’t watching.
After too long, the door is slammed open. You savor Heejin’s tongue like you’re starving as she stumbles backward. The lingering scent of bread defining your domicile barely hits your nose. You throw your keys to the coffee table. A cat-eared mug you bought for Hyunjin as a random gift, a photobook she made for your birthday. You remember the rare makeout session on the couch instead of the bed (half the passion), you remember movie nights with Hyunjin in your living room when you fished out spilled popcorn from between the sofa cushions (found some coins too), and you remember... 
Nothing.
The lovely moments with Hyunjin are swept by. They’re not solid islands; they’re crude rafts—the ocean’s cruelty prevails. You’re pulled along toward your bedroom by Heejin, and everything passes. 
Heejin jumps on you, legs clinging to you while her fingers ruffle your hair. Her lips have yet to release for a breath. Your back slams against the hallway wall as Heejin is grinding against your clothed cock so desperately that you can feel the warmth through her own pants.
Your sigh is sharp, and your heart races when Heejin finally hops off of you and onto your bed. Though the light of the lamp you turn on is dim, you take in the sight of Heejin splayed on your bed. She’s sloppy. Her hair’s a mess; no doubt yours is too. A shiny trail of spit from the fiery lip lock starts at her lips, falls past her chin, ends between her cleavage. The warm light shines too on a thin layer of sweat on her pearly skin.
There’s no way to defend anything that’s happened since your lips touched Heejin’s lips, probably even earlier than that. But some irrational part of you makes you take out your wallet and pull out the condom you never use. (Hyunjin never wants to have sex anywhere other than this very bed, plus a whole candle-lit ritual just to get going.) You feel silly. As if this protection were the last bastion from infidelity. Ridiculous.
Absurdity has yet to stop you. While Heejin is distracted taking off her clothes, you sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. You strip down too, though you’re trying your best to discreetly put the thin condom on with your best sleight of hand. 
Once your deception is complete, you pull Heejin, sitting her up next to you. 
Heejin tilts her head. “You don’t want to watch me strip?” 
Your vocal response is empty. Instead, your lips smack against Heejin’s neck and shoulders as your hands run around her bare body. It’s quite the intimate lesson on her curves, but you can’t believe it anyway. You recall Hyunjin’s complaints about the intensity of Heejin’s routines in the gym. They’re paying off right now in this bedroom.
Shuddering, Heejin flips her legs over yours, straddling your lap. She rocks into your thigh, and the slickness from her labia rubs off on it. Your digits dig into the ample meat of her ass.
Now that you can appreciate Heejin’s perky tits to their fullest, your sequence of kisses continues lower down her chest. Her boobs are just enough for your hands to play with while your lips suck on her tautening nipples. That floral scent is muskier, something more primal in your mind. You let your teeth graze on her sensitive tips, drawing out tiny whines before you head back to her mouth again.
“Mh.” Heejin releases first. “You’re a good kisser. I shouldn’t be surprised.” 
Her smile weakens your heart. The question of whether it will beat again is silly given its unmatchable rhythm right now, but you can’t help but wonder the rhetorical anyway.
“Finally. After all this time. I’ve been waiting so long and—” Heejin looks down and scowls. “Are you fucking—no, I didn’t come all this way here to feel some rubber. I’d just use my dildo and think about you like I always do.”
You concede. Dumb plan. Still, you trace a line that should’ve been drawn much earlier. “I don’t care,” you say curtly.
Heejin gets off your lap and pushes you onto the bed. “Fine, I’m done then.”
“Awesome. Great. Leave.”
The two of you stare at each other, heavily breathing. Your dick is twitching in need.
“I said I don’t care. Go.” You’ve never sounded less convincing in your life.
“Stop me. Stop me right now.” Heejin smirks, bending down to place her face by your crotch. You back up until you can’t anymore, your pillows bunching up at the head of the bed. She crawls to follow your dick like a pet and its toy. Her breaths are heavy; you can hear them but can’t feel their warmth. Then, the tip of her tongue darts right under your condom-covered cockhead, giving arduously gentle licks. She draws a line up your length. What should be the most sensitive part of your body feeling the most pleasure barely registers as a blip of a touch.
Your body is as uncooperative, motionless as your mind.
“I said stop me. If you don’t want to pump my warm and perfect pussy with your seed until Hyunjin comes home, then just say the word and I’ll stop.”
The line is just a metaphor after all—useless, a waste of time. “P-please.”
“Please, what?”
You can’t look at Heejin. You can’t look at the picture frame on the bedside table with you and Hyunjin on your second date. How can you possibly look at yourself in the mirror when—“Please take off the condom.”
Heejin does just that with a triumphant smile. It’s a simple motion: the upward stroke of her hand brings the protection along with her fingers. After throwing the condom straight to the trash, she sits on you again. She rubs her wet pussy lips back and forth your length a couple times, then backs up and presses your rock-hard dick against her tummy.  
"See how warm it feels?" Understanding how intensely you’ve been staring at her midriff, Heejin slaps your cock against her abs, then places her palm on top of your tip like she's measuring something. “See how deep you can go?”
Your cock approximately reaches her belly button.
"Oh my god, that's gonna hit my fucking guts. Like this." Heejin keeps slapping your cock against her toned midriff, rubbing it left and right. “But from the inside! Fuck, you’re gonna mix my guts up. Without that stupid condom, you’re gonna shoot your load straight into my womb.”
While maintaining eye contact, she lets a stream of spit fall the way down from her lips, right between her cleavage, straight to her midriff. Using your shaft like a tool, she spreads the spit across, getting the definition of her muscles nice and shiny. She traces every subtle groove with your cockhead and lathers both you and her with saliva. You admire the evidence of time and effort Heejin has put into herself, though her good shape would not affect you as intensely if her face weren’t as adorable; it reminds you of Hyunjin—here we go again.
“Gonna need some lubrication for this monster to fit in me raw. I know I'm already dripping for you, but a little more wetness can't hurt right? Ptoo." Heejin spits again, then twists her slick hands around your length. “God, are you going to fit inside me? I have to use two hands to handle it properly.”
One more time, Heejin presses your cock against her abs, but this time, she squats up and down, sliding you against her firm muscles. It’s not just the externality of touch lighting your fire; a vivid hue saturates your every sense as the deep tingly pink dances around your thoughts to subsume all that isn’t the promise of thrusting your dick inside of the tight temptress now.
“No, I don’t care if it fits. Break me. Split my little pussy in half.” 
After one more upward motion, her pussy is aligned right above your tip; drops of slick drop from her slit before she drops too, her hands squeezing down on your shoulders.
“Oh, fuck, y-you’re going to have to help me, push me down. Too, too tight.”
You hold her taut midriff with both hands and squeeze her down into your cock. It’s not just an exaggeration of the novelty or the discomfort: gravity itself isn’t enough to pull Heejin around the width of your shaft. Up, then down a bit further. Despite all the nudging and the rampant lubrication of her pussy, it still takes a full minute, probably longer, to work your entire length inside of her tightness. You’re not so much fucking Heejin as you are wearing her slowly around your cock like a fitted tee.
“Ahh! Yessss, it, it, I think it’s hitting so, so deep. Is that my cer—ouwh, god.”
Eventually, Heejin acclimates to your cock’s size, her soft, soaking walls sculpting on your dick, and a visible bulge that still fails to disturb her perfect abs. There’s such a genuine eye smile on her when your cock’s fully disappeared inside. A simple bliss wracks her whole body. You feel the same way: you could stay like this until your girlfriend comes home—
With your eyes wide open, your mind racing with regrets once again, Heejin squats and pulls herself back up, your shaft glistening. You’ve never felt more stupid at the flash-moment relief you felt since it is taken away—along with your breath—when Heejin pushes her ass down into your crotch again, faster this time, but still needing to work it in. 
Then the rhythms truly start. A heartbeat, a series of blinks, the ticking of a clock. There’s nothing so predictable, so countable in how Heejin fucks you. And it is undoubtedly Heejin fucking you, not the other way around. Every thrust in her slick walls not only erodes your morality but also your inhibitions. You couldn’t deny that your girlfriend was much meeker in bed, and so you only ever matched that energy. Her pussy devours your cock whole yet again; she ceases all movements while letting out a prolonged groan. Maintaining eye contact this whole time, she has you in a chokehold that is almost as suffocating as her immaculate tightness. Shivers run down your back as she traces a finger across your chest. With teeth carved into her lower lip, Heejin’s sultry gaze continues to pierce through your eyes. 
“Oh god, you're stretching me so fucking well.” Her mouth goes agape as she rocks her hips to and fro. “You like how tight I am? And how you're molding my pussy into the shape of your cock? Here, hold me”—Heejin brings your hands on her waist—“and use me like a proper fucktoy. Your fucktoy.”
Swallow that spit stuck in your throat. Holding Heejin in place, you start to thrust upwards into her pussy, and each time you exit her entrance, her tightness rejuvenates. You still have to struggle nearly as much the first time to pry her folds apart again, and every time her insides clench around your length, you let out a hiss. While you’re receiving sensual satisfaction like you’ve never experienced before, she’s frowning—maybe it's your slow pace, or maybe it's that your cock does not always disappear completely in her.
It's probably both.
“Fuck. Me. Harder!” Heejin confirms your suspicion and then finds support on your belly to get your entirety out of her. A strand of mixed stickiness is left hanging for its dear life; a sudden wave of coldness replaces Heejin's incredible warmth, leaving you in shivers. “With a cock this amazing, you should be fucking my brains out already. Do you go this slow with Hyunjin? Maybe that's why she doesn't let you finish in her.”
“D-don't mention—”
“Shut up.”
With your mouth sealed by hers, you find yourself backed against the bed frame. Heejin grips your cock firm—something she almost failed to do thanks to her own slickness—and positions your tip for a re-entry. Her legs extend, one forward to land beside your waist, the other backward. 
“I know you’re always thinking about her. I want you to forget about her completely. It’s just me. This bed. This perfect, perfect cock inside of me. God, this is going to go so, so fucking deep in me.” Heejin licks her lips in excitement as she sinks down on your tip.
You growl, and then you yearn for more—of Heejin's heat, of Heejin's body, of any semblance of control. With one hand on her beautifully arched back, you seize a stiffened nipple into your mouth and immediately begin nibbling on it, and the other lands on her equally well-defined ass. In one fell swoop, Heejin completes the frontal split on your cock. One hundred eighty degrees is the angle of her legs, give or take ten or twenty as she rises and falls to the force of your thrusts.
While you’re heady with pleasure from her tight and flexible body, Heejin is first to be aquiver, pulsating from her core. She is not so much bouncing as she is grinding her pussy against your crotch while your dick fills her up to her guts. 
You’re done holding back your inner desires, your most wanton fantasies. For as much as you denied Heejin, she told only the truth, at least when it came to sex. The rest of the truth is that you want to last one minute longer to savor the brain-melting grip and wetness of her cunt. 
Therefore, one hand grasps Heejin's midriff tightly while the other pins her by the neck, freezing her in place with half your shaft inside. Her legs shake, and her eyes, interrupted from rolling back into her head, are distraught. Gingerly, you peel her off your cock like a wasted condom—her labia clenching your shaft in need, her legs shaking from the splits—and then you sit the pouting, babbling girl in front of you.
With the dangerous high of power (or maybe that’s just the warm smell of sex getting to your head), you chuckle. Heejin seems too far gone to notice. 
“Call me Daddy,” you say. “if you’re going to be such a clingy cockholder.”
Right. You’re the one at the edge of the earth, frayed and alone. Far from anyone. The furthest from your lover.
“Oh. Oh, god, your dick, so, oh, fuck. I miss… I need… why did you have to… F-fine.” After gathering a mote of composure and then slithering up to your ear, Heejin whispers, “Actually, that’s very easy. Ahem. Daddy.” 
You can’t hide the grin on your face. Not in a million years would Hyunjin…
“Pwease, turn Heejin into your baby bunny cum pocket? Heejin will be such a good girl for Daddy, I’ll cum all over Daddy’s cock so you can stuff my needy pussy with your sticky load and—”
You’re already overwhelmed. Not so gingerly, you lift Heejin by the waist and then deposit her onto your cock to resume her ride.
“Fuck! Daddy!”
You slap Heejin, adding one more smacking sound to the drumbeat of her ass against your lap. “I told you to call me Daddy, not call me like a phone sex operator.”
Heejin nods, eyes watery; the corner of her lips raise.
She already won long ago, so don’t humor her small victory. As you fuck your cock up into her, you cover her mouth, restricting her air. Her tongue darts at your hand between her lips, and you let the tiniest puff of air pass as her tongue pushes between your fingers. You pinch the wet, pink tip, drawing out more of her ragged moans.
Everything wrong is perfect. Everything perfect must be wrong. You’re in a true position of power for the first time in what feels like forever—then your phone vibrates from your bedside table.
Bvvt. Bvvt. Bvvt. Bvvt.
Hyunjin.
Many times tonight, you thought you had seen your nadir. It could be overacting, overthinking. Yet, the shadows snuck, crept in the crevices of the window cracked open, letting the whistle of the wind in. Yet yet, you feel the weakest you’ve ever been, the darkest inside, when your first inclination is to ignore the call. 
You’ve never done that. 
You’re always the first to call. 
Fuck. 
You were supposed to call her.
Heejin grabs the phone and picks it up for you before slamming down into your cock even harder. You have trouble catching up as you hold the phone by your ear; god forbid, you drop the device and record the squelchy noises of your illicit intimacy.
“Hey, babe.” Already, by her gentle tone, you know Hyunjin is giving you the benefit of the doubt. Though you’re usually meticulous, you’re not perfect, and it’s not that crazy to miss one phone call.
It’s not like you’d do something crazy like—Heejin is bouncing on your dick at such a delirious rate that the parting of words from your lips is impossible.
“Hello? Busy at work? You sound like you’ve run a marathon.” Hyunjin giggles.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it.” You can barely breathe it out. Shudder; oh, do you shudder. “Hgh, I-I had to carry a bunch of… of, of heavy boxes. A lot of new drinks.”
“Ahh. Well, I miss you.”
Oh, she does? You could’ve just gone on the trip with her then. None of this would have happened. 
Now, you have Heejin planting kisses all over your sweaty torso. Now, you have your cock swaddled up and down. Now, you’ve hesitated.
“I…” You can’t even get past yourself, each exhalation obviously stifled.
Hyunjin gasps. Heejin too. How different can two puffs of air be? 
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hyunjin asks.
“I’m fine, I just—”
Heejin snatches the phone out of your hand and puts the call on speaker.
“Ahh, shit!” You glare at Heejin, a sly grin fastened on her face.
“Babe, do you need to go to the doctor or something?” From the speaker, Hyunjin’s concern reverberates throughout the room. At least at this juncture, you’re sure she’s missed the continuous sounds of sex, in part to Heejin’s small mercy in slowing down to… grinding halt is only half-correct. Her hips are rocking, but there’s certainly no rigidity to her motions.
Yet, you’re stammering, unable to find an excuse because you’ve never needed one before. 
Heejin does a jerking-off motion with her hand; you raise your brow. She points to the phone. 
Ah. Fuck it. Better than nothing. “Fine. I-I was mas… masturbating. And, and I dropped the phone.”
“Really?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Th-thinking about… me?”
“Who else would I be thinking about?”
Heejin grins at your rhetorical question, knowing she’s the answer wrapped around your dick. “Tell her you miss fucking her,” she whispers—her voice is soft enough, but you still tuck the phone away out of sheer instinct.
You aren't going to always obey her. “Y-y'know babe, I really miss you.”
“And you're saying that while masturbating to me?” Hyunjin scoffs. 
A genuine smile flashes across your face. “No, I just really miss you. I know I put too much pressure on you, and I'm—”
“No, no. Keep all that for when I get back. You sound really tired, so you should go take a rest. Dream about me in the meantime, will you?”
“I… Um. Yes, of course. I will. I love you. Goodnight.”
“I love you too. Mwah.”
The call ends, and the phone finds its rightful place back on the mattress. Despite the other woman coating your cock, the only thing you feel at this moment is embarrassment.
Heejin is sitting calmly on your dick. “Look at you. All in thought again. All backed up because of Hyunjin.”
You gulp as she slinks her hand underneath to paw at your balls. “You’re—you, you didn’t let me cum in… ugh, the car.”
It’s not even a full giggle, just a small blow of air from Heejin’s nose. “Right. Of course that’s what you’re thinking about.”
You have no retort but to provide some force in your waist, snapping upward to drive your length deeper inside. That's less than a retort. Full surrender.
As the bouncing intensifies, hands stop roaming when she interlocks her fingers with yours. Of all the sensual touches, this feels the most intimate. Thus, the most forbidden. And so, the most captivating. Upon a missed beat of your heart, you let go. That free hand strikes her ass crashing down into your waist, and the sweetest whimpers and hottest moans come out viscerally. More than the sweaty warmth in the air, your scent is filled with Heejin. Flowers from another garden.
You start letting your lust out in words between the slaps on her buttcheeks. If you’re going to wither, might as well satiate more of your held-back fantasies.
“So you’re a fuck bunny, huh? A needy animal in heat who can’t even control herself.”
Look how ridiculous you sound. Who’s the true animal here? Who really lost control? 
Heejin nods, putting her highest pitch into her “mms” and “mhms”.
“I’m going to fucking breed you, then. Just like you’ve been begging for, huh? Stalking me, watching me from afar. As if you were a hunter. God, ff…” Your words die when her back arches in pleasure, her hands behind her on the bed, her waist gliding smoothly to lather your length with slickness. “You’re not a hunter. Not, not at all. You’re prey, you’re a little creature, a stray, and you’re gonna take all my fucking cum inside you.”
“Yes! Oh, Daddy, fuck, yes! Heejin… Heejin is your breeding, agh, bunny!”
Heejin is not so much riding you as she is making snappy, jerky motions with her hips while her arms and legs are wrapped around you in a tender hold. It’s an unsustainable rhythm because neither man nor woman could possibly outlast the bubbling pressure. The two of you are less than either. Animals. While she is making no concession to hold back her climax, you want—substitute this word for need on all occasions—one final win. Something. Anything.
However, her walls are tighter than ever, and more importantly, that tightness is coming in growing oscillations. The rising tides are in time with your own demise, a spiral fall into the infinite depths of earthly delight. To the magma core. Unbearable heat.
You’ve certainly stained her insides with pre-cum already, but you feel the first shots of semen, the last remains of regret replaced with a surging buzz.
By the looks of Heejin’s eyes finding the back of her head, finding some god of lust hidden in her brain, she’s feeling the same high. Despite all the loving intimacy you’ve had with Hyunjin, even the times you’ve made her cum during sex, you’ve never been able to cum at the same time as her. Simultaneous orgasm is one of those rare, tricky things to actually pull off. Yet here you are. A stranger. Is chemistry just a game of chance?
Were you always meant to be with Heejin in some other life?
These are the questions that curse you when your mind isn’t working right and letting you feel momentous ecstasy for infidelity. There’s not a correct choice you’ve made, yet here is paradise, its undesired reward abundant.
You and Heejin are two warm, slow-moving, intimately combined figures, slowly returning from the abstract gratification of mutual orgasm to the sticky, sweaty reality of this bed. Your cock is slowly softening too, though you have yet to pull out, slathered in both your lewd juices. Heejin looks tired but clearly isn’t since she’s still slowly swaying her waist, still searching for the last bursts of pleasure she can find in your slumping shaft. Maybe friction, maybe heat.
“D-done? Right. Of course.” Heejin can’t hide her disappointment in her pout.
Your head is shaking.
That’s disappointment too, right? When you shake your head, it’s disapproval. A lingering distaste in your mouth at yourself, that’s what makes sense.
This is a senseless place.
“No,” you say, your voice low. Obscene sloshing noises as you pull out of her snug pussy. Get up from the mattress. “I’m not done yet.”
Heejin is in awe. She must have expected you to turn over and fall on the bed tired. To be fair, you expected the same too.
But you're energized by the bunny. Heejin lays before you, drenched in sweat, her subtle makeup smeared. While her body in motion redefines perfection, steals the very meaning for herself, so too is her body in stillness. As she sighs, her pert chest rises and falls with every cycle of inhalation, exhalation. Her abs tense, showing their strong lines, and semen leaks out from her pussy with each visible clenching.
Heejin portrays many expressions in the shocks of climax. Her flawless jawline screams pride, her parted mouth lust, clearly slothful fatigue in those frowned eyes. You wonder how much deadlier can she get.
“Hah. You're staring,” she says between each labored breath.
Heejin then looks to the side; her chest still heaves, but slower. Place a palm on the facet of the gem that is her face, you could spend hours admiring her side profile. Maybe even write an essay on her nose bridge.
It's your turn to shower her chest with kisses. Her tits aren't bigger than Hyunjin's, though still perky enough. Each peck spells a rippling wave on her delicate flesh; the saltiness of her sweat glazes your lips.
Heejin moans to your many touches while blood rushes to your groin once more. Flip her over, off of her back, and onto her tummy. You glimpse shock in her face when she looks back.
The sin of wrath—worthless vengeance—on your visage must be painted too faithfully.
Feeling Heejin’s nipples and the heft of her breasts, you wrap an arm around her torso to lift her up so that she’s on her hands and knees. You spread her thighs, her asscheeks, admiring the glisten, the glow, the glamorous stickiness with whatever is left of your dripping creampie, then pull Heejin back so that you can align your already concrete-hard dick with her entrance. 
How her long hair falls, how the flesh of her butt ripples, how all the muscles in her back create such a drool-worthy image—target. Whatever the cause may be, you’re surprised how hard your erection is. Even with the most erotic session with Hyunjin—oh, she let you try a position other than missionary, how scandalous—you’ve never had a sequel.
Keep comparing. That’ll do you good.
There’s nothing to compare when you start to pull Heejin’s hair while you push your tip, parting her cunt’s creamy lips. With one hard snap of your waist, you bury your cock completely in Heejin. The both of you moan, you out of the tightness and her out of the sudden impact. 
You run your palm along her arched back to find yourself on her neck, then trace along her skin and give it a firm grasp; Heejin starts to struggle for air. In the renewed momentum of this one thrust, her tiny figure is propelled into the welcoming mattress, and your shaft somehow finds its way deeper into her cavern. Take a moment to admire how your cock pins Heejin down, how more of your previous load oozes out onto the sheets, how Heejin groans at this sudden intrusion. 
"Mmh, Daddy, you're even deeper in me." Heejin could barely squeeze words through her gritted teeth, but she's still relentless in tickling your arousal. 
Heejin is right, of course. The new prone position affords you the deepest penetration you’ve ever achieved, slick tightness totally overwhelming your pleasure points; she, on the other hand, finds herself in discomfort yet delight simultaneously. Though struggling for air, her lustful mewls are louder than ever, and she’s fucking back into you as best as she can while trapped under your weight. The literal chokehold you have on Heejin mirrors the euphoric chokehold she has on you at this very moment—in her submission, complete triumph. 
Not wanting to lose this war of attrition, you loosen the grip on her throat to focus on pounding into her creamy cunt. Her unintelligible noises become words.
"Grrgh, guh, god. Yes, can you feel it, Daddy? Feel how deep you really are in Heejin? It's okay if you can't, because Heejin definitely can. You're so close to my womb right now it's driving me crazy. Please cum for me, Daddy, please. Cum inside Heejin. Fill whatever gap there is between you and me with your hot, warm seed. Give me a baby bunny, please. Heejin is begging you here, please, just like how you wish that ungrateful bitch would, just like how that unthankful bitch would never. Don't hold back daddy. Please. Please. Please—"
Without a sign, Heejin reaches her second peak. Her body shakes in violence to add to the creaking bed, though all are silenced by her orgasmic cries. Lean forward, and your chest now connects with her back. Slick and slippery is the texture between your skins while the entirety of your length stays hidden within her folds. 
You maintain the speed at which you were ravaging her insides. Heejin pumps herself backward to hit two birds with one stone—to match your pace and to ride out her high.
Her screams are getting too loud; you can't risk waking the neighbors. Shove two digits past her spread lips, and Heejin immediately sucks on the makeshift gag. Turning back, she tries to meet your eyes with the pleading gaze she has so perfected. 
No, you are not falling prey to her trick. Shove her face down between the pillows, and you get a good sample of her earlobe while you chase your peak. 
With one hard thrust, you feel your tip smash against her cervix. Pull back out, and Heejin's walls desperately clench around you—her desire to milk you is strong. Your lips move down to suck at her neck.
Yet another hard thrust, you slam into her core at an insane trajectory; Heejin's womb sucks you in—
“Owh, gawd, you're gonna cum so much deeper”—you bring your fingers to the back of her mouth—“mmh, I can ph-pheel iiit—”
—as if begging you to fill her womb. The fistfuls of bedsheet fail to provide enough resistance; the floodgate unlocks.
“Take my cum, you fucking slut.” You pair your words with animalistic growls as you pound her hard enough to squeeze your seeds through the needy opening of her womb. “You're nothing but a pathetic cockslut. Look at how your womb is sucking me in. I bet that's the only thing your worthless pussy is good for—to be bred by taken cocks.”
You expect her to protest; she doesn’t. You spread her cheeks apart, spitting between them; it’d be rude, but it’s aimed at her tight, winking asshole. Again, you expect more of a response when your thumb toys at the ring of flesh. Shaky breaths through her breathing orifice while all the others get filled, she indulges in her cock-drunkenness—capable of doing nothing but pitiful whimpers. As you hammer her down hard enough that she’s become part of the mattress, your thumb hooked at the temptation of her rear entrance, you fall into indulgence too.
“Fucking, fff, filling you, ugh, up!” With a sense of finality in this thrust, you turn Heejin’s womb into the promised creamy mess. Her asshole has wholly swallowed your thumb. Grasping the sheets as hard as you grasp her asscheek, she is silent as she endures the endless spurts of warmth in her tummy. 
Keep pumping. Don’t stop till you're as devoid of your seed as your soul.
At the same time, you retrieve your thumb and your cock from her two greedy holes. Your cum is leaking out of Heejin’s slit, between her thighs, onto your sheets. Her asshole dilates, contracts. Those two facts alone nearly drive you to continue the madness; maybe you could collect the slick semen as lube for anal. However, despite your dick in hand, tip rubbing against her asshole, you stop yourself.
With a resolve like you’ve never seen (or at least one you haven’t had in hours), you sprint your way to the shower. Any cure to your sickness. But this shower will fix a shattered mug as readily as it’ll fix any other problem. Fatigue sets in, claws deeper, and no amount of scathing hot water on your skin gets rid of it. You switch to cold—you shout—that wasn’t worth it either.
Your world falls apart like warm streams splitting against you. How cruel the accuracy in its manner. Look into the wall. A faint, blurry reflection of you off the wet surface. The reflection clarifies: you’re a dumbass. This heat does nothing it’s supposed to, not a tinge of mollification in its heat.
“Hey, Daddy—”
You did not notice Heejin sneaking into the shower, but the change in her hairstyle is certainly apparent. Now flaunting a ponytail—Hyunjin’s signature and a personal favorite of hers—you hate to admit that Heejin looks equally as alluring, if not more so. She’s only in her panties, and those must be semen-coated. Sure enough, when she strips them onto the bathroom floor, she’s still dripping pearly and sticky fluids from her crotch.
“How could you leave for the shower alone, I have to clean up too, you know?”
She takes up the space between you and the wall, and she quickly finds herself on the ground. Her legs wide open, Heejin fingering herself is now a scenery you’re forced to enjoy. One digit deep, then another joins the fray—she slowly fingers your cum out of her swollen cunt.
“It’s not too late to stop me,” Heejin smirks as she is relentless in teasing you. “Unless you really want to put a baby in me.”
Now with eyes shut and mouth agape, she cherishes the pleasure she’s bringing to herself. The unoccupied hand finds itself on the ground for support as she buries her fingers deeper inside her folds. Heejin’s hedonism elevates; her tongue sticking out in the air is the proof.
The droplets bounce off your body to land on Heejin's features, and for a moment, she looks adorable as she shakes the excess moisture off, giggling. But then, she’s right back, immersed in her masturbation.
Your cock finds its vitality again at such a lewd sight; Heejin need not open her eyes to realize it. Further extending her tongue to reach the thing sheltering her from warm water, she licks your tip as if encouraging you to follow the motion of her pink muscle. So, you do just that. However, she clearly isn't ready for the intrusion, her teeth grazing against your skin as you head straight for her throat.
The damned downward frown, again, and this time it's here to stay. Pressing on with the pattern of showing no mercy, you rock your hips to properly violate her mouth. The warmth from the shower pales in comparison with her cavern, and her tongue tickles the bottom of your shaft better than the water droplets bring relief to your figure. Her sloped brows scream starvation just like her pleading eyes. This isn’t a matter of wants—you have to feed her cock. As much as she can swallow. Even if it means her gagging and sloppily eating the meat.
“Guhk—your cum—guhk, musht taste as guhd as your cohk—didn’t, ghlk, get to eat earlieh”—her tears fuse with the shower water and the drool out the corner of her mouth past your shaft—“I, I, glk, need more. Need more, more, mo—”
At this point, you're already used to her insatiability, fixing it with a yank of hair. Ponytails are amazing, especially when they're presented like this as a perfect handle for you to hold on to as you fuck her face rough. Each time your cockhead hit the back of her mouth, giggles mix obscene swishing and gurgling noises straight from her throat, and her cute tits ripple softly at the force. 
There's no room in her mouth for air, so it's only natural that she opts for the natural way of obtaining oxygen. She inhales through her nose with your cock still hidden in her mouth, making her throat do swallowing motions and squeeze around your shaft. The water splashing down on her face makes her breaths uneven and struggled since she’s trying to breathe down your dick in the same motion, but she embraces the challenge since there’s nothing more important than the cock down her throat anyway.
“Oh fuck—” You groan at the random fluctuations of tightness. “You’re such a good fuckdoll. Good oral fuck hole.”
You’re not sure where you got the verbiage from, though Heejin has the closest thing to a smirk she can manage with her lips around the root of your cock. Regardless, you can tell that she’s happy with the new nickname—her tongue moving with more furiosity makes good supporting fact.
Heejin’s looks are out of this world—even when there’s a cock in her mouth. You even feel a new pang of guilt: she’s too pretty somehow for your seed to cover her features. The pangs of guilt are quickly overtaken by pangs of impending orgasm. On her face? In her mouth? You would decide, but there is no decision. Keep your tip down her throat. The pleasure is getting too intense, and orgasm soon hits. It makes sense that she wants to savor your cockmilk, but her twirling tongue proves to be too much overstimulation for you. Your body jerks, so you instinctively eject from her eager mouth to spray the rest of your load on her face. This climax ends quickly; it’s your third one after all.  While you are regaining your composure, Heejin is busy creating a composition of your cum that was all over her visage, collecting with her fingers and tongue and then finally delivering it beyond her lips.
“So fucking tasty,” she comments after one big gulp. “Now let’s really clean ourselves up.”
The following minutes are filled with mutual silence—you do your cleaning and she does hers. No further touching. You’re in quiet denial—not of the unfaithfulness up to this point but of the surprising comfort you feel in the silence only broken by the splashing of water.
You both finish washing at the same time, so you shut the shower off. Stare at Heejin. Water droplets drip off her silky smooth skin. You can’t be staring yet again; that’s going to lead to an n-th round of sex. Forget morals, you’re not going to have a rigid bone left in your body if you keep fucking Heejin. Your mouth rounds to a circle while she smiles at you. 
Without worrying about the faint trail of water you’re making in your hallway, you speed off to the bedroom to look for some extra underwear and clothes to lend to Heejin. On second judgment, how absurd the concept. Surely, Hyunjin is going to notice the missing clothes, and surely, Heejin is going to wear the missing clothes the next time they meet.
Raising your hands, you fall onto your mattress. You’re naked. Didn’t bother looking for your own clothes. Whatever. Why even care about Heejin at this juncture at all? If she wants to leave naked, then so be it, or if she wants to wear her used panties sticky with your creampie, then so be it too.
Sure enough, she walks calmly into the room, semen-stained underwear and all, a towel around her head to dry those damp locks falling past her shoulders.
You curl up in the bed, refusing to examine Heejin further.
“This pillow belongs to someone else, I'm not sleeping on it.” Refusal will never stop Heejin’s low voice from worming its way past your ears straight into your brain.
Rather weak reasoning, sure, but you're in no place to object given everything that's happened tonight. With a sigh, you turn to face her and extend your arm; Heejin lies on it, filling the emptiness between her neck and the mattress just fine. 
“Mmh, it's comfy this way,” Heejin murmurs as she curls her curves into you. “Does she do this with you after sex?”
Silence fills the room for seconds; she nudges you for an answer that she knows she shouldn’t expect.
“Ha, didn't think so.”
That’s not even true, of course. Intimacy after sex isn’t an entirely new concept to you—that’s the one thing that stands out with Hyunjin in bed—but it’s so foreign with a different person. Sniffle her hair; it’s rosy. You wrap your free hand around her waist; she’s significantly smaller in your arms than Hyunjin. Usually, Hyunjin kept her back facing you, and though you adored having her as the little spoon, something was always missing. Details, details, details. So your silence continues all the same.
“You’re enjoying this,” Heejin whispers, “aren’t you?” 
Heejin turns around to face you, her delicate fingers tracing along and tickling the bare flesh of your neck at the same pace as her breath. How can the delicate touch of air be a chokehold? Yet, that’s exactly what Heejin has on you.
“Now why don’t I make you feel better, Daddy?”
Lifting your leg over her hips, Heejin has your half-erect shaft between her thighs, her slick slit shows haste in lathering you with her juices. All the recollection you’ve been doing, every hard-fought bucket of water you bail out of the hole-ridden ship, yet you forget your whole relationship in an instant. You doubt even Heejin understands the harshness of such a simple action, dragging any hope back into the ocean, cruel mistress. Moan into her mouth, and she returns the same. Finally, undo the seal on your mouth; you continue fucking her soft muscles in a telegraphed motion.
“Heejin is gonna sleep, she’s exhausted.” She smirks, that damned smile damning you to do more unspeakable things to, and with, her. “You can use Heejin’s body all night long though. I am your good little cocksheathe, after all.”
This is the actual biggest difference when you cuddle Heejin. Your cock slips inside her creamy slit so easily. It couldn’t have been an accident, yet Heejin is as motionless as sleep can make her. So is it your fault? No. It couldn’t have been. There’s no way you would have thrust yourself inside the addicting, delectable, squeezing hole for one last savoring. Right?
You must lay still as Heejin’s seed-stuffed hole continues to seize your half-hard shaft. Too sensitive, too sore, too spent. But not enough to leave. You’d think that by now, you can’t have any energy left to keep your erection lasting, but her walls warm your cock just well enough that you’re helpless to the loving embrace. If you did try to pull out of her possessively grippy pussy, you’d probably spurt another few drops, simultaneously milking your last breaths out of you.
So, pulling out is as much an option as the sun failing to rise in a few hours.
When your eyelids are yanked open by that inconsiderate light, you are alone in your bed. 
Your first instinct is to check your wallet. All your cards, your cash, a random Subway coupon. Down one condom though. Stretch, and your body disagrees. The only evidence is the sheer exhaustion in your muscles. And your balls.
 You didn’t drink.
You’ve never had a worse hangover.
No, no, it was all a dream—you wish. You could get away with being scolded for your dreams. This was a whole different beast.
Your focus is pulled by a buzz by your legs. Reach for your phone.
One. One. One. Five. A date. Naturally.
Heejin started following you. 
She’s not even in the same room as you. It’s so easy to ignore.
Then again, it’s just as easy to open the messages and type away.
Hyunjin won’t be home for a few more days anyway.
Say you sent it to the wrong person if need be.
Or you were with the wrong person to begin with.
No.
There is no wrong person.
Only the person in the wrong.
You.
Sent a message to Heejin.
✦✧✦✧✦✧
AFF, AO3
Thank you again to the wonderful @kaedewrites for working with me on this one! You don't understand how much I enjoy every collab. They always drive me to write way more than working alone. Writing is always a collaborative affair, after all. It's just annoying whenever the only person I have to work with is my dumb past self, who refuses to finish these stories for me.
:chuupeek:
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borninwinter81 · 4 days
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DIY budget cyber/industrial outfit - first time in public!
I made a couple of previous posts about this dress here and here, as well as the matching collar, and I thought it would be fun to show how I styled it when I wore it for the first time on Friday. Honestly I was a little concerned it would just look dumb, but when I tried it with the full makeup and shoes I was pleasantly surprised at how much I liked it.
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Apologies for the abysmal photo quality, especially in the first image. I don't have a good camera and I wanted to try and show the full outfit. That blurred mirror selfie is the only head to toe picture I got.
I didn't mention in my other posts but in addition to making patches for the dress I also nipped in the seams so it fit me better (it was my size but kinda shapeless, and I wanted to give myself a waist). This is very easy to do with almost any dress, skirt or top, you just put the garment on inside out, pinch in the side seams so they fit the contours of your body (try and do this equally on both sides) and pin them together. Safety pins are best so you don't accidentally hurt yourself.
Take the garment off and draw a smooth line with tailors chalk connecting all the pins, then sew along that line, either with a machine or by hand. Turn right side out and try it on again. Provided you're happy with the fit, trim away the excess fabric. You may need to be careful if it's a fabric that could fray - I usually go over the seams again with a zig-zag machine stitch to try and minimise this. There are also products you can buy like fray-check. If in doubt, or there isn't much excess fabric you could just leave the seams untrimmed.
The length is a little out of my comfort zone so I wore gym shorts underneath to help myself feel less exposed and reduce the risk of flashing - I tend to do this with any dress or skirt that's above the knee anyway.
Continuing the budget theme, rather than buying any new accessories (again, cyber stuff is mega expensive) I looked through my wardrobe for items I already had that might work.
These goggles are not the usual kind of cyber goggles, but they matched everything else I was wearing. I was given them by a friend who was getting rid of them ages ago so they cost me nothing!
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I really didn't feel like making and wearing cyberlox, so instead I just got some yellow hair elastics and did a ponytail.
I made these arm warmers about 12 years ago. You can probably tell that they began life as a pair of skinny jeans. To cut down on the amount of sewing I needed to do I used the existing hem and seams. After cutting them to a length I liked I did the pinch and pin thing to make them fit to my arm, and put in zips along the outer seam to make them easier to put on. As it turned out this wasn't necessary because the fabric is stretchy enough that I can pull them on and off. The zips add a nice bit of visual interest though.
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I ripped a hole in each one for my thumb, and I had a pack of extra large hook-and-eyes, so I sewed the "eye" parts down them and added some old bootlaces. I've never been 100% happy with this decoration, but I haven't had any inspiration on how to change them in the last 12 years.
I wanted a necklace in addition to the collar, and couldn't think of anything more appropriate than this. I originally got it for a cosplay, Vasquez from Aliens, and with the big yellow industrial loader from the end of that movie which Ripley uses to fight the Queen alien... it seemed there was kind of a connection there.
I once met Jeanette Goldstein whilst dressed as Vasquez and told her she was my childhood hero and she signed these tags, but unfortunately most of the signature has come off when I was cleaning them.
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Lastly, the boots. As with any goth outfit the footwear tend to be the most expensive, particularly if you want ridiculous platform heels like these.
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When it comes to footwear, I really would not recommend any alternative brand names like Killstar, Koi or similar. They're often terrible quality, the heels will snap, the soles will peel off, zips will break. In my opinion the only decent specifically alternative shoe brand are New Rock (even they're lower quality than they used to be in the 90s) and although New Rock do make heels I wouldn't wear them often enough to justify spending £200 on a pair. I prefer flats the majority of the time!
The brand of these is Funtasma, and I believe they are intended for use by pole-dancers, meaning they're decent quality and will be up to a night of dancing in a club. I took a change of shoes along with me to put on at the end of the evening but they are surprisingly comfortable for the first few hours.
I got them about 15 years ago on sale, and at that time they were around £40. Not cheap but not super expensive either, and I've definitely got my money's worth out of them. I had them re-soled once with special toughened soles that have extra grip so they're safer to walk in, but that's it. One time I even did the 3 mile walk home at 2am in 6 inches of snow wearing these because I didn't want to wait hours for a taxi (an occasion where I did not take a change of shoes!)
So, not your standard cyber outfit, but one that gives my own spin on this look (which should be the goal with any fashion style - a guideline to create something unique, not a rulebook that you have to follow 100%) and was put together super cheaply. The only new things I bought were the dress, fabric to make the patches, and a pack of multicoloured hair elastics.
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milf-harrington · 1 year
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i haven't seen seasons 1 through 3 since 2019 (but i am slowly making my way back through it) so forgive me for any inaccuracies, but purely from memory this is how im ranking steve from each season
character in general
Season Two Steve, because he's still got that jock-ish bitchy energy but it's also where we really start to see his softer side and also i think the first time you genuinely feel for him (his problem with billy, his implied problem with school, the bullshit scene), it's also the birth of babysitter steve!! and the second but much more thorough time we're shown that he's fully willing to put his life on the line to protect people he doesn't even know that well. He's a competent and strategic character who definitely has the vibe of Just Trying To Get Through The Year.
Scoops Steve, for similar reasons as the above but we also get to see the goofier prettyboy side of him and we're better introduced to Steve's observational skills and how the fact that he's not "smart" like the others is actually one of his advantages. Because while robin and dustin were focused on translating russian, steve couldn't stop noticing how familiar the background music was. this is also the season where Steve is starting to be written as a ditzier character, but i'm choosing to chalk that up to the fact that he's more laidback and less worried about his public appearance now that he works at an icecream parlor and wears a sailor uniform. (This is also the most bisexual version of steve, followed by s4)
King Steve, who i personally think was quite shallow (like from a writing perspective) but that is almost definitely because he wasn't originally supposed to survive the first season so he's forgiven for that. Still, we are shown someone who is cutting and self-confident, and then later shown that he is someone who is quick to realise when he's genuinely fucked up and just as quick to apologise. It's also when we're introduced to the idea that he will consciously put himself in danger to protect others. (@peter-pantomime made a really great video about one of Steve's tells on tiktok and i haven't been able to get it out of my head ever since)
Season 4 Steve, because they pretty much erased any and all of the competency previously shown in his character. I think this season did the most disservice to him, seeming to only write him off as genuine idiot who gets treated like shit by all of his friends and is only useful as a babysitter for teenagers who don't want to be babysat. It erased any progress he'd made in regards to his relationship with Nancy Wheeler, i think the only thing that kept him feeling like Steve was Joe Keery's acting and how well he knows the character. I think a lot of what was wrong with Steve's character this season could've been a really great way to introduce the amount of head trauma he's received through the other seasons but considering it wasn't so much as hinted at in canon it just seems like they circled back around to making Steve Harrington's character as shallow as it was in season 1. whether or not that's because they're setting him up to die in season 5, i think it was unfair.
character design
Scoops Steve, in his little sailor outfit with the floofy hair and the lipgloss?? iconic (bonus: the dark blue jeans with the red and blue vest when he applies at family video)
Season Two Steve, with the tight blue jeans and the sunglasses and the swoopy hair and the nail bat, also iconic (bonus: his gym uniform AND the maroon sweater when he drops dustin off at the dance)
Season 4 Steve bc he spent a majority of his screen time shirtless and only wearing a battle vest, and then later the coolest fucking jacket i've ever seen (wait shout out to that blue and white polo shirt that showed off his arms, thank you for your service; and his cute little yellow sweater)
King Steve, while i do love the preppy look and how much it made him look like a puppy at times, what the actual fuck was going on with his hair?? i would have liked to see more of the floppy haired steve we saw when he was helping Nancy study ):
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