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shidouryusm · 5 months

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✿༝༚༝༚ Wrapped in red ✿༝༚༝༚

・❥・Kuroo x reader

・❥・synopsis-> hey siri, what are the consequences of surprising your fiancé with a lingerie under a coat for his birthday?

・❥・ word count-> 5.6k words (nobody look at me)

・❥・content warning-> mdni, explicit smut, fem!reader, cun!lli!ngu$

・❥・a.n -> this is the last time I'll be reposting this if tumblr still doesn't like me I got nothing to do. Tagging a bunch of my mutuals so that atleast they can enjoy. may your cheese rot tumblr. Also happy kuroo day ignore I'm this late everyday is kuroo day stfu. dividers by @cafekitsune , @benkeibear and @quirrrky

Kuroo can feel the chills of the winter already settling in mid-November. The expanse of his living room is veiled with a thin layer of frigidness. The tiles were cold and a siren of silence rings through till the ends, until the little clock resting on the small table breaks through the curse with the beginning of a new day. 17th November. He stares at the clock. The slick hands points to 12, busy announcing his 29th birthday. It is a small, black, cat shaped clock that you found from god knows where and gifted him out of blue. Your justification being “it looks like you”. Kuroo snickers at the sudden wave of memory.

A whole lot of other things around his house are also extensions of you – the little section of potted plants on the shelves, the matching coffee cups, the red mittens hanging over the oven handle, kitchen magnets comprising pictures from both of your trip to Paris. They all are like pockets of your shadow scattered around, giving little hints of the day when you’ll ultimately mark your reign as the Mrs. of this house.

But as of tonight, each of them wildly indicates your lack of presence. Kuroo discerns that the silence was not any call of winter, rather it’s the sheer absence of your chortles and excited squeals around the house, especially tonight.

Kuroo was never that big on celebrating his birthdays, being on a competitive position in corporate asked for lot of compromises and Kuroo had wired himself to do that in his early years on job, not caring about forgetting his birthdays and stuff. Still, he manages to dig up time when it comes to yours or others. The man that he always is - relentless in his acts of services.

However, you being around never quite made it possible for Kuroo to actually forget about his day. Always the more excited one, the best planner and as always, a little better than the previous years. Whether it be by throwing a grand party in a club for him or just by yourselves, with home cooked mackerel and rice, catching the golden sunset above and just savouring the day with a casket of good memories to look back on. Or it may be simply you by his side that makes each of his birthdays something to look forward to, even while being clutched by stress and non-stop work.

He was indeed getting spoiled by such pampering because, as of this moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to be around you. To bask in the incessant warmth of your hugs and engulf himself in the pool of your kisses. Fuck. he really wishes you weren’t drowned in your work right now just so your singsong voice of Happy Birthday could reach his ears the first. He peers at his phone, several texts from his co-workers and friends wishing him were flooded in his notification bar, along with your last text, sent over an hour ago.

Love♡♡ : work is so crazy right now, they should pay me for even gracing them my time this late >:(( anyways, good night. love you tets <;33

Nothing after that. He stares at the text. You weren’t online which meant you are either too busy in work or have already fallen asleep…without wishing him?

A small twinge of hurt pinched his heart at the thought of it. Although he tries to reason it with your pressure at work. But it’s been like this for a few days, you completely submerged in work, barely getting the chance to even facetime, not being overly zealous atleast 3 business days before his birthday.

The little red demon above his head tries to play tricks yet his heart works with rationale – leading two projects at the same time meant things will slip up. Distance may be bound to form. Who knows? even paths of life may deviate from one another and eventually-

His train of thought cuts short by the sharp ring of the doorbell. It’s 12:30 already. Kuroo internally pleads that it’s not some surprise by his former teammates because without you, he doesn’t think he will indulge even a slightest bit.

The door swings open and so does kuroo’s jaw. You, in your full glory, a ginormous beige jacket wrapped all over you, hair dishevelled from the wind, yet framing the most beautiful face in the world, stand at the threshold, panting and holding a large box of what seems like a cake.

“Oh my gosh tetsu, I was almost about to punch the baker. Dumbass messed up my whole timing”

Kuroo was still busy steadying himself but he shifts from his place, allowing you to scoot past him and settle yourself in the dining seat, placing the cake there.

Weren’t you asleep? Weren’t you way too busy to come? What is going on?

He looks at you, making yourself comfortable at his space, like you are just meant to fit inside these 4 walls. The frosty silence suddenly vanishing by the cauldron of warmth you bring with you everywhere. He can’t wait for the day when it will be regular sight.

“Baby, are you gonna stand there the whole night?” you giggle, striding towards his still figure beside the doorway. You hook your arms around his waist, your head tipping back as you stand on your toes, planting a soft kiss over his lips.

Kuroo’s eyes flutters shut as he draws himself into every fleeting moment of this kiss. His hands find your cheeks and large palms cradles them as gently as a rose petal, head dipping down to take in more of the feeling of your lips against him. The taste of your cherry balm engulfing him.

You part from him, merely inches away as your lower lips bruses against each other. You whisper into the small gap, “Happy Birthday, my love. I’m not too late, am I?”

“Doesn’t matter when your wish is what makes it worth. I almost thought you forgot” he hums, hands curling up against your neck, urging you to look at him. You crane your head up, meeting those honeyed eyes pooling with a multitude of emotions.

“Awe you miss me that much? I have been real quiet this year on purpose. Trying something a little different”, you cheekily say, poking your tongue out. Kuroo quirks an eyebrow, “always a step ahead, aren’t you?” he pecks your forehead while a small whisper of “I love you. Thank you for making this day something to look forward to” grazes over your skin. Your feel the kaleidoscope of butterflies zooming inside your ribcage, for the way his words echoed through the drums of your heart. As if the resonance between his and your heart just created more love to harbour.

"Tetsu", you grab his face, dipping his tall frame downwards to place another kiss. This time between his eyes. Hoping this kiss was equivalent to the million words he said with those gaze a few seconds ago.

You take his hand, pulling him towards the cake, “now now, it’s not the time to be all mopey. I fought for this cake and now you get to commemorate this day of high significance”. Kuroo chuckles, you were full of beans indeed.

To think just a few moments back his thoughts were spiralling, he registers that that how much you being by his side grounds his inner monologue of hidden insecurity. Kuroo is always the epitome of confident man but the inner cloud of anxiety yet rumbles time to time. Until, your presence acts like the yellowy sunshine after rain, banishing any grey thoughts that dare to delude him.

“Why such high significance, may I ask?” you roll your eyes, amusement twinkling in your eyes and you answer like this is the most simple question ever, “Because you got to be born and be my boyfriend and then my groom-to-be, duh”, wiggling the left ring finger, you laugh. Shaking his head, he tunes into the peals of laughter with you. He cuts the cake, feeding you a piece before noticing you were still in your coat.

“Baby, are you that cold? You know you could wait a bit more for your winter cloth haul” he gestures at the neck high coat. You squirm a little. He finally noticed.

“y-yeah, I know. there’s a…reason”, you send a sheepish smile on his way, effectively avoiding his gaze.

Kuroo reaches towards you, curious at your shift in demeanor. He leans down, meeting your gaze with his ever sharp ones and you found yourself faltering a bit, heartbeat pacing higher than normal.

“Princess, are you okay? you got a fever?” he runs his hand over your forehead to which you shake your head. Taking his fingers in yours, your fingertips glides over his knuckles. Unable to stall in any longer, you slung your arms around his neck.

“Actually, I have your gift”, bringing your mouth closer to his ear as you whisper, “right under”, you murmur. His hand is now brought on your lower back, the feel of your skin right underneath the coat, clearly evident.

Kuroo sucks in a breath, catching on to your innuendo immediately. Palms migrates towards your shoulder blades where he can feel the thin strap and bare skin over the coat. Curiosity killed the cat and now he just got fucking murdered.

“Hmmm? Should’ve said it earlier, princess.” kuroo hums, a mellowy timbre coating his voice. You gulp audibly, anticipating his moves.

His hands trail over your shoulders, reaching up and stop around the collar of your coat, playing with the top button as he flashes his Cheshire like smile. Demeanor changing from concerned to smug in a flash of light. You keep your eyes on him, heavy breaths escapes your nose and mouth. Kuroo leans forward, his voice now merely a whisper tickling your ears.

“Should I guess what my present is?” he asks coyly. You can feel the teasing glint the words carry.

“You can open it already, y’know?” your voice had an air of neediness, wanting nothing more than to indulge in his touches and losing yourself in him for the night.

Kuroo tuts, shaking his head in faux disappointment, “tsk tsk tsk. it’s my present, princess. Let me enjoy it. in my way”. With that, he flicks the button open, his eyes catching a hint of red around your neck. A dark chuckle escapes his throat.

“Red, huh? You surely did some homework before”, another button pops open, this time, the base of your throat open up and a little red ribbon wrapped around the middle like a bow greets him.

Kuroo felt his heart thrumming loudly, imagining what he could find after fully unbuttoning your coat. The suspense of the act spiking his blood and rushing downwards towards his crotch, he can already feel himself getting hard. God, you really knew how to outdo yourself every single year.

Kuroo presses a kiss right beside that bow, feeling your erratic pulse against his lips. It curls into a smirk, right against your skin. You tip your head back, eyes closing and hands finding their way to the hem of his shirt.

“Uh-uh, princess. Not so early.” Kuroo envelopes his hands over yours, before bringing them together behind your back, caging you between his hold. His right hand, once again, flits back in its previous mission while his left hooks both of yours ; effectively locking them behind your back. “Not until I’m done unwrapping my present”. A kiss plants underneath your ear; the skin tingling with its effect.

“You sure are taking a hell lot of time” you scorn. Kuroo chortles, popping another button open. This time a part of your sternum peeps out, he can make out the hint of cleavage from the skin exposed. More blood runs downwards and kuroo fights the urge to tear the coat off and bend you against the table to ravage you then and there.

“Good things take time, princess. Moreover, you seem to enjoy it.” Kuroo muses, his hips roll against yours and you could feel the hardness of his crotch brushing up against your lower belly. “Take this as a punishment for being late to my birthday” he opens another button and the lace cupped cleavage makes their way.

“But it wasn’t my fault.” you pout. You’re so adorable, kuroo thinks. He laughs under his breath before pressing a soft kiss against your cheek. His hands trail over your sternum, dipping down towards the fat of tits spilling out before he ghosts over them ever so slightly, drawing a whine out of you from the untouched touch.

“Oh but you were…” he drawls, “to think you went outside like this. Being a naughty little girl, are we now, princess?”. You open your mouth to say something but his lips silences yours. His tongue almost immediately finding its way in your mouth and playing with yours.

The kiss was sloppy with the way kuroo laps at your top lip, engulfing it in his mouth, saliva smears over your upperlips and drips down your lowers. The steamy makeout session in addition to the his hips grinding against your coat covered crotch leaves you staggering.

One by one, he unbuttons the whole coat till the end, each time kissing a part of you he passes in the process, to all the way down, where he is kneeling. He looks above to see your figure hugged by this beautiful dark red fabric, only covering the bare necessities.

He is eye level with your bare thigh, the plush skin adorned by a thin lacy garter, linked to the equally thin panties with a small band of cloth. You feel his hand runs across the back of your thigh, the cool band of your engagement ring gliding smoothly over your skin. The pads of his fingers dip down a little deep when he reaches your almost bare ass.

“Fuck. what I’d do to you” you hear him murmur against your lace clad thigh. He scrapes his teeth against the fabric, peeling it off and exposing the beautiful skin out. The sharpness of his teeth mingles with the softness of his lips as he sucks and nips at the skin, leaving a purple well of mark around that area. Your breath hitches as you feel the dull throb of the hickey while he continues his ministration all over your inner thighs.

“We better take this to the room before I end up taking you right here” his teeth still ghosts over your skin, now attaching around the band of your garter, tugging it gently before releasing it back, the elastic smacking your skin, causing a whine to tumble out your throat. His actions causing your pussy clench around the fabric.

He continues his journey up with his mouth before reaching your pussy. The material doing nothing to hide the outline of your cunt and looking closely enough he sees the dampness that is caused by your arousal. His fingers join in, smoothing upwards over the fabric gently. A moan leaves your lips, with the way he is being tantalisingly slow. If you could, you would have shoved his fingers inside.

“Already wet and I barely did anything, baby. Wait for the real action atleast” his voice sardonic and praising simultaneously. He plants a kiss right over your crotch before trailing upwards.

“Tetsu, you little-” you whine to which kuroo snickers. He loves you to death but he loves it more than anything when he is edging you and you are writhing and pleading.This is when he gets the chance fill you to brim with pleasure. The power surge he gets from this is immeasurable, when nothing leaves your mouth except his name.

“What, my darling?” kuroo kisses below your navel, his lips smoothing over the surface with no friction. He peppers your stomach with nips and kisses before reaching under your breasts. A small kiss between the valley of your tits and then he finally rises up. He caresses the sides of your breats before holding you by your waist, squeezing you gently,pulling your figure flush against him. His hardened member now rocking against you with less obstruction.

Kuroo tugs the coat off of your shoulder and it pools around your ankle, revealing your whole set to your fiance. Kuroo gawks at your figure, as if time stopped its track for him to drink your body with his eyes.

“God you’re fucking beautiful” his voice low and husk filled. Kuroo peppers kisses on the curve of your shoulders, hiking his lips up into the crevice of your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses trailing towards your jaw.

You have always been the prettiest for him but this colour on you has popped out every feature of yours in the most alluring, elegant way. Kuroo huffs out short breaths as his eyes find it difficult to tear away from you, he eyes you from down to up before his eyes land on that ribbon.

Oh fuck that ribbon. The way you made yourself like a present, kuroo is positive there isn’t any better gift in the whole planet than the one before his eyes. His lips find you again, passion and lust permeating through the kiss. His hands reach up to your breasts and he gives them a good squeeze. The nipples pert and poking through the cloth against his palm.

He guides your body along with his towards the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stumbling along the way but nonetheless reaching towards the edge of the bed. He pushes you, still connected with your lips, cradling your head before you fall into the heap of soft mattress. His body hovers over yours and one of his knees positions dangerously close to your cunt.

“We gotta take this off before I tear it and that is the last thing I wanna do” kuroo husks, his hand deftly working their way to take off the top.

Not that it did anything to cover what’s underneath, yet as he removes the bra and sees your tits spill out, he couldn’t help but take one in his mouth. Fondling the other one with his hand.

The feel of his mouth finally somewhere on you has you teetering on the edge, you let out out a moan. Your hands rake through his ink black locks while he tugs you nipple with his teeth. His knee presses against your almost bare pussy the sensation spikes your insides.

Your hands reach for his shirt once again, urging him to take it off , to which he obliges but not before remarking something about it.

“Can’t wait to see me naked, guess I can indulge in your desire a little bit”, you roll your eyes. Smug bastard. You feel him shift downwards, his knees touching the floor while leaving you sprawling on the bed, he adjusts your legs around his shoulders before scooting downwards.

His hands plays around your nipples, twisting and turning while his mouth travels south. He lets his teeth do the work, pulling at the underwear and tugging it off of you, finally letting the sight of your clenched cunt soothe his eyes. The way he keeps a unbreaking eye contact while doing the dirtiest of act makes your arousal seep down your cunt even more. He tugs the panties halfway through before teething at the garter again, slowly dragging it across you skin and pulling it off.

“Practising for the big day, princess” he grunts, taking them off of you fully. You let out a light croon, even amidst the unholy acts of provocation, the gentle reminder of your promised near future sends you into a blissful train of thought.

Kuroo’s sharp nip at your inner thigh brings you back. He stares at you with drooping eyes, silently challenging you to not break the contact as he lowers himself over your slit. He licks a stripe of your pussy, the feel of his tongue like millions of fireworks inside your nerves. You silently breath out a gasp while kuroo begins his onslaught of kitten licks over your cunt. Gradually reaching to your clit. He presses a kiss over the nub before capturing it with his mouth, gently sucking on it.

His tongue flicks your now swollen clit as you rock your body, bringing him closer, as if it’s anyways possible. Your mingled sounds of squeals and moans and whines mixes with the soft squelch of his fingers entering you. He prods them gently over your walls, knowing where to stretch and poke to evoke the most raw reaction from you.

“Tetsu…fuck...aah..” your voice are nothing more than little tufts of breaths as he shifts his pace every so often, while never leaving your puffed clit unattended. The alternate of his tongue and fingers works wonders to roll you over the edge.

“Cum for me, baby” you hear his raspy voice vibrating across your skin, he sloppily makes out with your slit before driving his tongue inside, his face tilts as he tries to reach as deep inside you as he can. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightening. His cock feels heavy and the burning desire to replace it with his tongue flames his inside – but not before he makes you cum like this atleast twice.

Two of his fingers drum over your clit while his tongue prods inside you. His jaw hurts but nothing matters when he gets to see the expression he draws out of you. Mouth falls open, while your head tips back. Not giving a damn about keeping eye contact because fuck if you could have exploded out of your body, you would.

Kuroo groans at the irresistible feel of your essence around his tongue, “tastes so good for me”, he hums around your pussy. You could feel the wave of arousal waiting to burst and as you hear the words escape his mouth, your body reacts on accord. Back arches beautifully as you release yourself against kuroo’s lips.

Your mind levitates in the cloud of bliss while you feel Kuroo laps at your essence, the drag of his lips against you too euphoric. to joyful to get down from. But even while being on the daze, you feel Kuroo going at your pussy once again.

“T-Tetsu…hnnggh”, you can feel the added force that his tongue applies as it drives inside you once again.

“You thought I’d leave you to come around my tongue only once.” he rasps, his nose brushes against the overstimulated clit. He nuzzled himself against your cunt, his hands reaching over your ass and kneading the soft flesh. You let a wanton moan, too loud for the neighbours to not hear. Kuroo smiles, tongue thrusting inside your cushiony walls even more.

You could feel your body quivering, preparing itself for another wave of orgasm not long after the previous one. You tug at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp. Your other hand grabs at your breast to hold onto something. A sight Kuroo savours from behind his bangs that cover his face.

“I’m gonna…” you whine, thighs jolting around his arms while he keeps them locked. “Make a mess around my face, darling. Let go.” Kuroo was getting delirious at your taste. His cock nearly bursting his load in his pants. He rubs against the board of the bed, releasing some friction. He can sense your orgasm looming and naturally, he increases the pace, tumbling you over the edge for the second time. His teeth grazes the clit, giving it some attention before a harsh suckle has you going for the 2nd time that night.

Your back arches, juices spraying out of your pussy. Kuroo is enthralled seeing you this dirty, this sexy, this sinful. You didn’t hold back your sounds either, sweet melodies of his name with pleasured moans ringing throughout the room and satisfying Kuroo’s ears as he succeeds in making you spent.

Not that he intends to stop yet.

Your body is still quivering, the afterwave of the pleasure still gushing inside your body. Kuroo caresses your thighs and hips, coaxing your body to relax.

“You did so well, my sweet baby. looking gorgeous cumming around my face like that”, kuroo engulfs your mouth, his tongue shoves yours around and you decide to suck the tip of his tongue, relishing in the tangy essence of yours. A moan erupts from the man above as your wrap your hands around his sculpted back, losing yourself in the kiss.

Kuroo helps you get down from the high before flipping you over. You notice the way he positioned you both, you are right in front of the dressing mirror.

When did he even do that?

Kuroo kneads your ass from behind, while another hand grabs your chin to make you look at the mirror.

“Eyes up there, baby. Watch how I fuck this little pussy into oblivion”, you can feel his clothed cock grinding against your ass. Whimpering, you wiggle back, feeling more of him, causing Kuroo to suck in a breath.

“Behave, darling.” Kuroo lightly smacks your ass, watching the flesh ripple and groaning at the sight.

You look over your shoulders at him. He looks so broad, the toned sculpture of his long hours at gym and sports really gifted you with a goldy sight. His face flushed with crimson and copper eyes blown out with lust. The contour of his abs to sexy to not gawk 24/7. His sweatpants are already hung low, cock whipped out, hard and swollen. The tip angry with precum dripping down the globes of your ass. You try to shift back, intending to return the favour he generously gave you a while back.

But Kuroo , not-so-gently puts you back on your position, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you against the sheets. Your ass hiked up more to flash the clenching pussy in the air. The cold draft blowing around your sticky folds making you shiver.

“Tetsu!” you exclaim, as he starts dragging his length over your folds, adding more of his arousal with yours, the spot lubed and moist for Kuroo to slide right in.

“What did I say about behaving, princess? Are you looking for to get punished?” his voice dark and menacing, only reserved for you, in the bed. You shake your head, eyes locked with his through the mirror. Your nipples brush against your sheets with the way you are bent, adding more to the sensation.

You try to tug off the red ribbon, not wanting any ounce of fabric on your skin when kuroo grabs your hand, harshly. Hooking it over your back, he hikes your body up a little higher, his cock straight against your fold, the tip hitting snug the clit. His eyes are narrowed, eyes a little menacing,

“Don’t you dare take that off. This stays on.” his voice low. You mewled an okay, too entranced with the way he looks behind your back to notice his manhandling.

“That’s my girl”, kuroo hums before sliding inside you with ease. The remnants of previous shenanigans making it easy. Your mouth falls in a O as you feel the ridge of his cock gliding past your walls. With each of his inch bottoming inside you, you let out a moan, voice deliriously filthy. The sounds like a dulcet for him.

He rams the last of his inch at once, making your body lurch forward. Your face scrunched in a beautiful frown, teeth digging at your lips. Hair falls over your face as you dip your head down to adjust to his size. Kuroo becomes too busy admiring your features through the mirror. You look like a goddess, a goddess he brought down on her knees before him.

He was probably too enticed because it wasn’t until the roll of your hips around his pelvis that dragged him down to where he was. “T-tetsu. movee” , he hears your plead.

“As you say, baby girl.” kuroo starts drilling his cockinside, sliding in and out of you, the head colliding with the gummy walls near your cervix. You were pushed forward with the intensity of his thrust yet the feeling of his prominent vein grinding inside your wall was too heavenly to complain.

It was him and you, intertwined with each other, knocking the door of lust but beneath it was promises of love.

The grip of his fingers around your hip was deathly. It sure is gonna leave a dent. Kuroo grunts and groans as he watches the base of cock froth with both of your juices. The squelching sound everytime he enters you fills the room along with the slaps of the skin.

You could feel his balls hitting you right above the clit, light strokes against them making you dizzy . His hands snakes around your stomach, reaching your clit. He takes the nub between his two fingers, rolling them around and pinches it. You squeal at his actions, back bending away from him, but the grip of his arm around keeps you flush.

“Your pussy is made right for me. Almost made me bust a nut the moment I slid my cock inside, sh-shit. so fucking tight and clenching” , his words are so vile, yet so sweet to hear. He bends down, back flush with his chest as he presses a hoard of kisses around your nape and shoulders. Suckling the skin and leaving out purple marks in its wake.

“Tetsu..more…you feel so good against me” you cry, eyes rolling with the way he is snapping his hips against yours. The constant assault over your g-spot inside and the clit outside once again announces the impending avalanche.

“More you say? Greedy girl.” he rasps before hoisting you up, one hand still playing with your clit while the other finding your left breast.

Cupping the whole fat of it, he squeezes the mound hard. His hips unrelenting with their strokes. The bed creaks from the sudden movement. The headboard banged against the wall once. Now the neighbours are definitely gonna know.

“So fucking beautiful. Truly the best gift ever, princess. I love you so much”, you turn sideways to face him, his molten amber eyes mirroring the heart eyes you are sending him across.

You capture his lips in a soft kiss, your hands reaching his face to cradle the sides and pulling the front tufts a little. Vibrations of hums and moans share between you two in the kiss, while both your bodies work on their own accord. The golden light of the lamp falls over your skin, the golden iridescence reflecting of your skin makes you nothing less than a fallen angel. The halo like glow of your body makes Kuroo's heart gallop loudly. Makes him wonder how he managed to find someone as perfect as you are.

“Look at the mirror. See how ethereal you look while taking me like that. God really took time while making you” , you chuckle at his cheesy words. No matter how dominant he acts in bed, at the end it was still your dorky, corny Tetsu.

You zero in the way he fucks you, the outline of his cock visible as he drills into you. A dragged moan fills the air. kuroo kisses around your temple, his thrusts erratically hits you, losing rhythm. You realise he’s close, so you arch your back, feeling more of him inside. Fucking himself inside you.

Kuroo hisses at the act, his fingers pinching your clit in return. Your walls clamp around his shaft, making him lose all the threads he had been holding onto ever since he buried his face in your cunt.

“Shit, baby...take me…take all of it. Let's cum together”, his babbles choking in his throat as he thrusts in you one last time before warm ropes of his cum fills your pussy. You came around the same time, pooling his thighs with hot, sticky mess.

He kisses you throughout the high, a level of euphoria never felt before. He realises he didn’t use any condom today neither did you retorted against it. Kuroo slides out of you, your cunt clenches from the lack of his heavy cock. He gently lays you down, bringing a wet towel and cleaning off the spilled cum from your thighs and his. Your face beams with the post-coital bliss as you spread your arms over your head, breathing heavily.

“You good?”, kuroo asks, his voice regaining the gentle hold back. You nod, closing your eyes and relaxing yourself.

“If I knew you’d go this crazy over a lingerie set, I’d have thought it through before buying.” you breathily say, seeing Kuroo’s face turn a little red. The debauchery dawning on him a little.

“You could wear an overalls over a trash bag and I’d still fuck you the same. It’s you who’s this hot”, Kuroo plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek, his hands smoothing your hair. He scoots you over, finding himself a space beside, pulling you against his side. His fingers work through your scalp while you find warmth in his body.

The comfortable setting almost lulling you to sleep before you lurch up, face palming yourself. Kuroo sits back, concerned at your sudden leap, while you look at him with guilty eyes.

“I forgot your actual gift at home, while being too excited for this one.”, you hide your face between your palm, whining and falling back on his chest. A hearty laughter rolls out of Kuroo at your state while he rubs your shoulders. His mind already bent on to tease you.

“Wanna suck me off to balance that out?” kuroo sends a sly grin your way, his voice holding a glint of tease but really not expecting you to wallow in.

To his surprise, you part away from his chest, face filled with a challenging gleam. Without any words, you straddle him, holding his cock by the base. A dopey smile spreading all over your face.

“Say less. I’ve been meaning to do that since forever.”

a.n-> aint nobody leaving the house without giving him a sloppy. if tags dont work and it flops then im giving him an even intense sloppy

comments, likes, reblogs are appreciated

tagging : @stsgluver , @kuroosexuall @shotorus + @satoruhour @hannzai @tetzoro @mrs-kurooo @quirrrky @pastelle-rabbit @planetnini @selarina @sookisaurus @itadorey @utahimeow @this-is-still-mia @kamorikiri @shoyostar @screampied-main

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lovebugism · 1 year

Note

forgive me for what is likely a basic ass request but... steve has a crush on eddie's best friend? smut optional but encouraged :) (love, j.d. aka mypoisonedvine)

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (i)

part one | part two

summary: steve harrington took extra care to avoid the local freaks of hawkins. having shared custody of a fourteen-year-old forced him into a bitter friendship with one, he's steadfast in his refusal to befriend the other. that is, until you start working at the groove beside family video. steve claims he only fell for you because you tripped him. (17k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, protective eddie, canon divergence TW swearing, bullying, some smooching, talks of insecurities, reader is doubtful of steve's intentions because steve used to be a dick <3

a/n: this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages. ages, i tell you! i wrote the outline the day it was sent in and ended up turning the blurb request into a full on 30k+ word fic. i'm sorry for the wait j.d. (and to everyone else who's been waiting patiently for me to put this out). i quite literally put my heart, soul, pussy, and so, so many hours into this. please enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

It would be a total disservice to call you Eddie’s best friend.

It wouldn’t even feel right to call you his platonic soulmate or his sister from another dimension. Not when the two of you are essentially an extension of the same human being. It’s a twin flame on steroids — your mirrored souls make the rest of Hawkins believe in some sort of higher power. There’s no way it wasn’t destiny that placed the two of you together at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

Your entwined spirits could’ve been a beautiful thing.

It’s too bad you’re both total fucking freaks.

Unfortunately, being a couple of metalheads who spend their free time creating fantastical worlds in silly little board games hasn’t become cool yet — for some sad, strange reason. It leaves you and Eddie as the town’s token social pariahs. The kind of misfits you only spot when you care enough to look — laughing too loudly at the lunch table or sharing a cigarette in the alleyway between school buildings.

The kind of weirdos who get your attention without trying. The kind that people only look at when they need something to make fun of.

With that being said, everything Steve knew about you came from the people that hated you.

Tommy Hagan said that you and Eddie had been fucking since the seventh grade, that the two of you had gotten close between blowjobs and fingerbangs in the old chemistry classroom. No one’s quite sure where it came from, but they believed him without thinking twice. You and Eddie tried to squash the rumor for years before leaning into it full throttle.

“And these are the freaks,” Tommy announced when he approached your lunch table. He was giving Billy Hargrove a grand tour of the high school, or rather the shithole, and detoured like you and Eddie were some kind of sideshow attraction. Him and his goons ogled at you like zoo animals.

Steve idled some feet away, not as interested in the bit as the rest of them. He was even less interested in entertaining the new kid on the block thateveryone else seemed to be obsessed with.

“Hey, Tommy...” Eddie sing-songed through a mouthful of PB&J. You’d given him the other half of your sandwich, because you always give him the other half of your sandwich. “Hope you’re not comin’ back to ask for a handy again. I already turned you down, remember?”

A dumb grin took over the boy’s freckled face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned over to the California boy. “I wouldn’t get too close to them. Don’t know where their hands have been, you know? If I had to guess, I think Punchy got Munson’s rocks off in the janitor’s closet before lunch period.”

Neither of you were particularly fazed by the laughter that erupted all at once and threatened to swallow you whole. Instead, you smiled with bits of grape jelly smeared on your chin. “I bet you think about it a lot, don’t you, Tommy?”

You really lived up to the nickname. Punchy. You weren’t entirely sure where it came from — your fierce temper, perhaps, or maybe your intense personality. Either way, it suited you.

Vicki Carmichael once said that you bit a guy on a date one time. Barry Jenkins, a tennis douchebag who thought the world revolved around him because his dad owned a string of local laundromats. He took you on a date in his mom’s Impala and assumed making out in the backseat gave him free rein to stick his hand up your skirt.

The asshole sported a red mark on his neck the next day.

When people asked you about it, you smiled with all your teeth in place of any real answer.

Carol Perkins loved to comment on the state of your wardrobe, telling anyone who would listen about the time she caught you rifling through the $1 bargain bins outside the thrift store. She liked to joke that you were stealing from them. “Because she can’t even afford a couple measly dollars. It’s kinda sad, honestly. I feel a little bad for her,” you overheard her saying once.

You were smoking a cigarette in the stall and watching through the crack of it while her and her friends touched up their lip gloss.

“Wait, really?” Tina wondered, stopping mid-swipe of mascara through her long lashes to gape at the girl beside her. Because, god forbid, they don’t have someone to make fun of.

Carol snapped bright pink bubblegum between her teeth. She looked offended, almost — manicured brows furrowed and shiny lips snarled — like the idea of her taking pity on you was insulting. “No,” she snapped in response.

You’re pretty sure it’s the only rumor about you that’s got any bit of truth to it. Or any rumor of hers, really. The thrift store was great and all, but you firmly believe that your best pieces come remanufactured straight from Eddie Munson’s closet.

So it isn’t any wonder why the two of you seem to dress so similarly — all leather jackets and distressed jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts that are either too big or too small. The both of you take little care in your appearance, wearing only what you feel good in. And sometimes that means wild hair and baggy clothes that swallow you whole.

To make it worse, you and Eddie even talk the same. You’re both loud and brash and have very little awareness of personal space. You aren’t scared to make a scene or use your voice when you think it’s being stifled. And when you love someone, they know it, because you won’t leave them the hell alone.

These are all the things that Steve hated about Eddie. So he hasn’t quite figured out why he’s so damn in love with you.

But he is.

Quite dreadfully so.

Head over heels and stumbling since the day he met you for a second time.

It was the spring of 1986 and The Groove had just opened up. Steve had heard murmurings of a record shop taking over the empty outlet adjacent to Family Video but had no idea it would nearly run them out of business. The shiny, new music store attracted all of their usual customers. People were more excited to buy new cassettes than rent movies they’d seen a thousand times already.

Steve didn’t mind, though. He liked it best when the store was empty. But all of his friends — a closeted lesbian, a basket case, and a couple of fourteen-year-olds — seemed to have the same affliction that was plaguing the rest of the town.

He tried not to be offended when Robin said she was going to spend her break next door and not with him in the closet-sized break room.

He failed.

Robin spent her half-hour and then some meeting you. She returned forty-five minutes later with a blushing face and a bleeding heart. Suddenly, there were two people in Steve’s life that couldn’t seem to shut up about you. As much as it annoyed him, he let her gush about you anyway, because that’s what best friends do, after all.

But Steve knew you once upon a time. Or he thought he did.

You were a loudmouthed metalhead who wore all black to blend in to Eddie’s shadow. You created fictional characters because it was easier than making friends with real people. You were strange and awkward and mean and gauche — the total opposite of this heavenly, mystical creature Robin was making you out to be.

But then it became this whole… thing.

With Robin and Eddie constantly talking over him about you, the rest of the kids were as confused as Steve was. And as they so often tend to do, the group decided to take matters into their own hands and make the short trek to meet you formally. Steve figured that their answer would be final. When those teenagers hate you, you know it. He learned that the hard way

They’re gone for a little over an hour and come back with a thousand stories and various tapes they say you gave to them for free.

Lucas has got a new Beastie Boys cassette and a proud smile on his face as he recounts the promise you’d made him about catching his next basketball game. “And she said she really liked my ranger,” he brags less than humbly, telling the older teens about how you’d heard stories about his track record in Hellfire campaigns. There’s a sudden suaveness to his voice as he bounces his brows up and down at them.

Max scrunches her face in disgust. She clutches a Kate Bush tape close to her chest, like it’s a prized possession she never wants to let go of. She rolls her eyes at her boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend, but Steve can never keep up these days) and makes her own conversation with Robin. The two girls are the only ones with more than half a brain cell between them, or so they claim.

The redhead tells her that she plans on bringing her broken skateboard over to your store soon. She says the thing’s been wobbly for days, and Robin nods along like she knows all about it. “Well, apparently, she has some tools and knows how to fix it. Said the trucks just needed to be reinforced or some shit, I don’t know, I’m just glad it’s getting fixed.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks her, confusion contorting his words along with his features. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I could’ve fixed it.”

“You don’t know anything about skateboards,” Max monotones.

“Okay, but you don’t even know this girl! She’s a total stranger, Max. That’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “She’s nice, Steve. Way nicer than you—”

That makes him scoff.

“—And you’d know that if you got to know her.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to gush about you next. His opinion, for a reason Steve has never been able to place, arguably means the most to him. And the kid is just absolutely fucking beaming about you. He holds a Star Wars orchestral vinyl in his hand — the brand new one he’s been talking about for weeks but couldn’t afford.

He talks of the collection of DnD figurines you were painting behind the counter and the promise you made to make one for his bard come the next campaign.

Dustin gazes at Steve, wide-eyed and nodding like he’s as amazed by the revelation as Steve is. “She’s cool, Steve. Like… really cool.”

The boy thought that Robin just had a crush, that Eddie was just being Eddie and overdramatizing all of his stories about you. But you’re everything they said you’d be and then some. The kind of stranger you meet that takes your breath away, that makes you sad in the understanding that you’ll never see them again. Dustin is grateful you don’t have to be a stranger anymore.

You sounded… nice. More than nice. They painted you out to be a fucking angel, the way you took care of a bunch of kids you barely knew for the better part of an hour. You weren’t the freak everyone made you out to be all that time ago.

They talk a great deal about your looks, too. Dustin, mostly. Lucas had received a glare and a half-hearted punch on the arm from Max when he said how pretty you were — even though she ultimately agreed with him. The curly-headed boy uses too big words to describe the renaissance painting you are, all heavenly morose and beautifully strange.

“Hey,” Eddie scolds from the sidelines, mostly playful. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Bring it down a few notches, ‘kay?”

Steve is silent for the rest of the day after that. He’s not pouting about it like Robin keeps saying he is, just reserved in his reminiscence.

He can’t tell if he’s intrigued or annoyed. They talk about you the way people used to talk about King Steve — with a borderline obsession for someone they don’t really know. And deep down, he knows he’s just jealous. Jealous that no one talks about him that way anymore. Jealous that none of the kids have ever talked about him that way.

It leaves him skeptical and wanting to see the real thing for himself.

Steve opts to meet you on his lunch break the next day with a tight chest and sweaty palms, like a part of him knew it was going to change the trajectory of his life for the foreseeable future.

The door dings with his arrival. The record store smells like earth and nostalgia, a bit like flipping through the pages of an old book. Vinyls sit in rows and in towers that rise to the ceilings. Colorful cassettes, of which there are thousands, have nooks and crannies of their own. Posters decorate the walls along with various patterned records — there’s hardly a blank spot in the entire store.

And when Steve sees you for the first time, he only sees the back of you.

You’re in all black, just like he imagined you’d be. A sliver of skin at your midriff is showing from where your too small shirt has ridden up your torso. And your hair is as wild as ever, though a little longer than he remembers. You’ve haphazardly pinned back the ornery strings with a sparkly pin, but it doesn’t do much to tame them.

A breeze of warm wistfulness washes over him at the sight of you. A reminder of a life that used to be his, that you were a part of only passively.

It’s your smile that does him in. Maybe because you’ve never looked at him with it. As far as Steve’s concerned, no one’s ever smiled at him the way you do, and you barely even know him. You hadn’t seen him in over a year and if you shared any words in the past, it wasn’t anything more than snarky one-liners. But here you are, looking at him with sunshine anyway.

“Hi,” you beam with the warmest grin he’s ever seen, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Welcome in.”

He’s too stunned by the sight of you to respond. He just stands in the doorway, all wide-eyed and gaping, like he’s the first to see an angel on earth. And it’s strange because you’re far from perfect.

You’re blousy and a little disheveled, like you’d been running late that morning. The lack of makeup allows your imperfections to shine through in a way that makes you somehow more alluring. And you’ve got paint splattered like freckles on your cheeks, the culprit being the figurines you’re painting behind the counter. If you know you’re dotted with shades of red, blue, and green, you don’t show it.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask him, still kind even though he’s acting like a fucking weirdo. That’s supposed to be your thing, not his.

Steve grasps for something to say but comes up short. His lips part and then close again in an embarrassing pattern that resembles a fish out of water. It makes sense, though; it’s a bit how you’ve made him feel just now.

When he realizes he can’t make out anything intelligible, he shakes his head. “Uh… nope.”

He’s leaving before he even realizes he’s leaving. The door dings again and he’s on the other side of it, long legs carrying him the short distance to Family Video at record speed.

He swings and slams the egress shut in quick succession, as though the ghost of you had been chasing him. He leans against the glass pane and exhales a heaving sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he recoils at what he’d just done.

He always knew that King Steve had died some time ago, but this was a new low.

Robin watches from the front counter with wide eyes. “…Did you forget something?”

Steve sighs a big, hopeless sigh, then peeks his eyes open. “My dignity.”

“She’s cute, right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her brows bounce in time with the smirk on her painted lips.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” he answers, all mad because it’s obvious. “She’s fucking— she’s beautiful.”

“Aw. Look at you,” she sing-songs and tilts her head to her shoulder. “I think your heart grew three sizes today, Stevie.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I never find out 'til I'm head over heels.

Steve, all caught up in his boyish misery, has no idea that he’s enraptured you in a similar way.

You hadn’t cared very much for the guy in high school. You didn’t really know him then, and you didn’t particularly want to. King Steve was rich. King Steve was pretty — too pretty. King Steve got attention from pretty cheerleaders and overaggressive douchebags alike.

King Steve didn’t need any affection from the local freakshow.

But, by some strange turn of events, he’d managed to make nice with your best friend.

The way Eddie talks about Steve, his words always dripping with a distant venom, it sounds like they still hate each other. Maybe they do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that they hang out far too often not to be friends.

If you were still in school, you probably would’ve judged him for it. Being friends with the boy whose buddies made your life hell certainly warranted some degree of ridicule. But now, having graduated and trying to move on from it all, you can’t find it in yourself to.

High school might as well have been a lifetime now. There’s no use in holding onto old ghosts.

If Eddie could let that shit go, so could you.

He drops by after school to keep you company like he always does when he doesn’t have a campaign to prep for. It’s his favorite pastime, perhaps a close second to Dungeons and Dragons. He gets to hang out with his best friend and swim in an ocean of music while he does it. As far as freaks go, Eddie Munson considers himself the luckiest.

He likes to hear you talk about everything new you’ve gotten in while he rifles through the old stuff that isn’t selling as well. You happily let him take what he wants for free. And what he doesn’t take, he doesn’t pay for either, because you cheat the system with your employee discount and then wipe the record from inventory. Just to be safe.

“I love having a criminal for a best friend,” he jokes every time, without fail.

Eddie stays by your side until the sun sets. He parts only to flip the sign at the door to closingfor you, then plops himself back on the counter again. His legs hang off the side of it, sneakers occasionally thudding against the wood when he kicks them back and forth too hard. He scans the back of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd vinyl and bobs his head to the rhythmic bass as the song fills the empty store. He’ll take this one home, he decides.

You keep on painting like you have been all day, breaking only to assist customers or stretch your aching spine. The forest dragon had been far more work than you expected — made of pretty purple leaves instead of scales and blowing blush-colored flowers instead of fire. The little piece of clay has resulted in a day of back-breaking work.

You’ll be damned if Eddie’s next campaign isn’t the most stellar looking one yet.

Focusing on that makes it easier not to bring up Steve.

You want to. You just don’t know how.

Eddie’s friends were Eddie’s, and you don’t get involved where it doesn’t concern you. Besides, you did sort of give him shit for hanging out with The Hair way back when. The last thing you want is him taking the piss out of you about it.

You don’t want to sound like you care too much. Even more, you don’t want it to be obvious that you’ve been thinking about the boy all day — making yourself sick as you stew in what could’ve run him out like he did.

“Saw your friend today,” you remark, feigning a sort of absentmindedness, as you swipe your brush along the petals of your dragon. “King Steve.”

“Oh, you met him?” Eddie wonders, more intrigued by your words than you expected he’d be. He says it like you didn’t already know the guy — like this new Steve was a totally different person you needed to be reacquainted with to really know.

“I wouldn’t say met him exactly. He just, like, popped in for half a second and ran out.”

With your back facing him, you don’t see the shit-eating grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

Eddie was waiting for Steve to crack and finally see you. He knew he’d bite after the way the kids had talked about you — Dustin, especially. Because even though he claims he doesn’t have favorites, he’s got a very obvious soft spot for the boy. And he knew Steve would like you because everyone likes you. When they’re not clouded by judgment and high school hierarchies, at least.

He’s still got no idea how a guy that trips all over himself at the sight of a pretty girl could’ve ruled Hawkins once upon a time.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie laughs to himself, already gearing up for the shit he was going to give Steve the next time he saw him.

But you see the boy before Eddie does. Steve comes back the next day, an hour or more after opening, less frazzled than the day before. The nearly twenty-four hours he had to prepare himself for the angel he was going to see allowed him not to make a total fool of himself when he stepped into the store again.

And you wouldn’t say it out loud — hell, it’s not even something you want to admit to yourself — but you’d been hoping he’d stop by again.

You thought Robin would come by and drag him with her, or that Dustin and his friends would come around before Steve dropped them all home. Frankly, you didn’t really care what brought him back. You just wanted to see him again.

Steve’s different than the boy he used to be. Enough that it was obvious from a measly thirty-second interaction. He used to be a charmer who could talk his way out of anything. Not to you, of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to you. But then he stops by out of nowhere, in rare form, stumbling all over himself and looking like he didn’t recognize you at all.

You’re still trying to figure out if that was a good thing or not.

He’s mystified you in a way he probably isn’t used to. Most girls like the hair and the arms — the super buff, super strong arms that fit so nicely in his uniform — or the fact that he’s got money and a reputation that precedes him. But you’ve never given a shit about any of that.

You’re more enchanted by the way nothing could even begin to conceal the soft, shy boy that King Steve had apparently turned into.

The door chimes above his head when he enters. The scent of earthy nostalgia is already familiar to him — lavender, sage, and something deeper. Steve considers it progress when he plants himself a few feet away from the door this time. If he runs out again, he’ll have to make an embarrassingly longer escape.

You turn away from your nearly finished figurine to greet the new customer. The practiced smile unconsciously widens at the sight of him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he smiles with a curt nod. He regrets the half-wave he gives you the second his hand shoots up.

“You gonna run off on me again?” you tease and swivel in your chair to face him completely.

You’re wearing a Hellfire shirt that’s just slightly too big for you. It probably belonged to Eddie before it belonged to you. And you wear a corset-looking thing over top of it, a sheer number with a lace embroidery and a ribbon that’s tied in a bow at your belly. It doesn’t cinch you in the slightest, though, more for decoration than practicality.

“No that was… I just—” Steve huffs out a laugh as he tries and fails to come up with an excuse. He figures anything is better than the truth — that he saw how pretty you were and his brain forgot how to work because he’s the lamest person on the planet.

So he chucks a thumb over his shoulder and fibs. “I left something back at Family Video. Had to run back.”

“It’s okay. I was just teasing,” you assure. “Uh— Are you looking for anything specific?”

“No. Not really. Just… new records to add to my collection, you know?”

“Oh, you collect vinyls?”

He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s just said until you repeat the words back to him.

He’s kind of just talking out of his ass and hoping something sticks. That line does, apparently, because you’re beaming at him instantly. He’s scared to say no because then you’ll stop smiling. And he can’t have that.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. The stack of records collecting dust in his den has to count for something, right?

He can’t find it in himself to regret his little white lie when it has you lighting up like a christmas tree.

You toss your paintbrush down when you rush from behind the counter to meet him. You seem to have forgotten that you’d just dipped the thing in purple paint. The thing splatters shades of lilac all over the limestone bench. And, in your haste, you nearly smack yourself with the leaden slab as you raise it to pass by.

Steve’s eyes widen when you narrowly dodge the weighty thing — then jumps, startled by the dense thwap that echoes through the small store when it slams back down again. He’s almost worried that it might’ve busted the hinge.

You cower at the loud sound but move on with a commendable finesse, too focused on him to care about anything else.

“That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to collect, but records are so expensive, it’s crazy,” you ramble as you walk up to him, totally unthinking in the way you grab his forearm and usher him to the back of the store.

Your sheer black skirt swishes at your ankles as you walk. The dainty fabric is patterned with sparkly stars and crescent moons. He notices you wear a pair of dark shorts underneath for modesty. Steve tries his best not to stare at your ass. He almost succeeds.

“We actually just got in a couple of Dio records — The Holy Diver, you know, the one that just came out. I’m pretty sure there’s only, like, a couple thousand of these things in the whole world — which is totally fucking bonkers if you think about it,” you explain in one breath, laughing, before stopping abruptly in your tracks. Steve nearly runs into you when you turn around to face him.

You laugh again, a sadder one, this time at yourself, as you bring your palm to your forehead. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t even know if you like Dio. I mean, of course, you don’t, right? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… rambled like that.”

You’d just been so excited and Steve had just been so different that you forgot who you were talking to. Hawkins High Royalty, Prom King, Biggest Flirt and Life of the Party in the yearbook.

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson is your only friend. He’s the only person in the whole world you can be yourself around and never get self-conscious about any of it.

But sometimes you have moments like this one with a total stranger. Moments where you lose yourself in the conversation and your own jumbled thoughts. Moments where you talk and talk and talk until something thumps you on the head and you realize how annoying you’re being. This time, it’s the musky smell of his cologne that knocks you back to Ms. Click’s history class. The crisp breeze of bitter nostalgia makes you shiver.

Steve can see the way you get so suddenly aware of yourself and how the cognizance of the moment makes you writhe. He tries to bat away the lingering insecurities with a smile.

“Love ‘em,” he responds with a nod. He raises his brows and scoffs, grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dio? God, they’re like… top ten bands of all time, at least. Maybe even five.”

That isn’t totally true. He doesn’t know much about the band to have an opinion, but he’s pretty sure he might’ve said he hated them once. That was only because Eddie wouldn’t stop talking about them, though. Steve could learn to like them, if it means so much to you.

That’s exactly how he justifies spending $60 on four records.

He tells himself that he’ll listen to them and think of you, that it’ll be a solid conversation starter the next time he sees you.

You had a whole damn rack dedicated to all your favorite bands — “I put it together myself,” you’d bragged with a proud smile. S it’s a wonder Steve didn’t walk out with the entire damn store. Because you just kept on smiling and talking, so happy to have someone to care about what you had to say, and he ate up every second of it.

He’ll have to work overtime to keep his pockets from hurting, but it’ll be worth it. Because he’ll get to keep talking to you and indulging in all the things you seem to love more than life itself.

You’re still rambling as you ring him up. Steve notices you haven’t stopped yourself like you did before. His lack of dismissal has made you more comfortable, it seems. He likes that.

“I think we’re also gonna get a couple cases of Def Leppard cassettes tomorrow, which is super sick. I think I might have to start collecting, honestly. Tapes are whole lot cheaper than records, you know,” you tell him as you scan and bag all his vinyls. “And it’s also, like, a fucking stellar album. I don’t think I’ve stopped listening to Photograph since it came out.”

“Photograph. Right. Love that one,” Steve nods with a kind smile as he props his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t particularly care that he’s not entirely sure what you’re talking about, or that he’s never actually heard the song. He’s starting to realize you could talk for hours and he wouldn’t get bored.

“Oh, is that your favorite too? Eddie’s more of a Foolin’ kinda guy.”

Despite the fact that he’s never heard the song or this album in his life, he nods anyway.

He sort of spent the first eighteen years of his life faking just about everything — it kind of came with being the King of Hawkins High. It’s a talent that hasn’t yet left him, it seems, lying through his teeth to impress people. It’s almost become a second nature to him.

“Foolin’s good, yeah, but I think Photograph is obviously better.”

“Obviously, right!” you exclaim with a sunshine-coated laugh. “That’s exactly what I told him! But he’s way too hard-headed to be wrong about anything, so…”

“Well, I’d like to put it on the record that I firmly agree with you,” Steve replies so smoothly that his tongue must be dripping with honey. It’s so easy for him to fall into King Steve mode — when he isn’t forgetting how to speak and running off, that is.

You’ve learned a lot Steve in the past half hour. He likes metal, but leans more toward rock. Particularly all the metal and rock that you like. He hasn’t once had a differing opinion than you, besides telling you he heard Eddie playing a Metallica song once that he didn’t particularly care for. The second you tell him it’s one of your favorites, he backtracks instantly, blaming the Munson boy for being too sloshed to play it properly.

And you don’t miss the way he’s looking at you just now either, with his chin toward his chest as he peers up at you with warm amber eyes. He’s the charmer that he always was. It makes you remember, again, just who you’re talking to.

“We have a lot in common, King Steve,” you lilt with a playful grin.

He deflates at the use of the old nickname. You see the light in his eyes flicker for a just moment before he’s ducking his gaze away from you completely. He tries to brush it off with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not— I’m not really King Steve anymore…”

“No?”

“Nope. Just… Just Steve these days.”

When he looks back at you, he finds you nodding at him, almost in approval.

Most people are upset to find that he’s changed so much. They hate that he’s no longer the recklessly stupid dumbass they used to get drunk with.

Not you, though.

“Cool,” you mumble, smiling softly, as you hand him his bag and receipt.

“Uh, I’d love to, you know, come take a look at those tapes when you get ‘em in,” he says as he walks backward towards the door, finally making the brash offer he’s been thinking about this whole time. “Maybe I can bring lunch and we can—”

“Well, Hellfire’s been doing campaigns during lunch recently. And Gareth’s out sick, so I’ve been subbing for him, you know, so…” you interject awkwardly, shifting your weight on your feet. You hate to turn him down, but Eddie might just kill you if he has to get a substitute for the substitute.

“Oh…” he nods, softly puckering his plump pink lips that you can’t seem to stop staring at.

“But I don’t think they’re coming in until late, anyway,” you add quickly. “So, you can stop by at closing, if you want?”

“No, yeah, that’s cool. So cool,” he replies, a little more flustered than he’d been just moments before. He’s just happy that your rejection wasn’t a total refusal.

You try to bite back the wide grin threatening to take over your mouth. “Okay… I’ll catch you later, then, Just Steve.”

“See you,” he waves right before startling himself when he backs into the basket of clearance tapes sitting just beside the door. He barely catches the thing before it tips over completely. He flashes you a shaking smile afterward and finds you covering your mouth with your hand while you try not to laugh too loudly.

He wishes you’d just went ahead and laughed at him. He wouldn’t have even cared that you were laughing at him, if it meant he got to see you smile.

And even though he’d just gotten done making the biggest fool of himself, he walks back to work feeling like the coolest man alive. There’s a foreign strut in his step that hadn’t been there before he saw you. It doesn’t leave him when he realizes he’s gone slightly over his break and that Keith is manning the counter in his absence.

The man mumbles a monotoned goodbye to the customer he’d just checked out.

She turns around and Steve realizes he recognizes this girl — Mindy or Mandy or maybe Monica — from Mr. Kaminsky’s class way back when. She did all of his homework for him before and after letting him fuck her on her twin-sized bed in her all pink room. That’s when Steve was conquering girls like they were Mount Everest, way before Nancy, when King was a title he wore with pride.

But he’s still so stuck in his head with thoughts of you that he doesn’t even see Mindy-Mandy-Monica or the flirtatious wave she throws his way.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Keith scolds, with his dead tone and his deader eyes.

Steve only shrugs, uncaring if it came out of his paycheck because — “I just got a date with the hottest woman on the planet,” he boasts with a puffed out chest and too smug smile.

It doesn’t lessen Keith’s anger, just diverts it. Because he knows exactly who he’s talking about. And so does Robin, as she pops her head out from behind the man from where she sits at the computer. “No way,” they chorus in disbelief at his words.

Steve nods. “Yes way.”

“Eddie’s gonna kill you,” Robin remarks with the shake of her head.

He knows she’s right. He just doesn’t care.

Eddie’s always been protective of you. Everyone knows that. But the two of them were friends now — or somewhat good-natured acquaintances, at the very least. He would’ve been mad about a year or more ago, if King Steve had decided to suddenly woo his best friend.

But it’s different now. He’s different now. Eddie knows how much everything’s changed, it’s just a question of if he’s willing to rehash old wounds.

It’s a good thing Steve knows how to take a punch.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Don't take my heart, don't break my heart.

Steve finds you again the next day less happy than he’s gotten used to.

The record store is dim and the red sign at the entrance has been flipped to closed, but the door is left unlocked — for him. The warm scent is a distinct contrast to the frigid spring night, a cozy high hemp and lavender, but your absence is noticeable and terribly heavy.

Steve lingers in the doorway, his shadow looming like a giant before him from the moonlight streaming in from outside.

He calls for you in the emptiness.

“Uh… Punchy?”

He’s relieved when you answer. The “back here!” you shout to him is muffled and far away. He follows the sound of your voice, filled suddenly with a childlike consolation.

The yellow fairy lights dangling over his head guide him through the aisles of cassettes and closer to you. Through a cluttered backroom, Steve finds you standing just outside an opened door — left ajar, for him.

The smile you flash when you see him is as dim as the closed-down store. It lacks all the sunshine you usually look at him with, shades of stormy gray rather than the usual yellows.

A look of concern flashes across his features — furrowed brows and inquisitive twinkling eyes — as you take a drag from the lit cigarette caught between your pointer and middle finger. You muster your best grin, but it flickers like a shoddy radio signal.

“Punchy, huh?” you tease.

Steve’s brows pinch together as confusion floods his features. It takes him a moment to realize what he’d said and the nickname he’d used — and he doesn’t want to be dramatic or anything, but he kinda wants to die. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to hold on to an old high school monicker. And, fuck, if you hate it half as bad as he hates being called king, he deserves a slap to the face right about now.

You laugh instead of ball your first. He’s able to smile meekly in relief. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, I… I don’t think I even realized it came out.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure when you see him getting all apologetic. “Eddie still calls me that all the time, so… Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve tries to move on, but it’s hard to when you’re so obviously gloomy. He hates how reserved you’ve gone in your quiet, not talking up a storm like you had been the last time he saw you. Now you’re just… a storm. It’s a little like sitting next to a rumbling rain cloud.

The rumbling rain cloud beside him takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You okay?” he asks and sounds like he really cares.

You didn’t think King Steve was capable of caring about anything other than his hair, but he looks down at you like he can feel every blue bolt of your doom and gloom. He makes you feel seen in the void of your sadness despite all the years you spent being invisible to him.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just the tapes. They didn’t come in,” you answer with a shrug. Smokes leaves your mouth and lingers in white clouds in the air. “So I’m a little bummed.”

“Oh…” is all Steve says and his pink mouth forms a too pretty ‘o’ shape that you can’t draw your gaze from.

The following silence makes you momentarily cautious. Insecurity runs cold over you because no sane person gets this about upset over a broken promise of a couple cassettes. It’s stupid, you know it is, but you were really looking forward to them. It’s like promising a kid the most metal present ever and then snatching it out of their bare hands.

Now, over the course of a couple hours, you’ve managed to convince yourself you won’t remember happiness until you get those stupid tapes.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him for a reason he can’t place. You shift your weight on your feet and peer at him from beneath your lashes. “I know you were looking forward to them, too.”

You extend your hand and offer him the cigarette between your fingers like it’s an olive branch. He takes it from you with a distant smile, then opts to laze against the brick wall like you are. He stays a respectful distance on the other side of the entryway.

“It’s okay. They’ll come. If I’m being honest, you know, I was kinda more excited to see you.”

His admission is brazen and a tad bit brash, even for a certified ex-douchebag. It lacks all of the usual honey-coated flirtation that usually tints his tone when he’s talking to a pretty girl. Because he wasn’t trying to make you swoon — though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if you had. This wasn’t some romantic advance, just a proclamation of his own personal truth.

A flash of shock contorts your features. “Really?”

“Of course,” he answers, breathing out a laugh that exits along with the smoke in his lungs. “I love talking to you. You’re… You’re cool, you know? S— Super cool.”

His face screws up at his stuttering, and he shakes his head at how the words sound leaving his mouth. His cheeks glow cherry red beneath an orange street lamp.

“Super cool, huh?” you repeat with a giggle that’s bright enough to illuminate the velvet night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Steve scoffs when he passes the cigarette back to you. Because, lately, that’s all he’s been hearing about you. From Eddie, from Robin, from Dustin — every good thing a person could say about someone else, they all say about you.

He’s starting to understand why.

Because you’re sweet. Like, pure sugar poured on the tip of his tongue kind of sweet. You’re bright like sunshine and soft like summer rain. You’re a shot of pure espresso for a boy who thought his life was at a dead end. He’s not entirely sure how he ever could’ve thought you were some deep, dark, devil-worshipping freak.

“I don’t believe that,” he dismisses with the shake of his head.

You breathe out a sharp exhale and a puff of nicotine-coated smoke. “I’ve been the town pariah since I was eleven, Steve. Everyone thinks I’m some kinda delinquent who’s in a cult because I play a dumb board game. So, no. No one’s ever thought I was cool before.”

“Still?” Steve wonders with a twisted face. “You graduated, like, a year ago. Are... Are people really still on your ass about that?”

“A little,” you answer with a shrug, trying your best not to look as affected by it all as you feel.

Steve feels his chest swell with the fiery urge to protect you. The same one he gets when Dustin tells him about the assholes at school that are bothering him. He wants to defend you from the same sort of assholes that he used to be. The impulse is borderline primal, rooted somewhere deep and far within himself, because god knows he’s got a terrible track record when it comes to winning fights.

“Shit, Punchy… I’m— I’m sorry.”

You sputter out a laugh at the apology, louder when you realize he’s using the nickname again.

He can’t relate to any of this. The trials and tribulations of being persona non grata everywhere you went were certainly lost on him. Steve might’ve lost his touch somewhere down the road, but he’ll always be crown royalty — the kind of guy you think fondly of when your wonderyears are long gone. But you? You’re lucky if people don’t cross to the other side of the street when they spot you coming.

Perhaps that’s why his words warm you so much. Because, despite all that, he’s trying to make you feel better anyway.

You give him a tender smile and a dwindling cigarette.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever, you know? I think it’s because I still hang out with Eddie all the time. Like, people see us and remember what fucking freaks we used to be,” you say with a laugh, then start to ramble without thinking. “We saw Tommy Hagan at Melvald’s the other day, and he looked at us like we caused him severe PTSD or something, like, he looked terrified. I honestly felt a little bad.”

Steve smiles, wide-eyed, equal parts intrigued and unsettled by the reminiscent glimmer in your eye and the daunting giggle that spills from your lips.

“But I wouldn’t leave Eddie, you know?” you blurt, suddenly serious, like you’ve taken offense at the very thought. “Not even if it meant people stopped being so mean. ‘Cause I love him and everything… Even though he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, he’s a total pain in the ass,” Steve agrees and flicks the butt of the cig between his fingers. “He loves you too, though. I can tell. The asshole never shuts up about you.”

“He talks about me?” you ask, voice fragile and pitched higher than normal.

Steve doesn’t like the way you say it. He hates how you look at him even more, with a scrunched up face and eyes that flicker with embers of shock. Like you don’t believe it, like you think yourself unworthy of it.

“You’re all he talks about,” the boy assures, feeling so suddenly brave and wanting to make you feel brave too. He hands the cigarette back to you. “I don’t blame him. If I were him, I’d never shut up about you either.”

The contorted look of confusion on your face untwists itself, and your features fall flat with disbelief. A smile pulls slow at your mouth. Your eyes glitter an orange gold beneath the streetlight. They flit over to the boy beside you just long enough to take the stick from him.

“Steve Harrington…” you lilt, almost scoldingly so.

It makes him smile. “What?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he retorts playfully. “Who’s to say I was flirting?”

“So you weren’t then?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs with a knowing, practiced smirk. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t seem impressed by his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting, and he isn’t at all used to that. The bravado and the puppy dog eyes are his one-two punch — any other time, he’d have a phone number tucked safely in his pocket by now. But you’re not biting.

“I’m so not your type,” you dismiss with the shake of your head.

“Yeah?” he challenges, shoving himself off the brick wall with his shoulder and making the short trek over to you. He plants himself next to you, leans with one sneaker crossed over the other, and smiles with a playful twinkle in his eye. “And what’s my type?”

“Nancy Wheeler,” you answer without missing a beat. “Pretty girls.”

“Well, I think you’re very pretty—”

“Not like her,” you interject with a foreign firmness that Steve hasn’t seen from you until now. You’re still smiling at him, though, still kind but looking like you don’t believe him. Like you think this must be some kind of sick joke that he’s taking too far.

You can entertain Steve. You like Steve. Mostly because he’s totally different from the douchebag you remember him being — the douchebag you were expecting him to be.

You find that he’s terribly clumsy and not overtly good with words. He says dumb jokes that don’t come out right and smiles in relief when they make you laugh anyway. He’s soft like peach fuzz or a fluffy cloud, mushy like warm chocolatey gooey goodness, and not at all like you remember him.

But then he does this. He morphs into something else, changes shape right in front of you. He smiles at you with little of his dumbassery behind it — all smirks and faux longing gazes with the intent of making you swoon at his feet. He grins down at you and all you see is the teenage boy who would’ve never looked at you that way four years ago. Hell, not even one.

It reminds you of who he is, who he used to be, and who you are now.

You haven’t changed so much since high school. You’ve matured a little, sure, but there was never an asshole exterior that you felt the need to outgrow. You’re still loud at times, unaware and ignorant of the world around you. You still play lightsabers outside Eddie’s trailer in between lengthy Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. You still pretend like the lingering glares from all the people you used to know don’t bother you.

They do, though. They always have.

You look at Steve and you see this butterfly — someone made of rainbow colors and mostly mature. He’s growing, and you’re stuck in the same cocoon you’ve been wrapped in since freshman year, still fumbling around and trying to figure out where you fit.

He’ll always be the pretty butterfly he always was, with his pretty little iridescent wings that catch the light and all the attention. He’ll feed off the applause he gets while you’re sitting on the sidelines. The girl who’s destined to stay bundled in her cocoon forever only hears all of his praise — never watches, never receives.

“You and I are completely different people, Steve Harrington,” you declare with a grin that tells him you’ve already made up your mind.

The boy doesn’t get it, though, why you seem so upset by the idea. Him and Robin were completely different people. Him and Dustin were, too. The two people he adored — tolerated — most in the entire world weren’t a single thing like him, and it was better that way.

You don’t seem to share a similar philosophy, though. You take a drag from your mostly gone cigarette and mourn what could have been; if only he had been the town freak or you had been born the pretty girl next door.

“That doesn’t have to be such a bad thing—”

He’s abruptly cut off by the sound of muffled rock music and the bright yellow headlights of Eddie Munson’s van. The two of you shield your eyes when he whips into the desolate parking lot and parks in front of you. The sudden intrusion feels like being blinding like the sun after you’ve found such comfort within each other in the dead of night.

The stifled Def Leppard song — or maybe Poison, Steve can never quite tell the difference — is brought to a sharp halt when the engine shuts off. The headlights dim. The metallic slam of the driver’s side door sounds so much louder in the darkness.

Eddie rounds the front of his van and eyes the two of you rather suspiciously. The boy inhales deeply, puffing out his chest and splaying his hands on his hips. “…What’s going on here?” he squints at you.

You give him a terribly manufactured sunshine smile and bat your lashes his way, like you’re pretending to be un-innocent. “Nothing…” you sing-song.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you, then turns his attention to Steve. They’re not really strangers anymore, but he still feels the need to treat him like an outsider anyway.

“Harrington,” he says in the place of any real greeting. “Don’t you have other shit to do? Like, I don’t know, a shift as the mannequin at the GAP or something?”

Steve can’t find it in himself to get self-conscious about his fitted-sweatshirt, khaki-slack combo when the insult comes from a guy in a decade-old leather jacket, unwashed t-shirt, and ripped jeans.

“Very funny,” the brunette monotones.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” you ask when you turn and walk backwards towards Eddie, like there’s a gravitational pull dragging you to him.

You say it to be polite mostly, but you’re hoping for an affirmative — a promise that you’ll have another night like this one, where he sees you just to be seeing you. Hell, you’ll even take a nod if that’s all he’ll give you. And when he does, he gives you a tiny smile that almost makes you trip over yourself.

Fuck, you think to yourself, like your brain is talking to your heart. We just agreed not to do that.

Before you get in the van, you walk by Eddie and bring your cigarette up to his mouth. You coax the stick between his lips with your pointer and middle finger, opting to let him take the last couple of hits because he never turns down a free smoke.

The passenger door shuts once you’re tucked into the seat of it. The sound it makes punctuates your absence. Steve feels all of its emptiness.

He eyes Eddie from the distance, immediately noticing the darkened skepticism dancing in his dark eyes.

The boy’s always felt the need to protect you. When the entire town got spooked about stories of some satanic panic and started treating you like monsters, he wanted to shield you from the boogeyman everyone turned into.

Steve wasn’t one of them, the bad men. But Eddie loves you and it’s made him doubtful.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve feels the need to say, as though he’d been caught with his pants down and not just sharing an innocent cigarette with a friend.

Eddie takes the final few puffs of it and exhales rather dramatically, lips pursing to blow it in his direction though it’s too far away to hit him. The boy throws the filter to the concrete and extinguishes the ashes with the toe of his dirty sneakers.

He waits until the white smoke has fully dissipated to speak.

“Damn right, it isn’t.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he says it, or when he rounds the van and hops into the driver’s seat next to you. Steve squints when the too bright headlights come alive again in time with the roaring engine and dated rock music. His tires screech when he speeds out of the back parking lot.

The tin can he drives nearly tips over when he turns too sharply onto Main Street.

Steve doesn’t get a chance to get a good look at you before you’re gone completely. It makes him all boyishly upset, knowing the hours without you will be most agonizing, but the empty feeling is eclipsed by the warm relief of not getting clock cleaned by Eddie Munson.

Damn right, it isn’t. Four words. That’s all he gets. But they’re daunting and coated with a lingering foreboding that feels almost like a threat.

So, by all accounts, Steve probably should’ve known there was no way Munson was ever going to back down that easily.

Eddie comes back the next day, a thundering storm cloud of the boy he usually is, head wild with curly hair and a million thoughts.

The door dings far too gently for such an aggressive arrival. Metal bangs against metal as the handle collides with the window pane. He stomps to the counter in several quick strides, dark eyes darting around the half-empty store — obviously searching for something.

Robin, manning the front counter, is entirely unable to be threatened by him. The all black, chunky metal rings, and crazy hair stopped being so intimidating when she found out you called him Eddie Spaghetti. Now, it’s all she can think about when she sees him.

Even as he stands ahead of her, obviously upset, all she sees is a very cartoonishly angry Eddie Spaghetti, and it takes everything in her not to laugh.

“Where’s Steve?” the boy finally wonders when he realizes the boy’s not in the front.

“Uh, he’s in the back, I think. Why?”

Eddie doesn’t humor her with an answer. He just storms past the counter and makes a b-line for the break room.

Robin watches him over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to go back there!” she half-heartedly shouts, but makes no further effort to stop him from doing so.

He finds Steve working beneath the dim yellow light of the back room. There’s a warmed-up container of leftovers on the small round table on one side of the room and a stack of unorganized tapes on the counter on the other. Steve multitasks between both and hums something summery under his breath — The Beach Boys, maybe.

He’s too distracted to notice Eddie’s abrupt appearance. It’s the subtle click of the shut door that gets his attention.

Steve’s confused at first. His head snaps over his shoulder like a ghost must’ve closed the door on him. He realizes that it’s just Eddie, and he’s so innocently relieved that it’s almost humorous, then confused all over again. His brows pinch together and through the chicken tender jutting out his check, he mumbles: “You’re not supposed to be back here—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Eddie interrupts in a monotone.

He swallows. It’s as thick as the tension that settles between the two of them, made heavier by the lengthy silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, stands up a little straighter, and bares his neck when he lifts his chin. “I want you to leave her alone.”

Steve scoffs and chews through his mouthful. “Leave who alone?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Eddie squints with an unusual sort of seriousness. “I don’t want you messing around with her anymore, man. I’m, fucking— I’m so fucking serious right now.”

The clarification makes Steve laugh. He shakes his head and goes back to piling the myriad of tapes into organized stacks on the counter. “We were just talking, Eddie. I don’t need the lecture, okay?”

“We both know it’s never just talking with you.”

“What? Are you in love with her or something?” he retorts, trying to make a joke of it.

Eddie, for the first time in his life, isn’t amused. “Oh, god, get over yourself, dude. I know what kinda guy you are, alright? I’m not gonna let you hurt her.”

His words hit Steve like a pot of boiling water. It prickles his skin, leaving blisters and burning red blotches in its wake. He’s all but on fire with his anger, less offended by the accusation than by the person it comes from.

Steve and Eddie aren’t friends by any means. They’re just two guys with shared custody of a bunch of teenagers, bonded in their want to keep them all safe. But through their lighthearted animosity, is a sort of understanding: neither of them are the assholes the entire town claims them to be. Eddie isn’t apart of some satanic cult. Steve isn’t a douchebag that uses women as accessories. And that’s just a silent agreement they’ve both come to on their own terms.

But now here they are, talking like it’s 1984 all over again and they’re strangers who hate each other’s guts.

“No. I’m not gonna hurt her. Because we’re just friends, Eddie.”

The boy just shakes his head. He scrunches his nose like he’s wincing, then laughs — a big, dramatic laugh that fills the tiny break room. He begins to pace, waving an accusatory ringed finger Steve’s way. “No, see… That’s the thing. I don’t think King Steve is capable of being ‘just friends’ with a pretty girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a heavy huff. He comes to the conclusion that Eddie’s just projecting and that there’s no use in arguing his case. He shoves a black VHS tape into its designated sleeve and slots it in with the rest of them, muttering under his breath, “I’m not King Steve anymore…”

“What?”

“I said, I’m not King Steve anymore!” he yells, a bit louder than he intended to.

He drives a tape onto the pile with an unexpected aggression. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. His arms flail wildly at his sides when he turns to face Eddie again. “God, you guys act like people can’t change! I’m not the asshole I used to be, alright? Jeez…”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose in the place of any real reply. Deep down, he knows all that. He knows it’s all true because he would’ve never befriended him otherwise. Steve Harrington — the king, the rich kid, the douchebag — turned out to be a pretty damn good guy.

And maybe if Eddie didn’t love you so much, he’d be able to wrap his head around all that.

But does. So he can’t.

He saw you two together the night before, sharing a cigarette behind The Groove — albeit a little too close for his liking — and suddenly, it was junior year all over again.

You’re stressed out about the ACT and college acceptance rates, none of your clothes quite fit you, and you’re trying out bold things with your makeup that don’t quite fit you either. You grin wildly up at Eddie through the vibrant lipstick smeared on your lips, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to cheer you up.

And Steve is a senior, standing on the other side of the hallway — with his pretty clothes and prettier hair — and he lets all of his friends laugh at you. They make fun of your un-styled hair and the way your shirt makes your boobs look, and Steve doesn’t find any of it particularly funny but he lets them mock you anyway.

Eddie sees you together and forgets about the man Steve is now. All he sees is a boy who never stuck up for you, for either of you, who let his best friends make your lives hell because his reputation mattered more.

And it wasn’t like it was his job to defend you, because it wasn’t. Not really. It’s just that you would’ve done it for him, if the roles were reversed. Eddie, too. Neither of you would’ve let a lamb be led to the slaughter quite like that. It was the Hellfire motto, after all — to protect the little sheep from the creeping wolves.

That’s where the difference lies. It’s where the mistrust settles deep and where the root of all of Eddie’s worries lingers.

But Steve has done more to prove himself than Eddie likes to give him credit for.

He takes care of a bunch of kids like it’s his job. He runs Robin to and from school most days out of the week, on time each morning — which, for a guy who showed up late every day for four years, was definitely saying something. He even comes to Eddie’s shows when he’s not too busy working the graveyard shift, never minding that he sticks out in his collared shirt and slacks — a pretty boy amidst a crowd of freaks.

Fuck. Steve Harrington was a pretty alright dude.

But you’re better than alright. You’re better than good. Better than perfect.

If you got your heart broken, Eddie thinks he’d feel all of it times a thousand.

Steve’s been through his own kind of heartbreak, though. He’s slapped a bandaid over his own bleeding heart, and it’s made him soft. The good kind of soft — the kind where he sees a bug on its back and has to flip it over because it hurts too much to let it suffer. Eddie knows he’ll be that kind to you. Kinder, even.

“Yeah, you better hope so, Harrington,” the boy concludes with a slow nod of his wild head. He steals a chicken tender from the styrofoam box it sits in, like it’s some kind of power move, and waves it at him like a condemnatory point. “I hear you do anything — anything — to her… And your ass is grass.”

Eddie takes a hearty bite from the strip, then tosses it back into the container again. He spins on the ragged heel of his sneaker and stalks out of the break room, punctuating his absence with the slam of the door. The ancient thing gets lodged and doesn’t quite shut all the way, so he has to double back and shut it fully.

Steve is left dumbfounded, in more ways than one.

“…He just ate my chicken,” he mumbles to himself with a frown settled deep between his brows. But there’s a lingering tension in Eddie’s storming out — a tangible fog within his words that settles something heavy in the Family Video breakroom that doubles as storage.

It feels almost like a blessing.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Won't escape my attention...

The more time you spend with Steve, the more confident you get.

You visit him at work more often, caring less and less about bothering anybody when you realize they all wanted you there. You let yourself ramble in front of him, too, not stopping yourself nearly as often as you used to. Steve guesses you started to believe him somewhere around the millionth time he promised he liked hearing you talk.

You turn to glitter in his presence, becoming more unapologetically yourself and glowing with it — with all the things that used to make you insecure, things that King Steve would’ve made fun of you for some time ago. Everything you were scared made you too different, is why he liked you in the first place.

And Steve gets to watch it all play out right before his eyes. You inch slowly out of the protective shell you’ve built around yourself and bloom like springtime flowers. He’s grateful he gets to witness it, even more that you feel comfortable enough to do it all in front of him.

You’re hardly as timid as you usually are when you saunter into Family Video. Rather than tiptoeing in and apologizing for intruding, you burst through the front door with a beam and a high-pitched squeal. You’re as bright as every star in the galaxy combined; even dressed head-to-toe in black, you’re more blinding than the sun.

Eddie’s leather jacket, either stolen or unenthusiastically lent from the boy himself, swallows your upper half. You wear a piece of Metallica merchandise beneath it. The thing is cut up to your ribcage. The jagged edges in the fabric, likely from a dull pair of kitchen scissors, tells him the chop was intentional.

A leather skirt clings effortlessly onto you, revealing the pudge of your stomach and the curves of your hips. The thing is donned with two spiked belts and several chains hanging loosely at your waist.

Steve is dozing at the counter with his chin propped on his first when you walk in. He’s half-asleep until he sees you. The shot of espresso that walks in makes him instantly forget how tired he is.

“Guess what?” you ask with wide, sparkling eyes as you skip to the counter with your hands behind your back.

Steve always hated that question. Usually, it came from Dustin or Robin — or, god forbid, both of them — followed by a “No, seriously. Guess.” It left him with no choice but to humor them until they ultimately caved and told him something he couldn’t have guessed in a million years.

He isn’t so annoyed now, though. In fact, he smiles. “What?” he replies.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, as though in a futile attempt to conceal the wide grin on your face, and take your hands from behind your back. You flash him the cassette tape you hold in the palm of them, a blue and yellow thing with the angled Def Leppard logo printed on the cover.

“No way!” Steve finds himself exclaiming like he’s the number one fan of the rock and roll band. He isn’t; never has been, really. But he is a fan of you. All of his excitement, all of his bright and shining smiles — they’re all for you.

“They came in last night— when I was off, of course— and I opened this morning and there was a whole damn tower of these tapes! I’m the one who does the tape towers, okay? Plus, I’ve been doggin’ my manager for weeks about the things, so I can’t believe they came in and no one told me, you know?”

Steve gets lost in your rambling right along with you, nodding because he never wants you to stop talking. His twinkling gaze follows you back and forth as you pace in front of the counter. You gesticulate wildly with your hands, nearly elbowing a customer when they get too close to the line of fire.

“And she was all like ‘I can’t control when they come in,’ And I was like ‘well, you can’t control when I come in either, I’ll be taking a long lunch now, thank you’—” you recount, albeit at a slightly louder volume that shocks anyone who doesn’t know you. People shoot you lingering side eyes from over the aisles.

Steve doesn’t care. He’s even happier that you don’t seem to either. You feel comfortable enough with him now to stop caring about the rest. When you stop yourself, you do it because you’ve said everything you need to say, not because you feel like you’ve annoyed him in some way.

“Anyway,” you conclude with a sigh. “I wanted to run it to you personally because, besides Eddie, you’re the only person I know who cares as much as I do.”

You smile sweetly at him, peering at him through your lashes, so suddenly timid — no longer the boisterous girl lighting up the whole room. Steve notices that you do that a lot, go from loud and sunny to shy and glimmering. Eddie does it too, sometimes, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“My wallet’s in my locker,” he tells you when you hand him the tape. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder with his free hand. “Let me go grab it. I’ll be, like, two seconds—”

You reach over the counter and take him by the arm, wrapping chipped maroon nails around the crook of his elbow to keep him from straying too far. Shock coats his features at the suddenness of your touch and the way it makes him buzz.

You scoff. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna make you pay, you weirdo.”

“No?”

“Of course not! It’s a gift.”

“Well, gee, Punchy. Considered me flattered,” he concedes with a faltering smile.

You laugh at his half-hearted attempt to be charming.

He rests his crossed arms on the counter and leans over the top of it in an effort to be the slightest bit closer to you. He gazes up at you with honey eyes and raised brows and a big, dumb smile. “And, you know, flattery... it goes a long way with me.”

You arch an un-manicured brow at him. “Does it, now?”

“Yep. So much so, I’m willing to break a few rules and let you pick out a couple of movies. On the house.”

It’s dumb and it’s sweet and so terribly innocent. He wants to give you so much than that but he’s got about eighteen dollars to his name, so all he can do is offer you a few measly VHS tapes. It has you beaming like he just offered you the world.

“Steve Harrington,” you scold playfully. “I didn’t know you were so naughty.”

He falters. His resolve slips and, for no more than half a second, his brain forgets how to work.

He’s not quite sure how you manage to do that to him all the damn time. You make his brain shortcircuit and his belly quiver and his vision swim. He’s known you for a while now, long enough that the lovesickness should’ve well worn off.

Steve’s worried that there’s no cure for you, that he’s in it for the long haul now — upset stomachs, heart palpitations, and all.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he shrugs and sways on his feet. “What’s your poison, Punchy? Molly Ringwald? Robert Downey Jr.? The John Hughes type?”

You can tell he’s joking. You squint over at him and rest your elbows on the counter top your face-to-face.

The wintergreen mint on his breath makes your head swim.

Your rouge-tined lips are so close he can taste them — he wants to, desperately so.

You don’t miss the way his gaze flits to your mouth, lingering there for no longer than a blink.

“Try Night of the Living Dead,” you challenge.

“That is so dreadfully on brand for you,” he manages to reply without much stuttering. He’s surprised he’s able to get any words out at all, with the way his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“I’m nothing if not predictable.”

Steve doesn’t respond as he leaves the counter to get what you asked for. Silence is easier than saying that you’re the most surprising thing he’s ever met in his life.

When he returns, he brings the entire film franchise with him. All three movies are stacked in his arms and he scans the backs of them, hoping Keith won’t notice that they’re being rented free of charge.

“Have you ever seen them?” you wonder.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw one of them at a drive-in a long time ago, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention, if you know what I mean—” he answers with a soft laugh, quick to cut himself off. It was supposed to be a dumb joke, but both of you know what he was insinuating and it makes everything awkward.

Robin would’ve slapped him on the back of the head if she were around to hear it.

He would’ve deserved it.

“Well, you missed out,” you scold, not quite meeting his gaze. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“I’ll try and watch ‘em sometime then.”

“Tonight?” you offer suddenly.

Steve furrows his brows. “…Huh?”

“I mean, like— I don’t know… I thought maybe we could watch them tonight,” you stammer with your eyes turned down toward the counter, where you draw invisible patterns onto the granite with the tip of your finger. “Like, together… if you want.”

Steve is momentarily speechless. He’s spent weeks plotting how he was going to ask you out. It would come to him in waves. He’d feel like he’d concocted the most perfect, foolproof plan right before realizing there was no way in hell he could ever go through with it — all in the same fleeting thought.

But here you are, biting the bullet for the both of you.

He’s grateful. He thinks he’s dreaming.

“That sounds…” Steve trails off with the mindless nod of his head. “Yeah. No. Totally. That sounds… really cool.”

A wide smile pulls at the edges of your lips. You purse your mouth to the side in attempts to conceal it. “Cool,” you murmur all cool-ly, like his affirmation isn’t heaven to your ears.

“Uh, not to sound like a total douchebag or whatever, but my dad— he’s got this theater room and everything, and my parents are almost never home,” Steve rambles as he puts all three movies into a paper bag. Then his eyes go wide and his face glows cherry red. “Not like that! I didn’t mean it like— That sounded really weird… I’m sorry—”

You giggle at him, at the way he can pretend to be so suave, and then reveal all the marshmallow fluff he tries to keep hidden a moment later. “It’s okay, Steve. I got what you meant.”

He writes his address on a yellow sticky note with the Family Video logo printed in green at the very top. His handwriting is boyish and sloppy, the sign of a boy who never did care much about school. Some letters are connected, others far apart; some written too big, while others are too small. You find it endearing, but Steve knows it’s just because his hand was shaking something fierce.

He leaves his number written at the very bottom. Just for good measure.

“No funny business, alright, Harrington?” you joke, waving a ringed finger at him as you walk backward out of the store, heading back to your own job.

Steve bites back a smile. Once upon a time, he was all funny business. No girl was ever going to invite King Steve over and not expect some heavy petting. And he wants so badly to kiss you — fuck, he wants to kiss you all the time — but the want to spend innocent time with you eclipses all of those boyish feelings.

He yearns to be close to you. Like magnets. Or a moon and the ocean’s tide.

“No funny business,” he promises.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You keep your distance with a system of touch.

It isn’t until you arrive at the front gates of the Harrington home you realize you’ve never been in the suburbs of Hawkins before.

You grew up on the very outskirts of town, where there were more trees than people or houses. The block was half rundown already and horribly secluded. The only interesting thing about it was the winding trail through the woods that led to the anterior of Forest Hills trailer park.

That’s where you spent the bulk of your time, practically living with Eddie and Wayne in their one-bedroom trailer, until you felt guilty enough to go back home for a day or two. Your parents would inevitably remind you why you ran off in the first place, and then the cycle would start all over again.

It was all just far enough away from Hawkins that you could pretend like the town’s bullshit didn’t exist. The freak from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t belong on Maple Street or Fairview Road or Laurel Avenue. That was for people who could afford new shoes every school year, who could go clothes shopping and not feel guilty about cutting into their food money, who were set up with trust funds before they were even born.

But here you are now, on Fairview Road, seven o’clock sharp, and standing in front of the biggest house you’d ever seen.

You ring the doorbell and flinch when it’s louder than expected. The chime is light and jaunty. You wonder if it’s been programmed for the change in season.

Steve answers no more than a couple seconds later. He swings both French doors open, arms spreading wide like the smile on his face.

He’s traded in his slacks for comfier jeans and his vest for a form-fitting sweatshirt he’s bunched at the elbows. You realize, then, that you’ve never seen him without the forest green Family Video jacket. It makes him look naked, almost, like a totally different person — no longer the dork who works a measly nine-to-five with his best friend and visits the freak next door on the off chance his manager won’t dock his pay for it.

The vest had humbled him to a certain extent. Now he just looks cool. Like the boy people would either praise or avoid like the plague, for fear of getting in King Steve’s path — just a little bit more mature looking now, with his chiseled jaw and scruffy chin.

It makes you feel a little stupid from where you stand on the porch ahead of him, wearing the same thing he’d seen you in earlier that day. He’s got no idea you spent the past couple of hours agonizing over what to wear. For the sake of not seeming crazy overzealous, you opted not to dress up. Now you’re scared he thinks you just didn’t care enough to.

But you do care. So goddamn much that’s it scary.

You never had to worry about what you wore or what you looked like before you left the house, about what you had too much of and what you lacked. Now, it’s all you can think about.

If Steve notices anything at all, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling at you, too happy to see you to care about what you’re wearing. He’s just glad that you showed up.

Truth be told, he had a six-pack and Robin’s number on speed dial on the off chance you canceled on him. He was preparing himself to wallow in self-pity and spend the rest of the night ranting to his best friend about the bleeding heart he had for you. Because, as far as he was concerned, you were far too good to be true.

You were beautiful and funny and kind and perfect. You treat him like you’ve known him for years, like he didn’t spend so many of them avoiding you in attempts to keep some measly title that didn’t mean shit. You were too perfect. Sometimes, Steve gets scared that he just made you up.

But whether you’re a dream come true or the real thing, you’re standing on his front porch anyway, with a smile and a bottle of grocery store wine.

He saves the beer in his fridge and the wallowing for another day.

Steve escorts you through his lavish living room and to the downstairs area that’s got a movie screen hanging on the walls and a couple of leather couches sitting in front of it. The coffee table in front of them holds a myriad of glass bowls — popcorn, various candies, and more popcorn.

“You planning on throwin’ a party down here, Harrington?” you tease with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal how your heart’s about to burst at the mere sight of it all.

“Well, I just— I didn’t know what you liked, and I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you had something to eat, you know,” the boy stammers out. He brings the palm of his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “So I just… I got… everything.”

“It’s a good thing a like everything then, huh?” you smile at him as you pluck a Red Vine from its dedicated bowl. You rip off an inch or two with your teeth and then talk as you chew: “I hope you’re prepared for all of this shit get eaten, Harrington. I can get quite ravenous.”

Steve nods to himself and tries not to smile too big. “Sounds entertaining… Maybe I’ll just watch you instead of the movie.”

It was supposed to be a joke.

But then you settled down next to him on the couch, keeping a respectful distance but sharing the same fuzzy blanket, and he has to physically force himself to drag his gaze away from you.

He was right about what he said before, you were far more entertaining than the black and white film projected ahead of him — grabbing handfuls of popcorn at a time and quoting the movie through the mouthful.

It’s a tad bit barbaric, the faintest bit off-putting, and otherworldly levels of endearing. It leaves him virtually unable to take his eyes off of you.

He didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you keep on proving him wrong.

He’s starting to realize he doesn’t know shit.

You’re slowly coming to the same understanding.

You’ve heard stories about Steve. Usually from gossiping cheerleaders standing in circles at their lockers or whispering in the back of a classroom. Doomed as the freak and all but banished from the inner society of Hawkins High, you became an observer. You were so invisible that people sometimes didn’t realize they were talking right over you, sharing secrets they wouldn’t want someone else to get a hold of.

But apparently you were the exception. Because you weren’t a someone to them.

They talked about how kind he was, how well endowed, how they were meant to go on some stupid date but missed their reservation because Steve got a little too handsy beforehand, and how they spent the rest of the night with their hands shoved down each other’s pants at Lover’s Lake.

You were seeing, firsthand, how much he’d changed. How he made his promise of no funny business and how he was sticking to it — no teasing you about the whole thing with a knowing smirk and flirtatious honey eyes, no urging to close this distance between you, no tiny touches on your arm or thigh in the hopes of heavier petting.

He spends the entirety of the first movie perfectly respectful. Just like you’d asked him to be.

And it was nice, knowing that you weren’t wasting your evening with some asshole who was only spending time with you in the hopes of you putting out later. But it leaves you the faintest bit empty. Hungry. You long for his touch like a missed meal. Starving and feeling it all.

It’s not even heavy petting you want, you just want to feel him next to you — to press yourself into his side and to warm yourself with him like a blanket.

But you weren’t a pretty cheerleader or a girl dripping in expensive clothes and daddy’s money. You were the weirdo, the freak, the loudmouth nerd, Punchy — all names you wore proudly, like lit-up signs or steel armor.

Until now.

Now you think if you weren’t Punchy, if were you someone different, then maybe he’d want to touch you more.

The first hour and thirty-seven minutes of your favorite movie are strangely agonizing.

Your hands itch with the desire to touch the boy next to you, and they busy themselves with the bowls of candy and savory junk food splayed out on the table in front of you. It’s mindless more than it is anything. You’re absentminded binging does nothing more than half-distract you from the thoughts raging rivers in your skull.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your hand falls into an empty bowl of popcorn and finds nothing but kernels at the bottom of it.

It makes Steve laugh, thinking you were just too into the movie to notice — having no idea it was him taking up all your brain power.

He leaves to fix more snacks for you while you slip the second VHS into the movie player. He returns with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn and two beers after the wine bottle has been sufficiently emptied. When he plops down next to you again, it’s in the same spot he’d been sitting in all night — a couple of excruciating inches away.

Under the guise of sharing the popcorn in his lap, you make the too bold decision to slither in at his side. It’s innocent at first — your thighs just barely graze and your elbows bump when you dip your hands into the bowl. And it’s still innocent some thirty minutes later, when you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder with your legs curled up behind you.

Steve tenses when he feels your temple pressed against him, but only for a moment before he relaxes again. It makes him all suddenly warm and self-aware of every movement he makes. He tries not to breathe too heavy or shift too often, for fear it might jostle you too much. He doesn’t want to stop feeling you against him like this, even if it’s got his skin prickling with a searing form of anxiety.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” he jokes.

“Of course not. It’s way too riveting,” you scoff, even though he can feel you cuddling further into him. Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt when you look up at him. He turns his head to peer down at you and his nose nearly grazes your forehead.

He finds you with a certain glint in your eye. It’s borderline playful, like it so often is, but coated with a sweetness that drips over him like honey. “You like it so far?” you wonder.

“Yeah,” the boy nods quickly. He couldn’t tell you what had happened the past two-and-a-half films, but he could tell you how your jaw tenses when you chew and how your smile curls just before you laugh out loud and how your eyes widen every time you quote the movie. “It’s really good. I like it.”

You beam at him before turning back to the projector again. You shift to get more comfortable against him. “Good.”

By the third movie, you’re somehow even closer.

Truth be told, Day of the Dead wasn’t your favorite in the trilogy, so it left your mind wandering to far off places — namely, the pretty boy sitting beside you. He goes to put the tape into the projector, feeling immediately cold without pressing into his side, and when he returns he tries his best not to beg you to cuddle against him again.

“My shoulder’s gettin’ real cold over here,” he tries to joke.

You see right through his beckoning, though. It makes you happy to know he wants it just as much as you do.

“Just say you wanna be next to me, Harrington,” you tease like you aren’t happily obliging him. You snuggle into his shoulder and rest your head against him while your arms curl around his bicep.

“I wanna be next to you,” he repeats, a playful smile on his lips though his gaze softens with sincerity. “Is that so bad?”

You shake your head against him in reply. Suddenly as mushy as the boy beside you, you turn to look up at him. “Not unless it’s bad that I wanna be next to you, too…”

“Nah. It’s not bad,” he assures in something short of a whisper. “Guess I’m just glad I’m not the only one that’s so far gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that. He doesn’t have to.

Perhaps it’s the admission that this boy is so far gone for you that gives you a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the comforting feeling of being seen, of knowing you’re no longer alone in your similar far gone-ness. Each feels like rays of sunshine to your skin and has you pressing your lips to his wanting ones without much thought.

The plump pink of his mouth are magnets for yours. They meet and lock together with little effort, almost destined to do it. It’s a soft, meager, and lingering little peck that sucks you both in a little too easily. It’s hard to pull away from him, but when you do, your lips click in protest.

Then there’s a look, then a deafening silence that says more words than either of you were capable of forming in that moment. His amber eyes dart between both of yours, asking a question without saying a goddamn thing. One that you answer with your own softening gaze.

And it’s almost better than the kiss itself, the swirling feeling in the pits of your stomach, the knowing of what’s about to happen.

A silent plea and a blink later and his lips are on yours again.

It’s an awkward mess of yearning mouths and tangled limbs as the both of you fight to find purchase on one another. Your fingers knot in the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer, while his grip the bare skin of your waist from where your shirt had ridden up. His touch makes you buzz, like a static shock or a bolt of lightning.

Steve makes several observations when he feels you melt into him like honey on toast. He notices how you press yourself into him, like you won’t be satisfied until you’ve swallowed him whole, and how it has you kissing him like you’re scared he’ll pull away — like you’ll open your eyes and he won’t be real.

You’re as domineering against his mouth as you are in real life, still as all-consuming and overpowering as the girl he’s gotten so familiar with.

He doesn’t realize how you’ve settled so intently on top of him until his back meets the pillowy cushion of the leather couch. You don’t either, until he exhales a sharp gasp against your cupid’s bow. Then you part from him, for the first time in several minutes, breathing in the oxygen your lungs had just begun to scream for.

Steve finds you with kiss-bitten lips and glassy eyes that look upon him with a softness that he didn’t know existed until now. He smirks with his own swollen and pinker mouth like he isn’t glowing red beneath you.

“I thought you said no funny business,” he manages to tease through bated breaths.

You don’t bother to make up excuses for yourself. You’re already on top of him, all over him — you’ve already kissed him like you would’ve died if you hadn’t. Now, you’re straddling him, caging him between your legs and under your torso. You’ve settled on top of him with a comforting weightiness, like you’re building a home in the familiarity you’ve sought in him.

“I lied,” you mutter with a lazy shrug. A sly smile pulls slowly at your lips until you’re all but beaming sunbeams down at him. He revels in your warmth. “’S not my fault you’re so damn cute.”

It’s easier to blame it on him for all the reasons you’re attached to him like a magnet to his metal, your moth to his flame. You part his lips with your mouth, rut your tongue against his own, reveling in the foreign familiarity of it all, and then blame him for the way you can’t seem to stop any of it.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. The way his hands find purchase on your hips, petting the warmed skin there and sometimes squeezing to pull you further down onto him, tells you that he has a similar yearning to melt with you. He lets you kiss him all slow, allows you to taste all of him, and doesn’t rush you in your process. It’s comforting, tender. Free.

He’s not used to being on his back like this. Usually, he’s the one taking control. It’s his mouth that does all the work. So, it’s strange to be under you and to have you above him. But it’s more pleasant in an even stranger way not to be rushed — not to have to do all the work. His mouth opens so obediently for you and finds an effortless rhythm with your lips and your tongue.

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, kissing you.

He delights in every ounce of the warmth and unfamiliarity you press to his mouth, and tries to shove down feelings of unworthiness that simmer in his chest while you do so.

You don’t part until your mouths are numb and tingling with it.

Your lips are more vibrant in their color, aflame and swollen from being so ardently kissed and sucked and bitten. Neither of you mind making out like a couple of teenagers. It’s comforting to know that things won’t go further than a couple soft touches on burning skin. It was never supposed to be anything more than that, anyway. It was just about being close to each other.

You’ve almost succeeded in your effort to melt into the boy beneath you, when you hear the distant sound of a door opening and closing again. Muffled voices follow — unknown to you but obviously familiar to him.

You part from him without thinking, like you’re a couple of kids again who’ll get in trouble if your parents ever found out what you were doing down here. Steve groans at the loss of you and in annoyance at the sound of his parents. His heavy eyes fall shut and his head leans back to the couch cushions as he fights to swallow down all of his anger.

His parents never really come around these days. They’ve got a bigger home in the city, closer to his dad’s work, and they choose to stay there most days of the week — month.

They used to make excuses for why they left their only son behind. It’s five minutes from your dad’s firm. There’s more opportunity for your mom’s real estate business. Oh, don’t be so selfish, Steven, you’ll finally have the place to yourself. It’s a win-win for all of us.

Steve didn’t want their excuses. It was actually easier with them gone.

But they come around every now and again, whenever it’s most convenient for them, and treat their arrival like something that needs to be celebrated. Like they aren’t supposed to be with their child in the fucking first place. And they somehow manage to pick the most inconvenient times for him, like they know he’s in a bind and want to see him struggle to get out of it.

Usually, it’s when he’s in between paychecks — when they want to take him out to some fancy dinner he could barely afford anyway, but especially when he’s hardly making it until payday. Now, it’s when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on top of him, and he’s all hot and half-hard. Steve doesn’t want to let them ruin the moment, as good as they are at it.

“It’s okay. They won’t come in here,” he assures when he feels you tense at the unexpected company. “My mom will go to the bedroom and my dad will go to his office. We’re good, I promise.”

You figure he’s right. The voices grow more and more distant. Heeled shoes click up and up the stairs while heavy stomps head the opposite way. But you’ve already been so woefully knocked out of your stupor that you’re scared it’s too late.

Your lips are numb and the credits are rolling and you’re on top of this beautiful boy and you have no idea how you got there.

It’s almost frightening, the way Steve had consumed you mind, body, and soul by just existing next to you. You become dreadfully hyperaware of the whole thing — of who you are, who he is, and what you’re doing. You lose all your softness and turn to ice, hardening and shrinking back into yourself.

“I should—” you start before clearing your throat when the words come out heavier than expected. “I should head out anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say. “Right.”

You stare down at him, chest still pressed against his, nose nearly touching the tip of his own. “I just— I have to open tomorrow and everything, so—”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, I— I get it.”

You make tricky work of untangling yourselves.

His legs twist with yours when you both try to rise from the couch at the same time. Then your ring gets stuck in the fabric of his shirt, but not before his belt buckle gets somehow caught in yours. It’s like fate is protesting the imminent parting, but neither of you are paying attention to the signs.

He walks you to your car and chuckles under his breath as you scurry to the front door.

You’re not-so-distantly terrified of running into his parents. They probably wouldn’t mind that he’s sneaking around with a girl, surely that they’re used to, but you’re almost certain they’re not used to girls like you. Girls with wild hair and leather skirts and chunky boots and too bold makeup.

You’re not the girl next door. You’re the girl parents warn their sons about. “Leave that girl alone,” they say. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

You tell him all of this on the short trek to your half-broken-down car when you catch him laughing at you about the whole thing. You say it in jest, lighthearted and trying to make a joke of it. But there’s an underlying melancholia to your tone that reveals every truth you’re trying to evade.

“They don’t care enough about me to give a shit about a girl I’m with, I promise,” he confesses with a laugh that sounds more like a sad scoff than anything else. His chocolate eyes turn gold beneath the yellow street light. He smirks at you. “Besides, I don’t know if I told you this or not, but my middle name is actually trouble, so… I think we might be a match made in heaven.”

You roll your eyes at his attempts to flirt with you, though his lack of finesse makes you smile. “You’re an idiot, Steve Actually Trouble Harrington.”

“You really know how to say goodbye, don’t ya?” he grins when you reach the curb where your tin can car sits.

“Yeah, I’m pro,” you shrug with a teasing glint in your eye, then you beam. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Totally,” he nods, suddenly forlorn at having to leave you like he hadn’t just spent the past four hours with you.

Themetallic click of your car door opening sounds much louder in the emptiness of the suburbs. You glance at the boy right before you sink into the driver’s seat, feeling your heart swell with something short of yearning — anticipation.

You weren’t actually a professional at saying goodbye, you find, because you’re realizing how hard it is to leave him.

“Steve!” he hears you shout from across the lawn when he’s halfway up the drive.

He turns around, expecting to hear you tease him some more or tell him you were having car troubles. Neither would’ve shocked him. You’ve got a smart mouth and a shittier car. But you keep on surprising him, all but launching yourself into him before kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed before.

Steve tenses against you at first, then relaxes again in record time. He sighs in the comfort of having your body pressed so intently into his and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him somehow closer.

You feel the breath of his exhale fan against your cupid’s bow. It makes you smile, and he feels the expression contort against his lips. His hands rise to the widest part of your hips without thinking. It’s all muscle memory now.

And even though he’s spent the better part of an hour kissing you, this one is so obviously different. This wasn’t just to pass the time. This was more than just to feel him — it was to tell him something. He hears every word you don’t say, but rather press like a stamp to his mouth.

He’s breathless when you pull away. You meet his flushed face with a mischievous grin.

“What was that for?” he wonders breathlessly, but doesn’t waver with his hold on you. He quickly notices that yours doesn’t either.

You shrug in response. “‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, well…” he tries to play off like he’s not blushing like crazy. “You’re pretty too.”

Your beam ebbs into a teasing, tightlipped smirk. “Stop flirting with me, Steve Harrington.”

You shove him away with a rougher hand than you realize before you walk away from him. Steve rubs at the ache in his chest with the palm of his hand.

Your playful teasing and your lingering kiss is the only thing Steve has to remember you by when you turn on your chunky heeled boot and head off down the driveway again. He’s frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you and reeling at how you manage to drive him crazy without trying.

Your eyes find him again just before you duck into your car, and you see him still looking at you — mouth agape and eyes wide like you’re some kind of rare find. You figure you must be, in some way. Girls like you aren’t supposed to like guys like him. Vice Versa. Tale as old as time.

The boy stays locked in his stupor until the sprinkles whir on. The spurts of freezing cold water spray all over him and his pretty hair and expensive sweatshirt and his vintage jeans. “Shit!” you hear him swear as he rushes for cover on his front porch.

He’s quickly soaked and freezing cold, but he smiles anyway when he hears the sound of your giggling behind him. It’s as animated as your personality and spills from your mouth like so many rays of sunshine, just a little too loud for the quiet midnight suburbs.

It’s perfect, he realizes. You’re perfect.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #st oneshots #stevie oneshot #punchy x steve

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phoward89 · 4 days

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Happy (late) 420! I tried to get this out yesterday, but that didn't happen. Anyways, here's some Dealer!Coryo x Reader in honor of 420.

Weed, drugs, guns, cussing, Coriolanus Snow being Coriolanus Snow, p in v, slight degradation?, um that's bout it

“Your brother's drunk again?” Coryo, your weed dealer and fuck buddy, asked as he flung the door to his section 8 apartment open as soon as he saw you thru the peephole.

He knew what was wrong with you just by the sullen look on your face. Anytime you had that look on your face it was because your brother was either drunk and fighting with you or your ex (who Coryo nearly beat to death after the last time he cheated on you- which if you ask the dealer shouldn't have happened cause only a fucking idiot would stick their cock in a skeezy cunt when they've got your perfect, tight cunt to fuck on the regular) did something (like cheat) to upset you.

After getting beat within an inch of his life, your ex skipped town. Rumor has it that he went to California. So, Coriolanus knows that there's only one reason you're on his doorstep looking like an anxious mess: your brother, Rein.

“Yep.” You popped your tongue.

“Come in.” Coriolanus ordered, moving aside to make room for you to enter his shithole. As you walked by him and into the apartment that smells heavily of cigarettes, weed, incense, and rose scented glade plug-ins, your favorite drug dealer announced with a lopsided smirk, “I was just ‘bout to roll a joint.”, while shutting and bolting the door.

“It's been a while since I smoked. I could use a few hits to calm down.” You admitted, making a beeline to the lumpy couch and in extension the glass coffee table nestled right in front of it.

A glass coffee table with chipped corners that was cluttered so much that the glass could barely be seen. It was a cluttered mess of magazines, rolling papers, plastic sandwich baggies, large bags of weed, a scale, a few empty beer bottles, an empty chip bag, a red solo cup, zippo, and a cheap ashtray.

Sometimes you wonder about Coryo, who could be a dead ringer for Eminem. Hell, his looks got him the nickname of Paneminem. You know, cause he's the Slim Shady of your small bumfuck Colorado town of Panem.

A town that both you and Coriolanus Snow, known to a very small select few as Coryo, hate with a passion.

But, anyways, sometimes you wonder about the dealer with the platinum buzzcut (which you were shocked to find out was his natural hair color) that lives alone. He doesn't have a lot of friends and the only family he's got is a cousin, Tigris, that's a stripper at Pluribus’ club. But they had some kind of falling out after he got a dishonorable discharge from the army and barely talk anymore.

And you only know about Tigris and his brief stint in the military cause you curiously asked him about his dog tags, chewing on the corner of them during a half-high afterglow while cuddling with him.

“What dumb shit did Rein do this time, baby girl?” The hardened drug dealer asked, following you over to the sofa. A sofa that has a board under it to level and prop up the saggy seat cushions.

“He’s pissed that I got laid off and can't find another job.” You told Coryo as the two of you sat down on the couch, making it dip under your combined weight.

“So, does that mean you're gonna start helping your favorite dealer sling shit for cash?” Coriolanus slightly chuckled, slipping his hand underneath the hem of his oversized white T-shirt and pulling his gun out of the waistband of his baggy jeans; placing it down on the coffee table.

You've seen the black Glock so many times, gosh it must be at least 50 by now, since you started buying weed and hooking up with Coryo. Him handling the weapon around you doesn't even phase you anymore. It should. It really should, especially since you weren't raised around guns or violence- but apparently the more time you spend around Snow (Coryo's surname and one of his street names- the other being Snowball) the more you're being corrupted by him.

Unknown to you, Coryo doesn't want you to become corrupted by him. He thinks you're a really sweet girl that had some shit luck of being abandoned by your mom and raised hovering above the poverty line by your much older half-brother and his girlfriend. Despite your crappy conditions, you’re as sweet as honey. Or at least to Coriolanus you are.

For some reason, the hardened drug dealer that's a couple of years older than you wants to keep you safe from any and all dangers in the world. Hell, Snow's not supposed to have feelings for you, a girl that occasionally buys weed from him; comes over to his place to vent about her life, but he does.

And that's not good because feelings are dangerous in his world. The drug underworld. The side of town, hell life, that decent people don't see.

Coryo's got people that would love to put a bullet in him; the cops also want to lock him up for at least half his life too. Having you around him so much, getting wrapped up in shit isn't good at all. It's not good for you or for him. It'll only end up bad and in heartbreak.

And Snow can't have that. Oh, he has to protect you from his world. The world of drugs and all other illicit activities that transpire in the criminal underworld. You're just too sweet to have as a permanent fixture in his life, which is why he doesn't hang with you unless you're buying weed from him. He won't actively seek you out, despite the fact that you always bring a smile to face and warm his cold, black, dead, frostbitten heart.

“Coryo, you're my only dealer.” You dryly remind him, watching as he perches on the edge of his couch; leaning forward to grab the items he needs from his chipped coffee table to roll the joint with. “And no, I'm not gonna help you deal.”

“Only dealer, favorite dealer: same thing from how I look at it.” Coriolanus retorts while his long fingers nimbly work to fill and roll a joint for the two of you to share. “It was a joke, baby. I wasn't serious.” Your dealer dryly told you before giving out a lecture of, “My line of work’s dangerous, babe. I'd never send you out into that shit just to make a buck.” Waggling a long weed scented finger in your face, he added in, “And I would've fucked some goddamn sense into you if you’d agreed to my fake offer.”

You’re not stupid, you know that Coryo’s not just a weed dealer, but that he sells some hard shit and it makes his job- hell his life- dangerous. But you don't care. You accept him as he is. You're not trying to fix him; you're fine with him the way he is. You're also fine with being his customer/sorta friends with benefits.

You know that Coryo has a lockbox full of various pills and coke that he deals. The box is shoved in the side table, that looks like a weird ass octagon, caddy cornered between his sofa and a heavily duct taped easy chair. You saw it once when you were over, crying about being cheated on by your ex and needing some weed (and maybe some big dick) pronto to make you feel better and calm you down.

Coryo had a customer he needed to meet and sell some powder to, so he prepared the crap right in front of you. After cutting the white powder finely with a credit card (that you're sure he stole from somebody) and portioning it up in a baggie, he made you swear to never touch the hard shit. He even said that he'd shoot whoever dares to give you the shit right between the eyes if he ever found out that you dabbled in the hard shit.

And then he sent you on your way with a few joints and a promise that he'd stop by to check up on you; see if you need anymore post getting cheated on weed to help feel better with. He kept good on that promise, he stopped by and took you out for a ride. A ride that ended with you desperately riding his cock in the backseat of his car- which was parked in some alleyway in a seedy part of town.

“Calm down, Coryo. God, don’t pop a vein over there.” You sarcastically tell the platinum blonde while he finishes rolling the joint. Watching him pick up his zippo off the table, you assure him.“You don't need to worry about me being in danger from the big bag drug dealers; I'll only make my money legally.”

“Y/N…” Snow mumbled warningly, slipping the joint between his lush lips and lighting up. Taking his first hit, he sighs, “The more you hang ‘round here, baby girl, the more you might be putting your sweet lil ass in danger.”

“I’m a big girl, Snowball. I can take care of myself, plus I trust you and know that you'd never hurt me.” You said, watching him take his second hit.

Passing the joint over to you, he dead ass says, “I got enemies; if they think we're a thing they'll fuck you up to get to me.” Shaking his head, he leans his elbows on his knees (of course he was manspreading- he always does when sitting on the sofa). “Cops would haul you in; jam you up just to try and catch my ass.”

Your brows furrow at his words. At their implications.

“So, what, you don't want me coming ‘round anymore?” You asked, brushing your fingertips against his rough, calloused ones as you took the joint from him. “Want me to find somebody new to buy weed from?” You took your first hit, coughing slightly. “Maybe I'll drive a couple hours to Denver and buy from a regulated dealer: from the man.” You threatened, taking your second hit and passing the joint to the broad shouldered man next to you.

“You're not driving down there for weed. You hear me?” Coryo sternly ordered before taking a deep hit off the joint.

“Then don't say you don't want me around, Coryo.” You countered, watching your dealer sexily blow a large billowing cloud of smoke from his perfect O shaped mouth.

“I didn't say that, babe.” Coryo snapped, his voice a bit hoarse from smoking weed all day (or at least you think he's been smoking all day). “I don't wanna have a heavy talk while smoking. Let's table this for now, yea?” He told you before taking a second, even longer hit from the joint perfectly pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yea, my life's stressful enough.” You agreed, taking the offered joint from Coriolanus as soon as he exhaled a lungful of smoke.

Coryo didn't say a word, just leaned back into his couch and snaked an arm to rest behind you. He gave you a lazy thin lipped smile as you took your hit. His icy eyes, usually void of emotions, were shinning with fondness as he watched you instead of whatever bullshit was on his tv.

A very nice large flatscreen that somebody gave him for payment. Fuck, the damn thing was worth nearly a grand since it was some top of the line Samsung smart tv. Snow knew it must've fallen out the back of a truck, but he didn't give a shit. Meant he didn't have to use he crappy tablet to watch stuff anymore.

But instead of watching tv, his attention was on you. God, Coriolanus loves watching you smoke. He thinks you're so sexy when you smoke. This cute, lil sweetheart taking in a large burning lungful and letting it waft out of your mouth expertly.

It turned him on.

“It's not polite to stare, Coryo.” You remind the menacing man next to you, your tone a bit teasing, while passing him the joint after finishing your hits.

“I'm not staring, so don't know what your talking about.” He firmly denied, acting like he wasn't just caught ogling your gloss coated lips, while taking the joint.

You're starting to feel a bit hazy from the weed, unlike Coryo you don't smoke around the clock so a few hits mellows you out quickly, and lean your head against his shoulder.

“Your such a fucking lightweight.” The platinum blonde chuckles, shaking his head with a hint of an taunting smirk on his lips.

“Not everyone can smoke and fuck all day, Snowball.”

“I don't smoke and fuck all day. I'll let you know that if I don't sling my shit then I ain't making any bank.” Coryo sneered, sounding a bit insulted by your remark, before taking a quick hit and holding the joint out to you.

Your fingertips brush over his, sending shockwaves through both of your buzzed bodies, as you take his offering. “You know, I'm still having a dry spell.” You reluctantly sigh between taking your two puffs and passing him back the joint.

Coryo's not stupid, he knows why you've been having problems finding somebody to hookup with let alone date. Word on the street is that he's sweet on you. That you’re Snowball's baby. Or at least Plinth and Creed, his only friends that are also dealers, told him that's the word.

Been the word since somebody saw you and him at some house party few weeks back- disappearing into a bathroom together for a good 15 minutes or so (yea, long enough to fuck).

“Maybe I can do something ‘bout it then, yea?”

“Maybe.” You coyly shrugged.

Even tho both you and Coryo knew that as soon as the joint turned into a roach; was snubbed into the ash trash, you'd be making out and undressing each other on his sofa.

“Hmmm…Coryo, that feels so good…” You loudly moan, feeling your cunt twitch and grow wetter, as you ride Coryo's cock.

Coryo's sucking on one of your titties while roughly squeezing the other in his large, calloused hand. His other hand is holding onto your ass like it's the most prized jewel into the entire world.

“God, Coryo, I needed your cock so bad.” You admit to him, your voice nothing more than a pathetic mewl, as your wrap your arms around his neck- one hand pressing into the back of his platinum buzzcut while the other holds the back of his neck- while you leverage yourself to bounce faster on his dick.

His cock, very long and thick with veins that catch every velvety piece of your walls, fills your cunt up perfectly; turns you into a whinny mess. His tip hits against your cervix, causing the coil to begin to tighten inside of your lower body with every move. And the way his cock presses into your g-spot just right- oh fuck he's completely ruined you for men.

Whether you want to admit it or not, you're addicted to Coryo's cock. He's the only man that can fuck you just right. God, you would be all hot and bothered over your dealer.

Your nipple falls from Coryo's mouth with a loud, wet pop. He looks up at you, baby blues smoldering midnight with lust, and slaps your ass. “Fuck, baby. Ride my cock, ride my cock like the lil slut you are.” His hand slides over your chest, leaving one tit and going to kneed the other, as he lands two quick slaps to your ass. “Baby, your cunt feels so tight and good. Ride me, baby, ride me.”

“Fuck…Coryo…think I'm gonna cum.” You breathing tell him, forehead pressing down against his; hair curtains around your faces, as you grind your hips faster against his.

“Yea?” He asks, his voice heavy from lust and hoarse from smoking weed, as he places his hands on either of your hips. “Hold on, baby. I'll make ya cum.” Coryo tilts his chin up, sloppily kissing you, before digging his fingers into the meat of your hips and thrusting fast and hard up into you.

“Fuck!” You scream, feeling your insides literally getting rearranged, as Coriolanus’ cock plunges deep inside of you. Deeper then you’ve ever felt it before (and that's saying something since the man’s cock always leaves an imprint in your lower stomach everytime you fuck) and it's making you see stars.

Your arms are tightly wrapped around Coryo's neck in a vice grip as he pounds up into your cunt at such a strong, punishing pace. He's fucking you so hard and good that you can feel the rubber band inside of you get ready to snap. “Coryo…I'm gonna cum.”

“Cum, baby. Be my good lil slut and cum on my cock.” Coryo orders, his baritone rough and raw, as he presses you against his chest while bucking his hips at lightning speed.

And you do. You cum hard, moaning a string of curses mixed with Coryo's name, before leaning limply against him and panting to catch your breath. Your head's pressed into the crook of his neck and he's now holding holding your back to keep you afloat while chasing his own high. Coryo pistons his cock in and out of you quickly before groaning a couple fucks and your name while shooting his hot load of thick pearly ropes of cum deep into your cunt.

“Damn…” Coryo trailed off, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Your head's still resting in the crook of his neck as you unwrap one of your arms from around his neck. Running your hand up and down his toned chest, you blurt out, “I'm hungry.”

“Of course, you get the munchies now.” Coryo scoffs, shaking his head. “I got some pizza rolls in the freezer, I'll nuke us some in a lil bit. Okay, babe?” He offered while trying to enjoy his blazed out afterglow moment with you.

Honestly, he just wanted you to cockwarm him for a while because he didn't know when you'd be in that position again.

And Coryo knows that he's going to have to cut you loose eventually. You're a liability in his line of work. Snow, the cold hearted drug dealer that doesn't think twice about popping a cap in somebody's ass, has a soft spot for you. Hell, to be honest he cares for you.

He cares a lot.

And that's dangerous. Feelings are a weakness that he can't afford in his life. The thought of you being used against him makes him sick.

And Coriolanus will never forgive himself if something bad happened to you because of him.

He knows that he'll have to cut you loose soon. Put his combat boot covered foot down; lay down some rules for the two of you to abide by. Something like he'll drop your weed off at your house then leave type of deal.

But right now, for a few minutes, he just wants to bask in your warmth.

And for right now, you're Snowball's baby.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @tian-monique @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

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elvensorceress · 11 days

Text

sunday sentences

tagged by @tizniz @wikiangela @messyhairdiaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @confetti-cupcake @bekkachaos @fiona-fififi @spotsandsocks @daffi-990 @diazsdimples tagging @hippolotamus @lover-of-mine @rainbow-nerdss @wildlife4life @frenziedblaze @saybiwithme @monsterrae1 @wh0re-behavi0r @epicbuddieficrecs @watchyourbuck @chaosandwolves @exhuastedpigeon @ronordmann @hoodie-buck @littlerosetrove Unless, Unless, when will we be finisheddddd. BuckleyDiaz family feelings, 3..2..1..

When they pull up to the school, Chris grabs his bag and his crutches like always and pushes open the door to the jeep like always, but for some reason, today, he also turns to Eddie and says, “Love you, Dad,” then looks at Buck and repeats, “Love you, Dad,” then says, “Bye,” and gets himself out of the car and up the walkway into the school.

As if the whole world hasn’t stopped spinning.

As if the whole of the universe wasn’t completely rewritten by three tiny words.

Eddie says something like, “Love you, too,” before Chris was too far out of the car.

But Buck is back somewhere where the world stopped and his heart stopped and suddenly restarted but nothing is actually moving. He blinks a few times. And maybe breathes? Breathing is important. He should breathe. But nothing else is functioning.

How— how? Did that just happen? It couldn’t have happened. Buck is hearing things. He’s making it up in his head. It couldn’t have been what he thought it was. That’s just not— they’re —not? Except. They kind of are? Maybe?

Is there seriously a child— not just any child, his Christopher. Eddie’s Christopher. Who is also Buck’s Christopher? — there’s a child who calls Buck his dad? Buck is dad to someone?

Okay, yeah, they talk about it. Eddie talks about it. He talks about adoption papers and Chris has told Buck more than once how he loves him and has missed him and how Buck is special and means so much to him.

But—? But he’s never—

“Did,” Buck tries but words are hard. Why are they so ridiculously hard. “Did he just? Did he call me w-what I think he called me? Or— or am I—? I’m losing my mind, aren’t I. I’m still sleeping. Right? This is a dream.”

Eddie reaches for Buck’s arm, captures skin and muscle between two fingers, and squeezes. Lightly, but still noticeably a pinch.

“Ow?” Buck glares at him. Not that it hurts. He just feels like being indignant.

Eddie rolls his eyes and just smiles at him. “Not a dream. And you already know he’s your son. Our son. Where have you been the last seven years?”

Buck tries not to smile back but can’t help it. “He’s just— he’s never. Called me that. He doesn’t call me that. I’m not— I mean, I am? In a way? But— you’re his dad.”

Eddie’s face goes soft and fond, and he rests his hand on Buck’s thigh. “You’re his dad, too. You have been for a long time. No, not in the same way as me. But biology is not family. Love is family.”

“Yeah. Yes. I—” Buck knows that. Of course he knows that. His family is Maddie and Chim and Jee-Yun and Hen and Bobby and Karen and Athena and Ravi, and by extension May and Denny and Harry and Michael and David. And of course Eddie and Chris. Always Eddie and Chris. It’s not that Buck doesn’t know. It’s not that this is a revelation. Just—

Buck’s eyes are wet and his heart is bursting, and he rubs a hand over his jaw. “He called me Dad.”

Eddie reaches until he’s cupping Buck’s face and jaw with one hand. “You’re our family. We love you.”

“See, I know that. I do know that. But— Eddie. Eddie, he called me— he called me Dad.”

Eddie sort of laughs but it’s in a soft, sweet way, and then he pulls Buck toward him until he can kiss his forehead. “Of course he did.”

#buddie #buddie wip #fic: unless you ask me to #seven sentence sunday #jenwyn wip #911

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morallyinept · 5 months

Text

A Loving Ode To The Writers (And A Big 🖕🏻 To The Haters)

Friends,

I want to take a moment to talk about writers.

The amazingly talented writers, here in this Pedro fandom collectively (although it applies to all writers in any fandom really).

Whether you're an established writer here, or just starting out, I love you. You all rock. You're all incredible. Keep going and doing your thing, because you're so amazing at it. 🖤

No matter what anyone else tries to tell you...

Yes, I also want to address the idiots who feel entitled to send anon messages to you giving you tiresome grief about your work... sigh. 🙄

Think about this for a moment, if you will...

When you go into a bookshop, or choose to purchase a book online, do you have several tags listed on the back cover?

No.

Do you have the author of that book listing every single possible trigger/smut warning?

No.

Do you have the author writing an extensive author's note explaining their thought process, or how it came to be that Joel got with Reader, or stating that they're not sorry for this brain rot they produced at 2am whilst high, or apologising in advance if they spelled something wrong, or whatever?

No.

All you have is a book, a singular book, with a cover and a small paragraph with a basic plot blurb, that alludes to nothing juicy or that will spoil it. Because if the book gave away the full plot on the back cover, all the warnings and triggers etc... what's the point in even buying it, right? You already know the story. Job done.

Generally, readers will buy a book for these reasons:

1) The cover looked awesome and drew you in to read the synopsis.

2) The synopsis drew you in, or a review.

3) It's by an author you already love, so you read everything they release because you're a fan of their work.

4) It was recommended to you.

5) You brought it/were gifted it on a whim.

None of these reasons give you any prior knowledge to the outcome or ending of the story. You haven't met the characters yet. You don't know what's going to happen. Unless you actively look for spoilers...

That's the joy about reading stories. You're left surprised, not knowing.

With posting fanfic, there are slightly different "rules" (and I use quotation marks here because strictly speaking, there are no rules; it's just decades and decades of assumption and expectation that writers follow out of respect and care for their readers) in that the writer provides you with adequate warnings, or tags, for you to make an informed choice about whether this fic is something you want to read or not.

But, they don't have to do that.

The writer, also might offer a pairing, or mulitple. The writer might also warn you of triggers, or if a particular chapter is smutty, heavy, angsty etc...

Again, they don't have to do that.

No published book out there does this.

So, if that's the case, that writers here on Tumblr, and in fanfiction in general, not only spend hours of their free time in their personal life, dedicating themselves to writing a story, that you get for FREE, they also provide you with adequate warnings and pairings to cater to your particular tastes.

Again, they don't have to do any of this.

Remember that book in the bookshop? It does none of what fanfic writers do for you before you even get to the story... They've done all this for you before you get to the first sentence on your screen.

So you can make a choice, that is your own, on whether you want to read this story or not.

Your choice.

So, if you then choose to read it, are you really so entitled to then send an anon message telling the writer you didn't like it? When it was clearly signposted with all the possible warnings, outcomes, troupes, pairings... and was for free??

Imagine that, free stories that you can read as often as you like, for FREE... wow. What a fantastic concept!

☝🏻And that's not sarcasm. It's truly fantastic that there are thousands, upon thousands of stories here for you to trawl through and enjoy to your heart's content.

All. For. Free.

Catering to every Pedro Boy, every Reader type, every kink going. Fluff, smut, angst, romance, horror, thriller, crack fic. Multi-chapter series, one shots, drabbles. Happy endings, open endings, no endings... you name it.

You have it all here at your fingertips, whenever you want.

All. For. Free.

A lot of time and work goes into writing any kind of story, not just fanfic. Depending on a writer's skill level, it may take them longer than you may realise to complete a story from initial conception to birth.

English may not be their first language, for example. Or they may be dyslexic so have to spend additional time editing several times over so you can read their words coherently.

They may have spent weeks, months, maybe even years, planning, gathering and summoning the courage to write this story.

The story doesn't start on the page, oh no. It starts as a spark in their brain that ravages and spreads like a fire.

It's consumes them. Causes sleepless nights.

Causes stress and tension in their personal life because they've spent more time in front of their computer typing, than they have walking the dog, hugging their partner, socialising with their friends... remembering to feed themselves.

You may think that's a dramtic or romantic notion of being a writer, but I assure you, it's not.

It might not apply to all writers, but for some, writing IS their life. They live it, breathe it, far more than you care to imagine.

Far more than you give them credit for.

They've poured their heart and soul into this and are proud that, finally, fucking finally! It's on the page for the world to see. To read. To enjoy.

To pick apart scathingly... to critique. To compare. To belittle. To mock. To diss.

To demand.

You think writing is easy? That writers just bash out 10k words on a whim? Sweet delusion I hardly knew ye.

Even the most published and revered authors in this world will tell you it's anything but easy, bub.

Imagining a story in your head is the easy part. Getting it on paper to translate your thoughts into captivating words? Not so much.

And writer's block is certainly a real thing, FYI. Made all the more worse by pressure being piled on.

Pressure from readers who have the choice whether to read or not. Who have all these stories for free...

☝🏻And I'm not talking about readers in general. No. There are so many amazing and respectful readers here who are an incredible and integral part of this community. And I, for one, thank you, dear readers, for doing just that; reading.

Without you, no-one would read or share our words. You guys are the main cog in this clock, and as writers we want to keep you greased up so you keep ticking. We love your enthusiasm for our work. We love that you share it, shout about it, want to see more of it. You guys deserve all the love. 🖤

But sadly, there are also a select few individuals who crawl out of the woodwork, scittering around and shitting over things like the insects they are.

Respect. I've said it before, I'll continue to say it. Respect costs nothing. And yet, some readers find that to be an alien concept.

Think about the stories you really love.

Think about the one story you couldn't get out of your head for days. The one story that made you cry into your pillow. The one story that gave you hope when you really needed it the most.

The one story that made you fall in love. That one story you've read a hundred times, a thousand times, because you love it so fucking much and it changed you in some way.

Somebody wrote that.

Writers bend over backwards for you until their spines snap. Writers give so much of their heart into their work, their blood.

Writers give you the books you love, the shows you enjoy. The blogs you follow, the films you go to see. The fanfiction you consume.

Without writers, entertainment would not exist.

🤔 Ponder that for a second... you'd have nothing. No internet, no TV, no books, no magazines.

No imagination.

Writers give you chills, make you smile, make you cry, turn you on, excite you with their words. They lead you into unexplored lands, take you to new heights.

Writers hand your idol to you on a page, naked and panting for you, and say "here, this is my gift for you, dear reader. Have him."

Writers give you an escape.

Writers give you something to do on your commute to work. Writers offer an extension on your inner fantasies.

You want to have Joel Miller hug you and never let you go? Carry you out of the apocalypse as you cling onto his broad shoulders? Fuck you so hard into the mattress you're screaming for him?

Writers can give you that, bub.

Hell, writers will give you anything you ask for, within reason. All you have to do is simply ask.

Writers pull you into a world where anything, literally anything you want, is possible.

And fanfic writers give you all of this. For FREE.

You don't have to go to the bookstore and part with your hard earned cash.

You paid no money for this. The writer made no money from this either.

Writers don't ask you for anything except for you to enjoy their work, their creation, and to consider re-blogging it, so others can enjoy it too.

They ask you for nothing else in return except to show some basic respect.

R E S P E C T

All they want from you is your enjoyment.

They give it to you from the goodness of their heart, from the stem of their creativity.

And yet, some of you piss all over it.

Some of you have the termerity, the gall, the ignorance, to send a message anonymously - cowardly - to a writer claming that their ending wasn't good enough?

Wasn't to your liking? That Joel, or whichever Pedro Boy, didn't do this, or didn't say that? That their view is wrong because it wasn't canon, that their story didn't live up to your expectation, despite them giving you as much advance information as possible. Even when they don't have to...

And yet, you still chose to read it.

How dare you be so offended by a story that, was never written for you to begin with. The writer wrote it for themselves. They then decided to share it with you. For free, remember?

Are you for real?

If you think it's rubbish, or not to your taste, or boring, or lacks passion, or didn't end the way you would have wanted it to, that's fine - you're entitled to your opinion. Difference of opinion is what makes us unique as individuals.

But the writer, who gave you this story for FREE, and with plenty of upfront info for you to make an informed choice, does not want, or need to hear your self-righteous bullshit or negativity.

Move on quietly and find a story that fits your needs.

Or better still, put your money where your ungrateful mouth is, and write your own ending that you covet so badly.

I guarantee you, it'll be a lot harder to do than you think...

You didn't pay for this story, therefore your passive-agressive opinion, your cruel words, your whole mantra of being a dick for dick's sake, isn't worth a dime.

SUPPORT YOUR WRITERS.

Don't drag them down if you can't, or don't have the balls or talent, to do any better.

To every writer: You are incredible. You are what makes the world go round. Your imagination never ceases to amaze me and I will forever have your back and sing your praise from the rooftops. You deserve to be here, or wherever it is that you write and share your words. THANK YOU for sharing a piece of you with me, with all of us. 🖤

To every disrepectful anon who has ever sent a hateful or hurtful message to a writer: respectfully, go fuck yourself.

#pedro pascal #fanfic writers #pedro pascal fanfiction #javier pena #joel miller #support your writers #don't be a dick #jett has spoken

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ginnsbaker · 8 months

Text

A Form of Vengeance (Excerpt)

Summary: “Hold it,” you challenge, locking eyes with her, pushing her to her very limits. “Hold it or you’ll never see me again.”

Word count: 2.4k+ | Tags: Heavy Angst, Dubious Consent, Edging, Toxic Relationships, Oral and fingering (Wanda receiving)

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader

A/N: This is basically an excerpt from Chapter 6 of In Losing Grip on Sinking Ships, just so you have an idea how extensive the edits are that's currently in progress for the final PDF version of ILGOSS.

It’s half past midnight when Wanda’s awoken by a loud, angry knock at her door.

Her sleep riddled brain fails to notice how unusual it is for Sparky not to emerge from his dog house and start barking at the unexpected visitor. Her gut tells her it’s you, but just to be safe, she takes Sparky to the guest room, knowing how wary he is of strangers.

“Who’s there?” Wanda’s voice echoes through the empty hall, voice hoarse from sleep and from yelling your name all over the neighborhood.

There’s no response, and yet, each thud against the door reverberates through the room, filling it with a sense of urgency and unease.

Startled and growing increasingly concerned, Wanda opens the door and–

It’s the stench of alcohol that welcomes her first.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were both entangled in a similar situation, albeit in reversed roles. The irony of the circumstances isn't lost on Wanda as she observes the unwavering and intense gaze you fix upon her. It's unclear to her how much you've had to drink to be able to find your way to her, but the determination in your eyes speaks volumes.

“Y/N, thank god you’re here. I was so worried–” Wanda tries to say, but the rest of her sentence dies on your lips. With one hand on the slope where her neck meets her shoulder, you push her roughly back inside her apartment, slamming and locking the door behind you with the other.

You harshly nip at her lower lip before releasing it and growling, “This is what you want right? This is what you’ve been chasing me for all along?”

Pinning her with a disdainful look, Wanda feels powerless to refute your allegations. Is that how you perceived this to be all along? How lowly your opinion of her has become?

When she finds the courage to put the tiniest bit of space between you and her, you pull her flushed against your body to capture her swollen lips into another bruising kiss. The moan that escapes you both this time is irrefutable. Something tells Wanda that whatever she says between now and what’s going to happen next, will just be sucked into the abyss of retribution. And so, she gives in to the storm that is your feverish kisses and your hatred punctuating your every touch.

If she were being honest, she just wants to feel you. Logic and reason be damned.

“Y/N!” Wanda mewls when you clumsily rub her through the fabric of her nightwear, pinching her clit as soon as you find it.

There’s no trace of tenderness in the way you maneuver Wanda and deposit her to the carpeted floor of her living room.

There’s nothing gentle in the way you tug down her shorts, letting them pool around her ankles and yank her shirt up, exposing the swell of her breasts to the cool room air.

There’s only lust, and instinct, and vengeance in the painful entrapment of her hard nipple between your bared teeth.

And Wanda loves it.

It’s the punishment she didn’t know she had been craving for since the moment she invited Vision to her bed. If you needed to ruin her, Wanda would let you. She’d gladly take the beating if it means she gets to have even just a tiny fraction of you back–no matter how cruel this fraction of you might be.

Every pulsation from her clit echoes the tempo of her racing heart. Your mouth, slick and fervent, descends onto her nipple, and your tongue drags languidly across in deliberate, lascivious strokes. The visual–the sheen of wetness, the very sensation of your mouth on her–makes her cheeks flame, and instinctively, her eyes drift away. But you're not about to let that happen.

Gripping her jaw firmly, you force her to witness what you’re doing to her. “Watch,” you demand, voice husky and heavy with desire. “Don't you dare look away.”

Without breaking eye contact, you shift your attention, letting your drenched tongue lavish her other nipple, ensuring every inch of her feels that same overwhelming pleasure. Wanda's arousal pools beneath her, dampening the rug and every nerve ending draws her attention downwards, craving that much-needed release.

Wanda gasps when you slide back up abruptly, the rough friction of your shirt rubbing against her tender peaks. She smells the alcohol on your breath before she tastes it, as you pull her in for a dizzying kiss. You’re uncommonly disoriented in your movements, as if you keep deciding and then changing your mind on how you want her.

As her fingers hesitantly make their way towards the fastening of your jeans, you're quick to intercept, pushing them away. With assertive hands, you grab hers, lifting and pinning them over her head, leaving her deliciously vulnerable.

You rarely make love to her when you’re drunk. You never liked the idea of being unfocused and uncoordinated when you touch her, and you were always afraid you’d accidentally do something that might make her uncomfortable or even hurt her. But now, as your fingers skim through her wetness, not caring if your nails scrape against her sensitive skin, Wanda understands. She understands what you’re capable of when you give up control and let pure instinct take over.

She understands how perfectly capable you are of hurting her–in all aspects.

Wanda feels she’s wet enough, but it’s still painful when you enter her unceremoniously with two fingers.

“Y/N, wait–” Wanda gasps as you start to quicken your thrusts before she’s fully adjusted. “S-Slow down.”

Yet, you seem lost in your own world, utterly intoxicated by the sight of your fingers disappearing inside your ex-wife's slick folds. Despite the initial discomfort, waves of pleasure soon drown out the pain, escalating with each thrust. Wanda's left clawing at the ground beneath her as your thumb starts circling her clit, sending shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through her.

Your fingers shift inside her, seeking out the textured area that she's most sensitive to. Wanda’s mouth falls open, warm puffs of air brushing so intimately against your chin. “Fuck, yes, right there–”

You pant against Wanda’s sternum, bitterly thinking that she will always be beautiful whether you’re seeing her through the lens of affection or loathing.

Feeling how close she is, you add another finger into her. The fullness does nothing to abate the tightening in Wanda’s stomach. She squirms beneath you, nearly delirious from the mounting ecstasy, trying to trap your hand between her knees to still your movements. But you force her legs to stay splayed open, angling your fingers to continually target that particularly responsive spot inside her.

“Kiss me,” Wanda breathlessly begs, her words feathering over your damp forehead. But instead of meeting her lips, you trace your tongue along the shell of her ear, eliciting a shiver from her. Just as she seems to reach her peak, you pull back your fingers, halting all stimulation, leaving her teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

She groans in frustration, her chest heaving, eyes dark with need. “Why?” she manages to gasp out, her hips unconsciously seeking the lost contact.

You lean close, lips brushing her earlobe. “Because I can.”

Her breathing turns even more ragged. “Y/N,” she begins, but her plea is cut off as you slowly trail kisses down her body. Every inch you move feels like an eternity for her, every kiss you plant on her skin making her shiver and writhe beneath you. When you finally reach her core, you can see how her pussy clenches with desperate need.

Positioning yourself between her legs, you pull them apart gently but firmly, giving yourself a clear view of her glistening arousal. Without touching her, you take a moment to appreciate the sight, which elicits a whimper from her.

“Look at you,” you murmur, your voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate. “And you tell me this isn’t what you want?”

Your face inches closer to her, close enough for her to feel each exhale against her sensitive skin. She attempts to buck her hips upward, seeking your lips, but you force her down with a dominant hand, immobilizing her.

“Remember,” you whisper against her, causing her to twitch from the sensation, “You're not allowed to come... not until I say.”

This is it–your form of vengeance. But even in your cruelty, it's paradoxically centered around her pleasure.

She emits a sound that's halfway between a plea and a sob, her hands grasping the carpet for any semblance of control. “Please,” she manages to choke out, sounding more desperate than ever. You slide a finger up her slit, collecting her wetness, and then move it up to circle her clit, slowly and tantalizingly. “Hold it,” you challenge, locking eyes with her, pushing her to her very limits. “Hold it or you’ll never see me again.”

The threat almost sends her over the edge.

“I—I can't,” she stammers, tears forming in her eyes, both from the effort of holding back and the emotional weight of your words. But beneath that fear is a stubborn determination. She won't let herself fall, not when so much is at stake.

You smirk, leaning down, your breath teasing her skin. The sensation of it sends shivers down her spine, her body acutely aware of every point where your warm breath touches. You trace the softest of kisses on her inner thigh, watching her tense up in anticipation.

“Relax,” you murmur, voice dripping with false sweetness. “I'm just getting started.”

Her whimper is music to your ears, but she attempts to stifle it, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. You take your time, tracing lazy circles around her entrance with your tongue, but deliberately avoiding the place she wants you the most.

When you finally slide a finger into her, Wanda arches up, trying to chase the feeling, to get more. But you pin her hips down with your free hand, your fingers moving tantalizingly slow inside her. Her breath hitches as you curl them upwards, applying pressure to that sensitive spot.

Wanda's eyes screw shut, her moans spilling out uncontrollably now. Just as she's getting accustomed to the rhythm of your fingers, you press your tongue to her clit. Her entire body shudders, the dual assault threatening to push her over the precipice.

Her whimpers grow more frantic, “Please, Y/N... Please,” a broken mantra, pleading for mercy or release, perhaps even both. But you pull back just a fraction whenever she nears her climax, drinking in her desperation. You watch her intently, taking sadistic pleasure in every twitch, every moan, every teardrop that slips from her eyes. She's on a razor's edge, strung taut, teetering between madness and ecstasy.

She pants heavily, eyes darting around the room in pure desperation, her every nerve ending screaming for release. You can see it, the raw need in her eyes, and the way her body trembles uncontrollably. With an almost wicked grin, you dive back down between her thighs.

Her whole body tenses as your tongue works fervently against her swollen clit. Your fingers find their way back inside her, thrusting hard and fast, in sharp contrast to the tantalizing teasing you’d given her before.

“Y/N,” she moans out loudly, her voice breaking from the strain of holding back for so long. But you don’t give her any room to breathe; you press on, your motions frenzied and insistent.

“Come.”

And then, all at once, she shatters.

“Fuck, fuck! I’m coming!” Wanda cries, her hips bucking uncontrollably, her warm essence splashing onto your chin. Her back arches off the floor, her fingers clawing at the carpet, as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her. Her trembling arms wrap around your neck as you continue to fuck her through her orgasm. You silently observe Wanda as she regains her breath, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. Her brown hair cascades over the floor, resembling a fallen angel consumed by the depths of the earth.

Wanda's face is stained with tears. However, it is only when she becomes conscious of a droplet landing on her nose that she realizes she is not the one shedding them. Cautiously, as if she’s afraid of what she might see, she opens her eyes and looks up at you.

It’s the only picture of vulnerability in you that she’ll see for the rest of the night, and her own eyes well up, struck by the realization that you can never hurt her the way she’s hurt you.

You interpret the look on her face as pity and angrily wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. “This doesn’t mean anything to me.” you mutter scathingly, even as your lips quiver from the struggle of detaching yourself from your emotions.

Wanda’s hands reach out to cradle your face. “I know,” she whispers.

“Then why are you agreeing to this?”

“I never stopped being yours,” Wanda whispers with a voice filled with fractures, and it's only your warm and solid presence that keeps her from falling apart. “It’s just how it is.”

You taste the bitterness in your tears, mixed with the metallic tang of blood from your lip from how harshly you’ve been biting down on it. How could she utter those words to you, knowing that someone else had gotten to know her so intimately in this manner?

Whatever Wanda thought she did, no matter how many times she claimed it didn’t mean anything, however briefly it was–she gave bits of herself to Vision; her body, her mind, her words, her time. Those are the things that you can’t get back. Things you can’t replace. Things you can’t account for.

Lies after lies, you think bitterly.

And yet, it only intensifies your desire to claim her one more time. To remind her what she had traded away for illicit pleasure. To ruin her for everyone else.

“Again,” you demand, the mask of indifference returning to replace the face that Wanda loves the most.

And that seals it–whatever this is. Wanda knows that this can’t end well.

But she couldn’t find it in her heart to care.

"Okay," she mumbles, her voice carrying weariness and resignation.

You wrap her shaking legs around your waist while your arms provide a secure embrace around her back. And then, with her clinging to you like a mindless puppet, you push yourself off the ground and onto your feet, Wanda along with a strength that astonishes both of you.

Wanda buries her head into the crook of your neck, hot tears slipping from her eyes as you carry her to the bedroom.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x you #ILGOSS excerpt #ILGOSS #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda x you #wanda x reader

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nalyra-dreaming · 9 days

Note

What big plot twist do you think will happen this season? This made me scared, everyone already knows that ep5 happened differently, could Sam be talking about something else?

Oh... I don't think I have a definite answer here *laughs*

My gut feeling... says it's connected to the (possible) Amel hint we might have seen already (in ep5 & 6).

I... I mean. Let's dissect what Sam says a bit:

an unreliable element to the books (memory? contested stuff?) that this twist (seems to build on)

it's not necessarily the truth (once more)

the order of things (the order of the books? another mix-up by pulling other events forth?)

the twist is "really fucking cool" and can be "justified" by the above

Let's keep in mind that the show/Rolin has already stated that they want to keep Jacob and we know that he took these pebbles and spread them around NOLA and we have this image:

... in s1 there was talk of "a brute in Madagascar", where I for one couldn't come up with who that might be.

... That brute does not necessarily need to be involved.

However, staring at this quote (lol), these are my thoughts:

I think it will have to do with Louis (and by extension Lestat)

I think it could have to do with Amel

I think it might have to do with the brute

I'm not convinced Louis will become the core

I think whatever they came up with lies within the rules of this universe...

... but is still so far out Sam needed to think about it

Another incident of Louis being... well, incapacitated is in Blood Communion. Maybe they switched the iron for the pebbles... if you catch my drift^^. If they bring in Rhoshamandes here already, and if Rhoshamandes would actually ... IDK... steal the core? As he tried to do?

However, that doesn't explain why Sam would need to "justify" it.

And, as with the DV in episode 5... when he says there is justification...

... I think it must have to do with them. Meaning Louis, Lestat (or Claudia). One possible twist could be to have Claudia actually survive, however, I think that would have repercussions for all the rest of the books, as said before. Which... might what he is talking about here?! But then Louis would be out and looking for her, as said before, I don't think that would work.

In this universe the books have not been published yet, so the event Armand warns of in s1 might happen... but again, I don't see it as needing to be "justified".

On the other hand there was this rather intriguing pic by Eric Bogosian a while back, where he posted the coffin pic.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Eric Bogosian (@ericbogosian)

instagram

I do not think that "The Devil's Minion" is ready for Daniel to get turned next season.

So maybe, just maybe this has to do with him.

Maybe it has to do with a change to Daniel. Maybe he will get a new body. One that has been prepared and is waiting for him. Who knows. (tagging @cbrownjc here for reasons^^)

I don't know. My gut feeling says Louis or Daniel, but since Sam says it is not "in the books", then... well. He also says it is "in this season", so maybe it isn't the finale after all. But preparing the finale.

Whatever it will be I think they will hook it into the rules of the universe, so that when we see it... we will know^^.

But I honestly cannot guess what it is yet.

(well, apart from the above, lol)

#Anonymous #asks #ask nalyra #amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #iwtv 2022 #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #loustat #the devil's minion #armand #daniel molloy #devil's minion

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hangmanbrainrot · 1 year

Text

stranger from the bar

a/n: this is an incredibly late submission to @callsign-phoenix's 1k celebration. thank you for your patience, lovely. <3

warnings: 18+ content, this is mostly just... smut, there's an extensive list of tags on the ao3 page but there's some big emphasis on a rank kink here, exhibitionism, unprotected penetrative sex, lots of swearing, and alcohol mention.

word count: 3.1k

summary: in which you and jake do something a little different after a night out.

pairing: jake seresin x reader

“Jake, Jake, Jake,” you panted against his lips, palms shoving feebly against his chest. “Jake, wait. Are we sure this is a good idea?”

You sat back slightly in your position on his lap, to take in his expression. Your gaze darted between his kiss swollen, lipgloss smeared lips and the depth of the green in his eyes. They looked almost grey in the low light of the parking lot.

“We stopped making good decisions after your third gin and tonic, I’m just pointing that out. But I’d never do anything you weren’t comfortable with, darlin’,” he hummed lowly, brows furrowed as his palms smoothed up and down the length of your goosebump covered thighs. Your hips pitched forward, rolling against his almost involuntarily, and you couldn’t tell if it was the sudden rush of desire flooding back to the surface or the chill in the air that made you shiver. Your shirt laid discarded in the passenger seat where you were once seated.

You looked back to Jake again. All traces of artifice were gone. There was no facade, no arrogance found in his expression. Instead, a strand of blond hair had fallen from its position in his perfect coif, and it curled lazily toward the top of his forehead. You ran your fingers through the sandy colored locks almost on impulse, and the moan you earned in response when you gave the strands a slight tug surprised you. Definitely filing that one away for later. Your mind — and his — was slipping in and out of your agreed upon charade so quickly. It was hard to pretend the man before you was a stranger, when part of the reason why you craved him so deeply was because of the plain and unashamed intimacy between you. You looked at him with a quirked brow, but before you could remark on your discovery, he cut you off with an utterance of your name.

“So what's it gonna be?” He asked, voice low and husky. He shifted beneath you, and every delicious inch of him pressed into you, right where you needed him most, even with his pants between you — a move that was no doubt deliberate. Your lips returned to his, aggressive with need. His fingers snaked up into your hair, angling you where he wanted you — where he needed you. Jake was so deceptively confident that sometimes it was hard to imagine he’d ever needed another person in his life, but then every time he got his hands on you, he was like a man starved. His tongue was deft, first swiping along the seam of your lips, then parting them like a man depraved. With your knees bracketing his thighs, you didn’t have much space, but it was enough to work with to grind yourself down shamelessly against his denim-clad thigh. He could no doubt feel the wet heat of your core, every time you rutted down against the coarse material once more. It was relief, it was something. The body of your skirt flared around your thighs, but you’d ditched your underwear long ago, so your arousal threatened to soak his pant leg beneath you if you weren’t careful.

“Jake,” you repeated in a shaky exhale, moving like a person possessed, with your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the near incessant motion of your hips if you tried, desperate for friction, desperate for him, especially as his mouth latched onto one of your nipples. He had you tightrope walking that line between pleasure and pain, tongue laving over the skin his teeth had grazed just seconds earlier.

“You keep saying my name like that, I don’t know if I’ll even get you out of that pretty little skirt before we’re making a mess,” he said the words like a promise, whispered against the warmth of your flushed skin as he kissed his way up your chest.

So suddenly it almost hurt, Jake retracted and righted himself to look up at you, as if he realized something, and you whined in response — impulsively, instinctively. But you caught his eyes, and you understood. One of his hands raised to cup your face and the gold of his wedding band caught the light in the process. The pad of his thumb brushed softly along your skin, so softly you were almost ashamed of the way you were still writhing in his lap. Almost. He tapped your cheek three times in a row, and you instantly came back to yourself. This was a check-in. This was your husband.

“Color?” you asked as you went still in his lap.

“No, I’m green, so, so very green,” he said gently, almost shy, even as a chuckle bubbled up out of him. “But you didn’t answer me, and you said wait before, but I realized I didn’t wait, then you said my name so I felt bad and wanted to be sure.”

Oh, this man loved you. He loved you, loved you. And you knew it, of course, but feeling it right now in the soft, gentle cadence of his words, in the way he was studying you for even the slightest change in mood or disposition? It had you clenching around nothing, needy as your hands fisted in the fabric of the plain black t-shirt he wore. You used your newfound hold on him to all but yank him flush against your bare chest.

“Honey,” your lips pressed softly to the hollow behind his ear, delicate, as you murmured, “I am so sorry I worried you, but I am so fucking green.”

Sitting back again, you took in your husband, your hands reaching up to frame his face as you explained, “I only said wait because I was, uh, getting into it, you know?”

More realization washed over his expression and even in the barely there moonlight, you knew his face was red — more because of your knowledge of your Jake, than your reliance on your eyes.

“You called me Jake. Twice.” He was practically pouting as he repeated the fact. You’d broken character. The feigned anonymity was, admittedly, part of what made your designed ruse so fucking attractive.

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, Lieutenant.”

Just like that, your husband was gone, and in his place sat Lieutenant Seresin.

“I know it won’t.”

White hot desire lanced through you, and you forgot all rational fucking thought, practically crumbling against him, but he drew you up again, until your chest was flush against his own. Your taut nipples brushed against the soft, though slightly worn cotton fabric of his shirt. The sensation was heady and overwhelming, barely on this side of just enough. Your moan was clumsy and unabashed when it fled past your parted lips.

Jake sneered at the noise, lip curled in what you knew to be feigned disgust when he spoke to you. “You can’t even help yourself can you, little one?”

His hand pressed against your lower back, forcing you closer against him, and the same pleasure rocketed through you as your sensitive skin connected with his clothing once more. Your hips resumed their previous rhythm, thighs tightening around Jake’s own to attempt to assert some semblance of control over the erratic movements of your body.

“N-no, Lieutenant,” you panted, stammering through the syllables.

You might’ve had enough shame to be embarrassed by your own whimpering, if Jake hadn’t started to flex and tense the thigh you were currently rutting against within an inch of your life.

“Well, go on then, take what you need.”

Despite the fact that you had a slight height advantage from being seated in his lap, Jake was practically scowling at you in a way that made you feel deliciously small. He sat back in the reclined driver’s seat almost lazily, short of the tension he was maintaining in his leg for your benefit. But even as you moved, you didn’t have nearly enough space, and you were sure you’d have bruises from where you’d leaned back against the steering wheel. The whine you released was downright guttural — part need, part exasperation. You hadn’t even realized you’d shut your eyes until you had to open them to look down at Jake, when he let out a downright cruel chuckle. He already knew.

“What’s the matter, hm?” Both of his hands rested at the top of your legs, squeezing the supple flesh where your hips met your thighs — one of his favorite places to feel you. He used the hold to still you. “Use your words or you get nothing.”

“Need you, please,” you practically chanted, your aching muscles propelling you against reason, struggling against Jake’s hold. “Need you s’bad.”

Your words were practically slurring, but you didn’t care. In preparation for tonight, you and Jake had abstained for a little while, so you were already well past ‘overstimulated.’

“Didn’t I tell you to take what you need?” A large palm closed around your throat, applying only nominal pressure — just enough to focus you — before he continued. “So why aren’t you? Don’t you wanna be good for me?”

The smirk rested upon his lips told you that Jake knew exactly what your problem was; he just reveled in hearing you say it.

“Not enough,” you whined when he eased the pressure, thighs tightening in their positions bracketed around him. “Need you to fuck me, Lieutenant.”

“Sweetheart,” he purred, head lowering to drop teasingly delicate kisses along the line of your shoulder. You didn’t miss the way he shifted beneath you, as much as your weight would allow. His slacks were drawn so tightly across his body, you were fairly certain that if you’d had the presence of mind to look down, you’d have seen his cock twitch. “You hardly know me. Plus, there’s not nearly enough room in this car.”

You knew what he was getting at, knew how desperately he practically daydreamed about fucking you bent over the back of his car — outside, where any and everyone could hear and see you. It was why you’d gone to a bar just outside of your normal stomping grounds. You were less likely to run into anyone you knew, and it felt like a fair but necessary compromise to allow your husband to live out his fantasy. Except now he wanted you to beg for it.

“Please, Lieutenant, please,” you babbled, remembering to lean in to the role you were meant to be playing. “I, I don’t normally do this either, but please. I don’t even care if, if…”

Your pleading was clumsy, but if Jake had noticed, he hadn’t commented on it. Instead, he’d opened the car door on his side and ordered you to get out. When you reached for your shirt, to guard against the late night chill, he delivered a sharp smack against your cheek. It was a limit you’d previously agreed upon, but what you hadn’t expected was the primal way you moaned in response.

God, you were his. You were so fucking his.

He got out of the car once you were steady on your feet, and before you could reach for him, he’d spun you around, pressing into you until you were bent over the trunk of the car you’d rented for your little expedition. Your eyes skimmed the parking lot — not crowded but certainly not empty, either. The perfect amount of risk.

“Color, sweetheart,” he said softly, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Green, bright fucking green,” the words hissed through gritted teeth, as you struggled to push back against his hips. The erection currently straining behind his jeans felt like a fucking punishment. You’d do anything to see him, get your hands on him, and —

“Wrists,” he barked, clearly settling right back into character.

“Is that an order, Lieutenant?”

You knew Jake loved that you could dish it as well as you could take it, but the sharp smack he delivered your ass let you know that Lieutenant Seresin was not a fan. You yelped, upper half pressing closer into the car. Your nipples went taut against the metal, practically stinging from how cold it was. You couldn’t decide if the sensation was too much or not enough, before Jake was repeating himself — something he hated to do.

“I said wrists.”

“But Lieutenant, what if someone sees us?” You were probably laying it on thick, and while you knew Jake was too far gone to make fun of you for it, you wanted to hear the delirium creep into his voice; to know how absolutely fucking wrecked he was, and how very much your doing it was. Because while you were very much his, he was also very much yours.

You heard the familiar sound of his belt and zipper, and then he was shoving up your skirt and using your own weight against you to press you tighter against the car. The anticipation was as delicious as it was agonizing. You wriggled your hips, just to do something, just to tease, and then —

Jake groaned behind you as he began slowly splitting you open, pressing into you at a rate that was dizzying — both too soon and not quick enough; you couldn’t decide if you wanted more or less. The promise of that frenzied push and pull of him inside of you, hips stuttering with need. You were insatiable for what you already had. One of his palms collected both of your wrists in his grasp, pinning them together at the base of your back; the newfound tension in your shoulders, as infuriating as it was, only worsened the ache that resided deep in your belly. With his other hand now carefully coiled around the nape of your neck, Jake pressed your cheek against the back of the car with so much force, you struggled to keep your toes pressed into the pavement for balance. Even the brush of your bunched skirt at the top of your hips felt like too much; you were an exposed nerve, you felt turned inside out from the intensity of the pleasure licking up through your insides like flames.

And you were babbling, a short chorus of “oh fuck”’s and “right there”’s, when Jake finally spoke again: “Look at you, takin’ me s’good. Wish you could see, doll. Y’look like a fuckin’ dream.”

Jake would’ve sounded sleazy if he was anybody else, accent pouring out thick over words practically hissed out through gritted teeth — but he was so fuckin’ smooth. You wanted to rile him up, too, to beat him at his own game, when you heard noise coming from the far side of the parking lot. For a moment, Jake stuttered behind you; clearly not expecting the sound, either. It was the brief pause in his movements that allowed your mind mere moments to clear, to process, to fight through the haze. Above, or perhaps through the sound of your husband’s soft pants, you could hear two people chatting quietly; they’d likely stepped out of the bar for a smoke.

“Wh-what if they hear us?” You managed to mumble convincingly, though you were delighted by the thought, as was evident by the shiver racking your body.

“Let them.” The words were a near snarl, sending more hot, unrelenting waves of ecstasy coursing through you. Your upper half sagged against the back of the car, mouth fallen open in a silent expression of pleasure.

Behind you, Jake released his hold the nape of your neck, only for his fingers to twist in your hair to wrench your body upright. “Didn’t I just say let them hear you?”

“S-sorry, Lieutenant,” you practically wailed, the sound unfiltered and needy — you knew what was coming next, and apparently so did Jake. Immediately, you felt a warm palm smothering your lips, to stifle the second, much louder noise that left your mouth as the knots coiled up within you finally snapped and unwound, and the orgasm rocketed through you. Your vision went white, and all sound faded away. Vaguely, you were aware of Jake, your Jake behind you, and the soft, slightly strangled noise he made when he finished, but you were too busy loitering in that in between feeling, part floating back down to your body, part tingling all over.

When the ringing in your ears subsided and you felt like you could finally hold your eyes open, you clued into Jake’s voice, whispering your name hurriedly. You could hear the sound of his zipper, the buckle of his belt, he was rushing. And then he was spinning you around, eyes searching your expression worriedly while he busied himself with fixing your skirt. It was then that you realized you were crying, or you had been, fat tears dribbling down your face as you sagged against the car.

With his shirt wrinkled and the flush of a fresh orgasm, Jake looked absolutely stunning, even in the low light — and you hated him for it. He framed your face in his hands, both thumbs capturing the stray tears as he heaved out a sigh.

“You went so quiet on me,” he mumbled out softly, “I thought, I…”

You could only shake your head, then gripping both sides of his shirt to drag his warm frame toward you. His arms encircled you almost immediately, one palm smoothing up and down the length of your back while the other cradled the back of your head, where you were curled into your chest. You weren’t sure how long you remained that way, wrapped in his embrace, but it felt like centuries later that he broached the silence again.

“So, I don’t know how much they saw, but those people from earlier definitely saw something. I think we should get going, babe.” In response to this, you whined and pressed tighter against your husband, your bare chest pressing against his, as if you could somehow get any closer. At this, he only chuckled, freeing a hand to open the back door to the car. It was a little awkward for him to move and bend, with you wrapped around him for dear life, but his hand reappeared a moment later with the sweatshirt he’d stashed back there for you. Before Jake had even gotten to work pulling the cotton material over your head, you knew it would smell of his cologne.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said softly, his expression downright fond. Even as his arms dropped from you, his hand found yours almost instantly, to lead you to the passenger’s side of the car.

“Bath time?” you questioned, finally finding your voice again.

“Bath time,” he repeated with a smile, dropping a kiss on the top of your head as he helped you settle into your seat.

#callsign phoenix’s 1k #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman smut

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rip-quizilla · 9 months

Text

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 3

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: For some reason, when Eddie's around you, he doesn't feel like a piece of shit- he's really starting to like that about you. Your feelings for Eddie are growing past 'friendship' feelings, but you sure as hell aren't telling Eddie that. Robin is perceptive as hell.

Word Count: 4.9k

Tags for Entire Fic (from AO3): Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Inspired by When Harry Met Sally (1989), Slow Burn, Romantic Fluff, Good Friend Robin Buckley, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Eddie Munson Lives, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, no one dies, Reader-Insert, Eventual Smut

Part 1 | Part 2

Part 3

Spring, 1983

“How on earth are you failing shop?”

Your voice landed in the thick quiet of Eddie’s van halfway between a question and a laugh, and Eddie could feel a blush creeping up his neck as he tried to laugh it off.

“Eh, I failed a project way back where I was supposed to make this birdhouse or something and I never turned it in…”

He didn’t miss the concern in your voice when you replied, “And you never thought to just ask for an extension? Did you at least start it?”

Eddie’s silence spoke volumes.

“Eddie!” you shoved him lightly on the shoulder, and he winced. Not from pain, you’d barely shoved at all- he winced out of embarrassment.

You were smart. He didn’t need to look at your report card to know someone like you had never failed a class as simple as shop before. By all means, it should have been an easy A; Mr. McCarthy didn’t grade based on skill, his projects were easy to ace as long as you followed the rubric. The hard part was that Eddie was a serial procrastinator, especially when it came to projects. He’d kept telling himself that he would start the project later, start it tomorrow, start it this weekend, etc. Now here he was, a month after it was due, and a month before the school year ended- still no project, and no amount of minor assignments would help him to regain a passing grade in that class.

“It’s no big deal, they can’t make me repeat the year just because I failed an elective class. I’ll just take another elective credit next year instead of a study hall-”

“Eddie!”

The tone of your voice surprised him, firm and all-business, almost like a reprimand. He glanced at you sheepishly. “What?”

He wasn’t sure why he’d expected you to be angry with him. Perhaps Eddie had grown so used to getting lectured by those that mattered to him that the idea of you doing the same wasn’t that much of a stretch. But when Eddie saw your expression, it wasn’t one of anger, but confusion.

“Do you hear yourself?” You asked. Your voice was firm, leaving no room for any argument. “It’s like you’ve already given up and you still have a whole month before junior year ends.”

Eddie shook his head. “The project was due in March, there’s no way McCarthy would let me turn it in this late-”

“Have you asked?”

Another silence, equally telling as the last.

You turned your attention to the street ahead, arms crossed over your chest and a satisfied look on your face. “Well, you’re going to ask him Monday if he’d accept your birdhouse late.”

Eddie barked out a laugh. “Oh that’s what I’m gonna do, huh?”

You nodded, smiling smugly. “Mm-hm!”

“And then I’m going to build a birdhouse?”

“You are, and I’m going to help you.”

That, Eddie hadn’t expected. “You’re gonna… what?”

You smiled at him, pulling your backpack up into your lap and hugging it to your middle. Eddie remembered you doing that last week too; he wondered if that was something you did subconsciously, always needing something to hug against yourself to feel comfort in some way. “I’m going to help you. My dad has some tools and scrap wood in the shed out behind our house, so we can go there if you want. Either way, I am not letting you fail shop class unless you did every possible thing you could have to pass.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say. His friends were always happy to help him with homework, even let him copy off of them from time to time- but this? He felt a bit overwhelmed at your eagerness, borderline pushiness, to help him.

“You really don’t need to go through the trouble-”

You gave him a stern look that sent his eyes straight back to the road ahead. “Munson, if you try to get out of building a damn birdhouse I swear I’m changing the radio station to whatever popular girly crap is playing right now.”

Eddie shut his mouth, button eyes blown wide. “Understood, yes ma’am.”

He pretended that the thumping of his overzealous heart was just the heavy bass from the radio.

***

To Eddie’s surprise- and your satisfaction- Mr. McCarthy agreed to grant Eddie an extension. If he was able to present a finished birdhouse by the end of the school year, Eddie could receive credit for it with an automatic ten point deduction for being tardy. You thought ten points was generous of him, and while Eddie secretly agreed, he wasn’t about to criticize the hand that fed him.

So, per your request (which Eddie could tell was non-negotiable, so not much of a request, really) Eddie stayed with you after school while you tutored some freshman in preparation for their English Lit final and drove you back to your house when you were done. This time, however, he went inside with you to begin construction on the birdhouse that would (hopefully) save his grade.

Your dad had been more than happy to help Eddie with figuring out how big to cut each of the wood pieces, teaching him to measure twice, cut once, blah blah blah. All of that adorable fatherly stuff. It was very cute for you to watch- your dad, who had initially been less smiley, a bit more taciturn than usual because his daughter was bringing a boy by the house to work on a project and he’d been intent on snuffing out any ill-intentions towards you, instantly falling back into his everyday, effortlessly smiley exterior the moment Eddie told him that his woodworking hobby was “actually really cool”.

Something about Eddie seemed to do that to people- he melted away the person you projected, leaving behind the person you were at your core. You could see it so clearly on your dad’s face as the two of them sketched out lines on a piece of scrap wood. Eddie marked one piece with a little cartoonish-looking skull, and when your dad saw it he asked Eddie if he likes to draw- and then the conversation simply flowed from there easily. You couldn’t wipe the sappy smile from your face.

Your dad stayed to advise until he could tell that Eddie had a good grasp on how to use the tools at his disposal, and jokingly made sure Eddie knew you were the one in charge whenever the two of you were left to your own devices. Eddie had responded with a mockingly serious salute, which only made your dad smile wider.

“He likes you.” you’d said once you were sure your dad was out of earshot.

Eddie huffed out an embarrassed chuckle, eyes staying focused on his work while the corner of his mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile. “Yeah, well, he probably just hasn’t heard much about me then.”

You studied him, half amused and half pained that he was once again refusing to take a compliment of his character. Turning your attention to the tiny wooden dowel you intended to turn into a perch for the birdhouse, you continued. “Oh he’s heard about you. Just, everything he’s heard, he heard from me. So no, no bad things.”

That got Eddie’s attention. “Really?” he asked incredulously, looking at you with one eyebrow raised. “No bad things? Not a single one?”

“Nope, no bad things. He’s heard annoying things, though. Infuriating things. I told him to warn the HOA about you.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“Scouts’ honor, we have a certain standard to uphold around here, you know.”

Twin smiles played on your lips, evidence for the joy it brought both of you to be around each other. You both worked wordlessly, letting the sounds of sandpaper and sharp tools on wood fill the pleasantly warm air in the shed.

“What about you?”

His vague question earned a glance from your direction. “What about me?” you asked.

“Well, if I’m so infuriating and annoying, why do you care so much about whether or not I pass this class?” Eddie’s sentence trailed off into a breathy, nearly imperceptible tremor that told you he cared about your answer.

“You might be infuriating and annoying,” you said, matter-of-fact, “but you’re smart. Way too smart to fail shop because of something as stupid as a missing grade.”

Eddie was quick to brush off your compliment. “You know some might say that missing a due date is something only a stupid person would do,” he looked up at you with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “so I would argue that that alone makes me-”

“Eddie, stop.”

His lips clamped shut.

You placed the wooden pieces in your hands down on the floor before walking up to him and stopping about a foot from where he sat. Your eyebrows were drawn together menacingly, your arms were crossed over your chest, and your tone reminded Eddie of what it must be like to be in trouble with Mom.

“Look Munson,” you began sharply, “You are a very intelligent person. I am not saying that to flatter you because I couldn’t care less about giving you empty compliments or not. I’m just stating a fact: you are smart.”

His gaze was trained on the floor, unsure what to do with himself. Brown eyes flicked up to yours through his dark chocolate curls and back down again.

“And I don’t know who made you think you’re so much of a lost cause that you give up before asking for help, but I’ve never been one to watch smart people let themselves down and be okay with it.” You held out your hand palm facing upwards between your chests. “So hand me the wood glue so I can give the lucky birds who get to live in this fancy joint a little perch to stand on.”

He did what you asked, quiet and hiding behind the curtain of his mane. It wasn’t until you were back in your seat that he finally spoke up.

“You know-”

You looked up at him, a soft smile teasing the corner of your lips, and you had to take a deep breath to calm yourself as you processed the fondness that shone in his eyes.

“-you’re a little scary when you’re angry.”

You snorted. “Good. Maybe I can scare you into fulfilling your potential.”

Eddie wasn’t sure what that potential was, exactly. His life was doomed from the start to complete its natural cycle within the same hundred square miles, so he figured his potential was to… work at the power plant with Wayne? Be a bartender at The Hideout? Drink himself to death when his life got too depressing to deal with anymore?

Okay, maybe that last one was a little too dark. But realistically, he knew that would probably cross his mind after enough time spent in this hell-hole of a town.

Now there was a smart girl telling him he was capable of more than that, and his first instinct was to wonder if Wayne had put you up to giving him a pep talk or something… but that was way too sneaky for Wayne, so there was no way he’d asked you, which meant that you, a smart girl, truly believed that he- Eddie Munson- was a smart guy.

Huh.

Well how about that.

***

True to his word, Mr. McCarthy accepted Eddie’s birdhouse when he brought it to class that Friday. He chuckled when he saw the little horned devil symbol painted in the corner on the back. He peered questioningly at Eddie when he caught sight of the pentagram that had been drawn on the floor of the inside, to which Eddie had replied, “In case they want to perform any ritualistic sacrifices in there.”

When he’d handed Eddie his graded rubric, there were minimal notes written in red, but when Eddie looked at the little blank labeled ‘total’, nothing else mattered.

90/100

Which meant that without the ten point deduction, Eddie would have made a 100%. His work- sans tardiness- was worth a 100%. Eddie was baffled, stunned- he couldn’t remember the last time his work had been deemed worthy of a ‘100’ circled in red pen at the top of his paper since elementary school.

“I got a 90%!”

He was practically giddy when he told you. Shop was his last class of the day, after which he had run straight to your locker to show you the rubric. You were excited for him, of course, but you hadn’t been surprised in the slightest.

“And that brings your average in the class up to…?” You asked with a knowing smile.

Eddie clutched the precious page to his chest, swooning as he threw his back against the locker beside yours. “72.” He sighed, content and over the moon. “You’re a miracle worker, you know that? You took this sad, pathetic, stupid little boy-” He splayed a dramatic hand over his heart. “-and you wanna know what you did?”

You smiled wryly, closing your locker door. “Uh huh?”

His face contorted in the most joyful way possible- a smile showing every tooth, crinkling the corners of his eyes, brow scrunching from the passion with which he gripped that flimsy piece of paper and shook it in your face.

“You got him a fucking A, you genius!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as the two of you walked through the halls to the theater department for Hellfire. “You did all the work! You got yourself that A.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Eddie wagged his pointer finger back and forth. “No, that’s not what I said, I said it was a fucking A.”

You looked at him, confusion evident in your eyes. “Yes, that’s what I said, you got yourself that A! I barely did a thing.”

He was quiet, grinning ear to ear as he narrowed his eyes on you. “Oh… oh you sweet, sweet thing…”

Whoa now, that gave you butterflies.

You casually turned your eyes in the opposite direction of where Eddie walked by your side, hoping he couldn’t sense your reaction. “What?”

Eddie chuckled, positioning himself directly in your line of sight. “Don’t hide from me, come on-” You looked up begrudgingly, taking in his amused expression. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say fuck.”

“What? That’s ridiculous, I’ve said it.”

“Not in front of me!”

“Yeah, okay, I don’t say it often.” you shrugged, eyes darting literally anywhere but his face- again. “So what? There are so many other better words I could use-”

“But can you say it?”

At that, your eyes met his, and you made sure to sprinkle a little venom into that eye contact. “Of course I can say it, I’m just choosing not to.”

Eddie was undeterred. “Then choose to say it just this once, I want to know what the word ‘fuck’ sounds like in your sweet little innocent voice.” His puppy dog eyes glistened as he pouted.

You glared, smacking your hand against a door that threatened to close before you could pass through it, and angrily shoving it aside. “I am not innocent or little, thank you very much.”

“Awwww, come on, Ace, just one little f-bomb?”

“No.”

“Not even for me?”

“No!”

“Uuugghhhh,” Eddie sighed, throwing up his hands exasperatedly as the two of you approached the twin set of doors that led to the auditorium. “Fine.” He hopped ahead of you, opening one of the doors for you. “After you.”

You should have seen it coming, but you still yelped when Eddie jabbed his fingers into a tickle spot in the curve of your waist as you walked past him.

“FUCK! Eddie!” you practically squealed.

You shook your head in disbelief as he skipped down the narrow aisle of seats toward the stage, throwing a fist victoriously up in the air.

“Hahaaa, there it is!” He cackled.

You may have acted annoyed with him, but nothing could deny the brightness in your smile seeing him overtaken with so much joy. That joy translated so easily into his storytelling during D&D that when you had finished your work on the set for the play- which was only two weeks away now- you didn’t even pretend to be busy with anything else this time. You grabbed a wooden stool from backstage, tugged it close enough to the table to see the story playing out before you, and simply watched Eddie do one of the things in his life that truly made him come alive.

What you didn’t realize was that there was now another thing that seemed to bring out the best parts of him the same way that D&D did, the same way that music did, the same way that curling up and rereading The Hobbit did. And when Eddie heard the drag of your wooden stool across the black surface of the floor, glanced over his shoulder and saw your eager, shining eyes glowing brightly at him, drinking in every word that left his lips- that was when he realized it.

He realized that you were quickly becoming one of the things that made him love waking up in the morning.

***

Eddie had, admittedly, never been to a play before. He’d been in a play, but that was back in the fifth grade, and it was more of a Christmas pageant than an actual play. He had played one of the three wise men, and all he could remember from it was his teacher chewing him out for his improvised line- “Myrrh-y Christmas, Jesus”- when he’d placed his prop-gift into baby Jesus’ manger. That had been the prompt end of his acting career.

Now, as he tried his best to look nonchalant with his hands in his pockets, he couldn’t help but feel particularly out of place while his eyes frantically searched for a place to sit in the auditorium that would give him the perfect balance of empty seats and proximity to people he knew wouldn’t recognize him. The last thing he needed was another reason for his usual bullies to mess with him.

“Munson! Hey, Eddie! Over here!”

Eddie’s attention flicked over to a seat toward the back, occupied by none other than Robin Buckley, who was absolutely ruining his efforts to act cool. He rushed to where she sat while trying his best to wordlessly communicate SHUT. UP. with only his eyes. Oblivious to Eddie’s plea, Robin patted the empty seat beside her.

“I didn’t know you would be here!” her voice was loud- that was something he already knew- but it still rang uncomfortably in his ears.

“I’m right here, Buckley, no need to yell.” Eddie hissed, crouching in his seat as if he could make himself smaller just by trying. “Yeah, well I didn’t exactly have other plans, and I knew this was going on and…yeah.”

Robin watched Eddie stumble through his poor attempt at nonchalance, a knowing grin taking up residence on her mouth. When he clumsily arrived at the end of his sentence, she simply kept smiling at him, which unnerved him greatly. He averted his eyes, leaning back in his chair and throwing an arm over the rest an elbow atop its back. “What?” he scoffed, once again trying to appear indifferent- it didn’t work well, at which Robin snorted.

She shook her head, chuckling silently. “She’s going to be so happy you showed up.”

Well if that didn’t make his chest feel as though it was about to inflate and fly away, nothing did.

Regardless, Eddie still acted cool- or tried to, at least. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” but the red crawling up his neck and the sappy grin that he just couldn’t fend off gave him away. Robin groaned, pretending to be fed up even though she actually thought the way he reacted when you were simply mentioned was the cutest thing she’d ever seen in her life. Even though she knew he didn’t need reminding, she still said your name just to see if his blush would grow even deeper when he heard it. She was rewarded.

Eddie nodded in recognition, sticking to his bit. “Oh yeah, I forgot she was helping out with this thing. That’s uh… that’s cool-”

“Oh shove it, Munson, quit playing the indifferent cool guy.” she shoved a finger in his face. “You like her.”

He scoffed- again- and rolled his eyes a little too hard. “Lay off it, Buckley, we’re just friends.”

Robin raised an eyebrow, obviously not buying it. “Really? That’s it?”

Eddie remained neutral in his tone, shrugging as if the whole situation were just that cut-and-dry. “Yup. That’s it.”

She looked at him for a long time- a long time, with a gaze so intense it made Eddie a bit uncomfortable. It felt like letting go of a breath he’d been holding when Eddie finally heard Robin’s “If you say so.”

Eddie nodded. “I do say so.”

Judging by Robin’s facial expression, she still didn’t buy it, but she seemed willing to drop the topic. “Okay then.”

“Okay.” Eddie mumbled, just in time for the lights on the stage to go down.

It only took about ten minutes of the play to go by for Eddie to start wondering if seeing you at the end of the production was going to be worth sitting here for an hour and a half. However, when the curtain had finally closed and he saw the look on your face upon seeing him standing there with Robin at the end of the arts hallway- that long hour and a half melted away.

You were dressed all in black just like a few other crew members that Eddie saw scuttling about, carrying certain props and costume pieces. Pulling away from a hug that you’d bestowed upon Robin immediately after seeing her, your eyes focused on him and he couldn’t help but smile at you.

“Eddie Munson, did you actually sit through an entire theater production of your own free will?” you asked through a toothy smile.

Hands in his pockets, Eddie shrugged and hid his smirk behind long stray curls. “Yeah, maybe.”

He was quiet. You were quiet. You were both just… smiling at each other. Like idiots. Robin shook her head in disbelief.

“You’re both idiots.” she mumbled, dumbfounded.

You blinked. “What?”

“I said ‘Let’s go get burgers!’ I’m starving.” Robin began walking with you down the hall toward the exit. “Coming, Munson?”

You looked at him, wide-eyed. He struggled to read your expression- were you expecting Buckley to invite him? Were you hoping he would say yes? Say no? Eddie stuttered, clearing his throat.

“I mean, if you want me to-”

You nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah! I mean, if you want to-”

“I don’t want to impose-”

“Don’t feel like you have to-”

“Oh my god!” Robin stomped over to Eddie, grabbing him by his upper arm and dragging you in the same spot with her upper hand. “You both want burgers! Let’s go get burgers!” Eddie had to suppress a chuckle upon hearing Robin’s muttered ‘God, you two are fucking children’ under her breath. Your gazes connected behind Robin’s head, both of your faces sporting a small, crinkled grin- shy and sharing.

Thank god for Robin.

Eddie was happy to throw Robin’s bike in the back of his van; happy to drive the two of you to the diner downtown in lieu of meeting you there. Happy- and relieved- to discover that even though he had only ever spent time with you alone or with his friends, he was able to fall into comfortable conversation with you and your friend the same way that you had nestled your way into his friends’ routine so easily. It had been ages since one of the Hellfire members had glanced your way during a session, nervous to throw themselves into the game while an outsider was in the room waiting to judge them. They learned- Eddie learned- pretty quickly that you would never judge them. Pretty soon, you weren’t an outsider- you were just a part of their Friday plans.

Eddie’s mind began to wonder, as he drove the two of you down the main road, now that the play was over, and you had no reason to keep showing up to Hellfire, what excuse would Eddie have to see you? Summer was fast approaching, so you wouldn’t be seeing each other at school each day either. Suddenly, Eddie wasn’t just wondering, he was worrying. Without an excuse to see you, would this burgeoning little friendship just…fall? Just stop?

“Hey, Eddie? You awake over there?” you snapped your fingers by Eddie’s ear, and he flinched away slightly as a nervous laugh bubbled up his throat.

“Sorry,” Eddie said, his voice light. “Just got lost in thought I guess.”

If the two of you were alone, you would have asked him what he was thinking about. However, Robin was here- it was a strange sort of limbo you felt you were in, your childhood best friend and your newly-discovered… friend. Crush. Maybe-crush? The way you felt about Eddie was becoming increasingly difficult for you to pinpoint. You knew you loved being around him. You knew that your heart had done a complete backflip when you’d seen him waiting with Robin after the play. Eddie Munson did not attend school functions. When you’d seen him at the winter formal years ago, you hadn’t even seen him inside- as far as you’d known, he hadn’t gone with a date… maybe he’d gone with friends? Or he was someone’s ride? Either way, the fact that he would go to a play simply because you were involved in it was certainly enough to give you heart palpitations.

When the three of you arrived at the diner, the energy was a little odd between the three of you. Robin watched as you and Eddie had gone from comfortably chatty to eerily quiet. It seemed that you both were caught up in your own spiraling thoughts, and the awkwardness that it was causing was going to make Robin scream if it didn’t stop soon.

“So Eddie,” Robin said as you all sat down in one of the plasticky blue booths in the diner, “what are your summer plans?”

It seemed to take a second for Eddie to register what Robin was asking; he tilted his head to the side, taking a second to consider. “Haven’t thought about it…honestly, I figured I might be busy with summer school or something if I wasn’t passing all my classes-”

“-Which, you are.” you interrupted, a soft, proud smile on your lips.

Eddie laughed, and Robin couldn’t help but notice that his biggest smiles always happened when he was looking at you.

“Yeah, thanks to you.” Eddie replied, quickly turning to the waitress as she walked up to your table, closing the window of time you had to deny the credit he was hell-bent on giving you. The three of you each ordered a burger and a milkshake before Robin took it upon herself to carry on the conversation.

“Think you’ll get a summer job?” she asked Eddie with a nefarious grin. “You could work at Scoops with us, you get a pretty sweet outfit out of the gig.”

Eddie barked out a laugh, “Hah! I’ll pass on the shorts, thanks.”

You cursed your brain for conjuring up the image of Eddie in shorts, then proceeded to burn that image in your brain.

“You bring up a good point, though,” he mused, “Wayne and I could use the money. I pick up odd jobs around the neighborhood, but most of the old farts around the park just throw me whatever they find between their couch cushions.”

The waitress set your shake in front of you, which you eagerly grabbed and took a sip. “I can keep an eye out for places that are hiring, if you want.” You smiled at Eddie, bright red straw lightly resting against your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully, “Just don’t go asking at any places where I’ll have to wear some stupid outfit.”

“Hey!” you narrowed your eyes on him, a teasing glint in your gaze. “I happen to think I look cute in that stupid outfit.”

Eddie had no doubt that you did, but he wasn’t about to tell you that. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Smee.”

Robin snorted, shaking her head at the two of you. She was astounded at your combined talents for ignoring the undeniable chemistry that the two of you had whenever you shared each others’ spaces. She saw it all- the way he seemed so completely unaffected by everything except for you. The way that whenever he was around, you couldn’t peel your eyes away from him. The way that you both refused to admit that your friendship had an expiration date- you both wanted to be more than friends, and that much was clear as day to Robin. It was only a matter of time before one of you cracked. A ticking time bomb.

Robin resolved to confront you about it at some point. Not tonight; tonight, she was content to watch the two of you idiots tripping over yourselves while you pretended not to be absolutely besotted with each other- it was free entertainment. But she’d ask you about it soon.

For now, she settled for laughing at the way you pretended to be mad at Eddie as he spent the whole meal trying to sneak fries from your plate.

Part 4

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie stranger things #stranger things #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #impossible to hate you #rip-quizilla #when harry met sally

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chrollohearttags · 1 year

Note

we need more eren and carla headcannons cuz ik they’re besties one minute and carla is throwing a frying pan at him the next. they’re a mess.

yo, I could go on for days about these two 😭 that’s really her twinnem and honestly, the reason he acts the way he does.

first off, I think that sis used to be wild before she had Eren. Like she was a bottle girl or something and when she got married and became a mom, she settled down. But her old ways rubbed off on her bad ass son.

she spoils the hell out of him! Buying matching designer fits as a baby, getting him every toy he ever wanted (including all the instruments). She’s his biggest supporter!

I lowkey think she smokes with Eren (don’t drag me!!) like will try to discipline him in front of Grisha but then they laugh about it later when he’s gone. “You’re going to drive your dad crazy, I swear.” “That’s if you don’t do it first.”

she was actually the first person to get him into rap. Playing Lil Kim and old school artists in the carpool! Or heavy metal/rock music. She’s the fun parent for sure!!

When he got older, sis had to keep her belt and extensions ready. Waiting up in her robe, with her heavy Italian accent as he sneaks back in the house after running the streets! 😭

“I swear I’m going to wring your damn neck, the next time I catch you sneaking in and out of this house!”

stays yelling at him about his room and homework. “If you spent half as much time as you do on that goddamned computer as you did your grades, you might get somewhere.”

he is definitely the type of son to try and chastise her when she goes out. “She thinks she’s grown.” Or if Grisha takes her on a date night, here he comes. “Have my mom back by 10:00, not 10:01, not 10:02..”

even if he’s a bad ass, snot nosed brat..he knows better than to play with miss Carla! Raised his voice one time and got slid between the stove and sink. Never again will he try it!

sis can’t keep enough food cooked for his big greedy ass! He tries to steal whiles she’s in the middle of making dinner and she tries to pop him with her wooden spoon. “Swear to Christ, you’re going eat me out of house and home!”

definitely likes to play pranks on her until she beats his ass and he has take off and run. She missed her baby when he left though..but again, she wanted to see him achieving his dream! Even if she was angry for him for a little bit.

she stays on his insta and his fans always catch her at his concerts! Always tagging her as ‘Mama Don’ or ‘Miss Carla’. She knows his music is wild and she doesn’t understand it but she supports him ten toes down.

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fillinforlater · 1 year

Text

Dayeons Disciplinary Diary

Male Reader x Kim Dayeon (ft. Chaehyun, Xiaoting)

Length: 5794 words

Tags: disciplinary sex, sex as punishment, humiliation, degradation, sex in front of others, filming sex, humiliation kink, public sex kink, bratty idol, rough sex, dubious consent, getting threatened kink, facefuck, cum shot, anal, pearly gates sort of, teasing, sweaty sex, standing sex, full nelson, mentions of choking and spanking, a mating press and cock addiciton, angry sex, brat!Dayeon / strict!You

TW: it's better you read the tags tbh, but you can already leave if you dislike humiliation, degradation or dubious consent

Credit: @midnightdancingsol for editing

Inspiration: A cutie send me a rough idea and after months, I was able to come up with sth. I hope you read this <3

“Maybe.”

New job, old problems.

The five oldest members of the famous girl group Kep1er are supposed to debut as a separate sub-unit. As someone with a lot of experience in planning, training, and preparing you were chosen as an external coach to give advice and guide the fairly inexperienced team. It’s a new task, sure, but the problems remain the same. So far, so unspectacular.

The issues however started the moment you left the first meeting and looked at the girls schedule: in between the usual variety shows and photoshoots they have dance practice for a full group comeback after the sub-unit debut. It limits the time the company gives you for meetings, vocal sessions—literally everything.

Though a huge inconvenience, it’s nothing you can’t manage. It probably was the reason why they hired you, someone from outside the company, to deal with this in the first place. However, another aspect you were not ready for made your first problem seem like a first grader’s task.

Some of the sub-unit members, Chaehyun, Xiaoting, and especially Dayeon are very hard to keep in check. Their brattiness easily blows up a dance practice session, their delinquency disrupts entire meetings, and their obnoxious attitude consistently brings you to the edge of a tantrum.

You’ve tried the usual methods, carrots and sticks. Over the first couple of weeks, it became obvious that no amount of carrots could help. Luckily, the company gave you extensive authority over the group. They only cared about the results, so it was time for you to switch from the carrot to the stick.

Chaehyun was the first to be disciplined. She was mostly tagging along with her best friend Dayeon and it was mostly through her that Chaehyun got into trouble. So after only two sessions of edging and hair pulling, Chaehyun’s strong will to misbehave broke. She became diligent, not missing a single meeting and obedient, obeying every word the dance teacher says. She also became addicted to your cock, an unwanted, but amusing side effect. As long as she continues to be a good girl and give it her all, you give her what she desires. Every evening.

Xiaoting was a little bit tougher. She put up more of a fight because she wasn’t dependent on someone else to come up with a troublesome idea. If she wanted to mess up the choreography, she just did. If a meeting bored her, she would just leave. If another girl would annoy her, she would slap her.

At first you expected her to be the worst case, but after edging her for one hour with your fingers and pounding her doggystyle, she was already whimpering. What broke her resistance entirely were the spanks on her fat thighs and ass. She later confessed that you were the first person to make her squirt—which is the reason she walks to your apartment every weekend to get her fair share of spanks.

Dayeon is still a work in progress. No edging, hair-pulling, spanking or rough fucking has made her submit to your authority. Even after she cried and whimpered in her mating-press while you slapped her tits in the morning, she would still skip the meet-ups in the afternoon. Her snarky remarks cannot be stopped, even after you fucked her face the night before. So you changed your strategy.

Five steps. Five steps to break Dayeon’s brattiness.

Day 1: Take a picture!

“Dayeon, my office. Now!”

She was late again to one of the meetings. Of course. It doesn’t matter today, however. It’s a perfect set up to get your plan into motion. You’ve waited for this moment since waking up.

Dayeon trots into your office. She wears the same outfit as she did during their debut promotions: a plaid skirt, open leather jacket and black crop top. Unlike back then, her hair is now dark brown, a change of style that really suits her.

“What?” she groans in annoyance and clicks her tongue.

“Why are you wearing this? Didn’t I tell you to stick to the training outfits?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Deep breaths to calm down your nerves. Dayeon pulls out her cell phone and with every tap on her screen your anger rises. Ten knuckles turn red as you squeeze the edge of the table, wishing to break it in half. You clear your throat and slowly ask in a threatening, deep voice:

“Dayeon, will you finally stop being such a brat? You need to be punctual, diligent, and focused on your comeback.”

Dayeon continues to type. Without looking up she snarls:

“Lol, no. What’cha gonna do about it?”

Everything happens in the blink of an eye. In uncontrolled anger, you snag her phone away, push her against your office door, and force her down on her knees. Dayeon wants to shout out something, but you press your crotch against her confused face and keep her mouth shut with your growing bulge.

“I’ve had enough of your shit. You will soon regret being such a bitch.”

Fear and anger form in Dayeon’s eyes, but you pay them no mind. Open your zipper to free your cock. It jumps free like a loosened spring and its massive size covers Dayeon’s smooth face. Your other hand swipes across Dayeon’s phone screen and opens the camera app. You then point the camera down at the bratty girl and take your first picture. The flash blinds her for a second.

“What the fuck? Stop!”

Dayeon fights to set herself free, but her struggling hands and flailing legs are not enough to free her from your pelvis and thighs pressing her firmly against the door. You continue to take pictures from all angels to capture Dayeon with your cock over her face. She tries to hide from and interrupt you, so you grab her chestnut hair and roughly yank it.

“Fuck you! Ah, you asshole!” Dayeon screams.

Punish her for opening it by easily gliding your cock into her mouth. It not only cuts off her screams, but also oxygen supply. Immediately, you begin to facefuck her against your door, loud thuds rhythmically echo around your spacey office.

“No, “ you hiss, as rage fuels each of your thrusts into Dayeon’s face, “you’re the asshole, Dayeon. You will pay for your bitchiness. Smile for the camera, whore!”

Flashes rain upon Dayeon’s face as tears and drool spills down in copious amounts. Whines and gags would do perfect for a lewd audio to relieve your stress later. Her orbs are glistening messes, her drool makes the sensation similar to a squirting pussy and you feel yourself climaxing quickly.

“Shit, your mouth is tight.”

You pull at Dayeon’s hair again and her lips press down on your shaft. She is like a vacuum, sucking you roughly in. In a last second effort, you pull out and unload a huge, angry load all over her features. Cum pools or trickles down from her forehead, eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, chin. Not one inch stays uncovered and not one thing stays undocumented. Hundreds of pictures, and you are eager to take even more.

“F-fuck, ah, you ass—” Dayeon’s first words after getting her throat fucked are cut short by you slapping your cock all over her face.

“Shut the fuck up, toy. Your phone is confiscated. I expect you to be at the training tomorrow.”

A harsh yank and you bring her down to the floor, deep breaths and shocked, terrified eyes star upwards toward you. You roll your eyes and walk back to your desk, acting like nothing happened mere seconds ago, as if you didn’t just treat her like a useless fleshlight.

“Get out of my office. Now!”

Day 2: Make a Video!

“Dayeon! Get to the practice room right now!”

Dayeon was at the practice, but her performance was utter nonsense. The moves were offbeat or in the wrong direction and she was lacking the energy and cockiness she usually had on stage. It derailed an otherwise amazing performance by everyone, especially Xiaoting and Chaehyun who were giving it their all.

The dance teacher became frustrated and after all her scolding was shrugged off by Dayeon, she called you.

Now, as the day comes to an end, you ordered Dayeon to stay behind for extra dance lessons. However, when you called her into the large white room with a light brown wooden floor and a mirror wall, the dance teacher had already left.

“What? Where the fuck is she?” Dayeon curses and turns around to you.

“I sent her home,” you nonchalantly say while you lay down an old gymnastic mat and set up a tripod next to it.

“And how am I supposed to practice? Don’t tell me you know the dance inside out,” Dayeon chuckled viciously while imitating what it might look like if you dance. She is giving it her best to piss you off and you are going to use the build up anger for your plan.

“We still practice together,” you say, finally finished with your setup. A camera is filming from the top of the tripod down onto the small mat. Dayeon inspects the odd looking sight and moves next to you. With a jab to the side, she cynically jokes:

“That is not how you film a dance practice. Oppa must be retarded.”

Before she can laugh, you grab her sides and slam her onto the mat. Dayeon yelps, in shock, in pain, you don’t care. She yelps again when you pull down her black sweatpants. Her simple, white panties get pulled to the side while you immediately invade her pussy with two of your fingers. The brunette moans and tries to wiggle herself free, but you spread her legs forcefully nonetheless.

“Come on! Show the camera your pink lips.”

Her most private part is on perfect display for the camera. When Dayeon tries to cover it with her hands, you slap her pussy. The usually feisty girl becomes shy, her face read all over when you spread her labia and rub her clit.

“Covering your face doesn’t help. To everyone who might watch this, this is Kim Dayeon of Kep1er. She has a pretty cunt, doesn’t she?” “Stop! This is unfair!”

“Her pussy is pretty and of course her face as well, but her character is very rotten, so we will need to teach her a lesson.”

“Hey! What are you—no, ah!”

You lift the light girl up a little and spread her cheeks to also present her tight and twitching asshole. Dayeon tenses again. Although she is the brattiest idol you ever had to work with, it is only now that she gets her first dose of effective humiliation as punishment.

“Look! It’s Dayeon’s ass and her cute hole. So small~”

“Oppa, no!”

Finally, you tear off her panties and get beneath her. Dayeon is now in a pearly gates position, your cock right at her rear entrance, while you groan into her ear and force her legs to spread. You notice that her thighs are wet and so you search for the source of the slick. Dayeon’s pussy is dripping wet, almost gushing out her juices.

“Don’t tell me,” you hum to her, “you like this?”

“Wh-what?”

“Being humiliated.”

One push, and your cock slides into her ass. The tight ring tenses up around your girth, but you won’t be denied. No amount of pressure Dayeon’s amazing ass extorts onto you will stop you. Slow drags with loud groans from you show the potential viewer how incredible their idol feels. The best part is, you don’t have to tell Dayeon how they would react—her imagination is already doing this part.

“N-no, I hate it!”

Dayeon hides behind the palms of her hands. What she cannot hide however are her girly moans and screeches that boom from her lips to fill the studio and reach the camera’s microphone. You gradually pick up the pace and intentionally crash your pelvis into her ass with such velocity that her skin creates waves and her mind becomes numb.

She begins to drool from her lips and through your relentless pounding, you nibble her neck as a reward, but also a way to stimulate her more and more. Dayeon’s juices drip down to your pistoning cock and her moans become shorter in intervals and more high-pitched. She is getting close to cumming on camera.

It would be quite a sight to behold, Dayeon’s orgasmic face and body on tape, but you are far from wanting to even give her pleasure in what is meant to be a punishment, a disciplinary measure. A few final thrusts to bring Dayeon to the edge and to make her believe that she will cum, then you pull out. Your hands reach for her bottom and you lift her rear entrance towards the lens.

“Everyone, look! Dayeon is gaping! She has such a big hole, cause she is a whore!”

“Ahh!”

Day 3: In front of your best friend!

“Dayeon, my office! Now!” you shout into the speaker of your phone, while slamming the desk before you, “How could you miss another meeting? Didn’t I make my point clear?”

“Well, idiot oppa,” Dayeon responds harshly, “my butt hurt from what you did to me, so I couldn’t go. Your fault!”

“Get over here right now!”

You end the call and get up from your chair. This time you had to play your anger to hide your excitement for the next stage of your plan for Dayeon. You hastily send a text message to someone who is unlike Dayeon: reliable. If your calculations are correct, they should arrive with perfect timing.

First is Dayeon. She doesn’t knock and just barges into your room with quick angry footsteps. You lean onto your desk, arms crossed, eyebrows raised and nod towards the door.

“If you’re not gonna knock, you can at least close the damn door.”

“Fuck you, oppa,” Dayeon snippily replies and slams the door shut. The second she does so, you move to the side to unveil your desk. Unlike any other day, it’s not covered with laptops, reports, training instructions, lyrics, data and coffee mugs. This time you set up a screen which plays your and Dayeon’s video from a couple of days ago, while pictures of her either getting facefucked or assfucked lay across the wooden surface.

“You sick fuck!”

Dayeon scrambles to grab as many pictures as she can find. Each one she lifts reveals a handful of new ones, obscene positions of her on the gymnastic mat or pressed against your door, your cock stuffing her holes.

You don’t just sit back and watch the play of the panicked girls trying to get rid of the embarrassing evidence, you actually join in and snag a couple of pictures from her or throw them across the room. Like a dog Dayeon jogs towards them, curses at you and searches for a trash can, while you laugh full heartedly.

“Dayeon, look at the screen! That’s my favorite part.”

Her face fully colored in red, Dayeon takes a look and has to relive the final scene of her porn once more: you showing her empty, twitchting hole while she is begging for an orgasm.

“You assh—”

“Oppa, you wanted to—oh my Gosh!”

What must feel like a torrent of peaking emotions, bouncing around in Dayeon’s mind and chest like a bouncy ball in a trampoline park, is something close to an orgasmic catharsis for you. Well, almost. This isn’t the peak after all, this is just Chaehyun, Dayeon’s best friend and bandmate, walking straight into your office and seeing everything.

The defiant brunette scrambles to hide all the nudes of her and jumps towards her friend to cover her shocked face, but it’s all for nothing. Chaehyun’s eyes are already glued to the screen, her feet mindlessly moving her towards it. Dayeon screams at the top of her lungs, flailing her arms around wildly, but Chaehyun just inches closer and closer.

“Don’t look, please! Oh my God, please, d-don’t… g-go away!”

“I-is this you, D-Dayeon?”

“Yes, it is,” you answer and cover Dayeon’s mouth with the palm of your hand. You’ve never seen someone pale of shock and red of embarrassment at the same time, so you bathe in what you have accomplished.

“Look at it closely. Isn’t her butthole cute~? The small blobs of cum oozing out? Her teary eyes while I jiggle her thighs and she likes it?”

Dayeon fights half-heartedly. Her struggle might look real to an outsider, but you feel how her muscles go weak and how she becomes hot and bothered. You don’t doubt that this is the most embarrassing moment of her life, but you also grow increasingly sure that she gets off to it. Quite a lot.

Dayeon’s isn’t the only one to get off to it though. Her bestie looks absolutely dazed by how her sparkling eyes look at the looping porn, the repeated pictures of her friend getting plowed in the ass over and over again. Chaehyun’s tongue begins to slowly slip out of her mouth along with some drool, while her hand travels down to the hem of her skirt. This is getting very far.

“S-stop, Chase, pl-please,” Dayeon begs through a gap in your fingers, but you silence her by stuffing them in her bratty mouth.

“I tend to agree,” you suddenly say, against the urge of your lower head to let this play out, “You two should really leave now.”

“What?” Chaehyun says, snapping out of her porn induced trance when you turn off the TV. You nod and push Dayeon against her. The both of them tumble and because they hold onto each other, the also both fall onto the ground, right in between pictures of Dayeon getting face fucked.

“Oh, and Dayeon: help Chaehyun carry out the trash. All of it.”

The awkward, humiliating search for every last picture is a delight for you. Dayeon and Chaehyun are too embarrassed to say a word. They just crawl on the ground and stuff everything they can find into a bin until it overflows. You play increasing annoyance by rolling your eyes when they look at you or groaning.

“Now get going! Make sure no one sees it!”

“You…!”

Dayeon’s shout is stuck in the back of her throat. Her small hands stuff the bin while Chaehyun holds it. She knows she has to walk like this to make sure that the bin can hold all of her indecent pictures. She also knows what she can do, to make all of this end. However, she stays defiant for today.

“You motherfucker!”

Day 4: In front of your friends!

“You did a great job today. You can leave early.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I can handle them the last half hour.”

“Thank you a lot boss!”

The dance teacher politely bows down, takes her stuff and leaves the practice room. After making sure she really is gone, you lock the door and turn towards the girls behind you. They have been dancing almost flawlessly now. It’s no surprise, their debut is in ten days and this dance had been the main focus on your schedule the last week.

Last week was quite delightful. Everyone was at peak concentration and performance. Everyone was punctual and motivated. Everyone gave it their everything, even the delinquents.

Xiaoting played a couple of harmless pranks which boosted the morale of the group, so you had no need to discipline her. She still went to your house on Sunday and rode you like a champion, while you smacked every inch of her body that is covered by her upcoming stage outfit. The red marks look perfect on her and when she squirts around your cock, you knew she would never be trouble for you again.

Chaehyun has been as professional as Yujin or Mashiro when it came to vocal recording and dance practice. She was super focused in meetings and nothing could distract her. However, her neediness increased tenfold after she saw the video of Dayeon and you. For the first time, she asked to be fucked in the ass and after painful minutes of getting used to it, she was begging to cum from it. Chaehyun wanted your load and you gave her a lot. She also wanted to be face fucked like Dayeon, so you wait after the recording were finished, put a collar on her with the word ‘Whore’ on it and made her cry for an hour straight.

Dayeon however avoided you. No private meetings, no fuck session, nothing and frankly, there was no need for it. She has been reliable. Your plan is still in place if she fucks up and on this evening, you will test her.

“Good job, everyone,” you shout while clapping. The song has just ended and four of the five girls look at you with anticipation. Only Dayeon avoids your gaze, her chest breathing heavily from hours of dancing at full speed and focus.

“Yujin,” you continue, “can you tell me what you noticed? Any big improvements or flaws?”

“Well, oppa,” Yujin starts, fidgeting lightly in her place, knowing that lying is not an option,”Chaehyun and I have finally gotten the part in the bridge right, the very tough one.”

“That is phenomenal! I saw it from behind, an impressive move.”

“A-and Xiaoting and Mashiro have been excellent as always, they make it seem effortless.”

“Very well. Anything more?”

“W-well, “Yujin stutters, looking into the large mirror wall at Dayeon, then at the parquet, then at you, “Dayeon messed up the part before the hook and the bridge twice each.”

You ponder for a second, your gaze shifting towards the brunette girl. Dayeon looks straight at you, fake innocence, but real fear in her orbs. Or is it something different that makes her look scintillating like this. She can be a very cute girl, but you have seen the real her over and over again. It’s not cute and not innocent for sure.

“Okay then. Let’s have another round. Give it your best, everyone, especially at the hard parts. Don’t let yourself be distracted by me. Focus, okay?”

They all nod. You hit a button on a remote and the song restarts. Its fast rhythm is underlined by a quick discography right from the get go. It catches everyone’s attention and so it is important that the girls execute it flawlessly and with their usually impeccable charisma and stage presence. You of course excuse that they are somewhat tired and sweaty this evening, but you’re still ready to be a strict teacher if any mistakes happen.

The center switch from Yujin to Xiaoting is magnificent. Then a short pause hands the spotlight to Yujin and Mashiro dancing on the left and then Chaehyun and Dayeon on the right. Great execution, but then it happens. As everyone moves to their new position before the pre-chorus, Dayeon trips. Her body hits the floor and you immediately stop the music.

“Everyone, get back into position. Don’t let yourself get distracted,” you say brusquely, while stepping behind Dayeon. You yank her upwards at her arm and wrap your arm around her waist to shackle her to yourself. Via remote, you start the song once more, but the four other girls are not moving. Their shocked expressions lay on you and Dayeon.

“The song has already started! Focus, girls, focus!”

They get into rhythm hesitantly as Dayeon fights to free herself for a second. You make her freeze in shock by tearing down her shorts and simultaneously creeping your way up her torso. Your bulge rubs on her ass, covered at first, then released. She begins to realize what’s about to happen. Through the mirror you make eye contact.

No, you can’t be serious, don’t do this to me! she seems to scream with just her eyes.

You feel up her pussy to find that it’s moist and she is not stopping to get wetter. Her friends can see it. Those that are not focused enough on the choreography have already caught on and dance half-heartedly. No stage presence can cover up their shock, especially when you grab Dayeon’s hips and smash her onto your cock.

“Fuck!” Dayeon’s scream makes the lyrics become background noise. Everything except for her is uninteresting and you know that she’d want nothing more than to disappear into a deep hole. You on the other hand want to just fuck her hole, to make her red cheeks burst from the humiliation of being exposed, nude and punished for all her brattiness. To know that she can’t stand being used as a fleshlight and that each of her bandmates can see her thighs jiggle and pussy glistening is your ecstasy.

“Ah, Oppa, no!” Dayeon moans out, her body twitching and eyes tearing up.

“O-Oppa,” Yujin stutters, “Wh-what are you do-doing?”

You look at the leader who broke the trance of disbelief first and spoke up. The furious thrusts into Dayeon’s tightness stop and you put her in a chokehold.

“I have to discipline Dayeon for messing up so much. Don’t let yourself be distracted, you’re doing great. Restart!”

The music does restart and so does your fucking. With Dayeon’s screams thoroughly choked out, she should not be able to interrupt the music. She will remain a distraction however, which is exactly why her body is in so much heat. You tear off her T-Shirt and the bra beneath, leaving the black in tatters. Dayeon might be more thrilled by this than you.

You begin to nibble on her neck and use the mirror to watch how the four others can’t help but stare at Dayeon’s breasts bouncing along to your rhythm. Unintentionally, you have adjusted your speed to the rhythm of the title track and thus have fucked her faster than anytime before. She needs some air to keep up with it.

“No!” Dayeon screams the second you stop choking her neck, “Don’t watch! My boobs, don’t!”

Fully seated in her, like Excalibur in its rock, you stop to grope her tits and whisper into her ear.

“Oh, you don’t want them to look at your? I can change that.”

Give her small tits a smack, then reach down to her legs. In one swooping motion, Dayeon is in a full nelson. Her pussy is now presented, like a turkey on a plate on Thanksgiving Day. You position yourself for more leverage, reach for her head and fuck to your hearts content. Dayeon cries and moans, the lewd sounds of her smooth, moist pussy not covered by the song's bridge.

You catch Chaehyun looking jealous and highly aroused. She is not even trying to have a facade of embarrassed shock like Xiaoting. You are certain the Chinese girl would love to be spanked by you in front of at least one of her friends, probably Yujin. Speaking of Yuji: she trips up everytime you change your speed. When you switched to full nelson, she even forgot her choreo for a second. Mashiro looks disturbed, sad, maybe even fearful. She is extra accurate, but her flush is ridding her of any stage presence.

Everyone is getting into position to do the finishing pose as the song fades out. Everyone except Dayeon, who is still being bounced up and down your cock. Although she doesn’t squirt like a fire hose, her juices still spot the parquet in her delicious flavor. She is dozing off to a peak in ecstasy, when you suddenly pull out and drop her. On wobbly feed you guide her to her spot. She instinctively does the ending pose.

“Great job, guys! That wraps it up for today.”

You close your zipper and clap as five blood-filled faces stare at you, then Dayeon. The still completely naked idol scrambles to cover herself with hands, then her clothes. You teasingly grab her shorts and hold them high up, out of reach for her, but before it can develop into a playful activity, Yujin speaks up:

“O-Oppa! Y-you can’t just do that!”

“What? I needed to discipline her. You were also bothered by how distracting and lazy she was.”

“B-but not like this!”

Yujin covers her face and turns away. You drop the shorts and Dayeon reaches for them. Before she can put them on, you spread her legs to show everyone the pink of her pussy.

“Yujin, I know you probably think that Dayeon didn’t want this, but I found something out. She actually really enjoys this. Why else would she be this slick?”

You shove a finger inside Dayeon and wiggle it. The brunette can’t hold onto the clothes in her hands and begins to moan cutely.

“I bet you hated it when I stopped and didn’t fuck you to orgasm, right?”

Dayeon shakes her head.

“You are lying~ I bet you wished they would all stop hiding behind their hands—”

Dayeon shakes her head, slowly.

“—and watch as you squirt in front of them. You want them to watch! You like being fucked in front of people. You are an exhibitionist.”

Dayeon shakes in orgasm.

“Yes! Look at me! Look at my pussy!”

Waves of clear liquid follow her first tsunami that splashes all over your hand and right before her friends. Xiaoting and especially Chaehyun are just standing and drooling, Yujin is a bit more apprehensive, while Mashiro tries to walk away. Through the mirror wall however, she still peeks at Dayeon trembling on your inserted fingers and squirting out every last drop.

“A-are we finally done?”

Dayeon’s question is barely audible in the night sky of Seoul. The front of the dance studio is only illuminated by the city's light pollution. White and orange light reflects off from the wall and onto Dayeon, who crouches next to you on the still warm concrete. She is the last one to leave.

“Depends.”

After you sorted things out with Yujin, she and Mashiro went out first. The two didn’t like your method but couldn’t deny the results. Dayeon has never been more honest and lately, she was almost as obedient as a perfectly trained puppy.

Xiaoting left as well, leaving a note that said You sicko, what the hell have you done? I want to punch you for showing this Mashiro… but also: spank my ass in front of Chaehyun or Dayeon one day, pretty please? Make it redder than my face today!

You had to force Chaehyun to leave. She was cock hungry to no end, but wanted to keep it more private. You only got her to leave after promising to make a wish come true. Before walking out the door, she kissed your cheek and whispered: Fuck my face into door, like you did to Dayeon. Then, do the things from the video with me. A whole night~

“Depends on what?”

Now, it’s only you and Dayeon. You sit down next to her, not wanting to ask to her dumb question, but unlike in the past, she didn’t sound sarcastic. Maybe she genuinely had no clue what you meant.

“Well, it depends if you finally behave.”

“I-I will! I promise to come to every meeting, learn extra hard, a-and rap—”

“Dayeon,” you say and put a finger on her quickly moving lips, “I want you to make this comeback the best thing out there. Use your skill and stage presence to blow everyone away and rock this era, okay? You’ve been getting in your own way and I can’t allow that.”

She blushes and looks away. A car passes by. Its light reflects in her brown orbs. Dayeon can be such a pretty and adorable girl, especially in a moment like this. A moment no one gets to just experience. A moment that makes you shake your head. Rule No. 1, never fall in love, even if they are perfect. Perfect idol, perfect face, perfect kinks. You can’t stumble like this.

“Don’t say this like you’re some white knight who did all these crazy things just to teach me this stupid lesson,” Dayeon giggles and pokes your cheek. You didn’t notice how close you got to her, but this was a good reminder to maybe get some distance between the two of you. Especially in public.

“You’re right. Making these videos and fucking you in front of others isn’t really knight like behaviour, but if I made you rethink your careless attitude and got you back on track, does it really matter? The means, I mean.”

Dayeon smirks and gets into a more comfortable position. Sitting on the ground, on knee up, her chin on it, the other leg stretched out.

“You’re an idiot. What if I didn’t learn? What if I just miss the next meeting and fuck up the choreo in the last dance practice? What will you do then, Mr. White Knight?”

“I’d realize that you don’t care about your career. I’d order you into my office, remove your clothes violently and then put a choker with the word ‘Whore’ on it around your neck. On a leash, I’d guide you through the office. Everyone would see your bare body, every hole, along with your face. Randomly, I’d finger fuck you till you squirt and spank you for it.”

You get closer to her. Her breath is tickling you as she listens attentively, every sense of her body taking you in. You continue in a deeper tone.

“Imagine as they take pictures of you, videos of your ass, of the marks on your tits, of your blissful face with the choker beneath. This would not be enough. We have to go the extra mile. You know the reporters outside. When they have all gathered, I’d guide you outside and present you like a newly acquired object, before testing you. Live. The hardest thrusts that will make you squirm, scream and cum while the cameras flash and clatter. Your voice will be in the media, the greatest scandal in K-Pop history is Kim Dayeon as she screams for more cock as everyone watches.”

You stop. Her lips are close. Her thighs are close. Her smell is close. She is a heater in overdrive, her eyes barely open and her heartbeat louder than the next car passing by. She doesn’t say a word. Instead she moans. Arousal instead of fear, imagination of glorious pleasure instead of a nightmare. The greatest humiliation is in truth the greatest victory.

“I bet your idol career and public status is more important than that.”

She touches your chest. You can’t get out now. You’re stuck with her, the magnet that attracts you stronger than anyone ever has. She can’t possibly follow you on this one.

“Maybe?”

She kisses you.

“Really?”

You reach for the hem of her jeans.

“Maybe.”

(A/N: I lost the OG pic I wanted to use, but found this while searching. A very hot one, damn Dayeon)

#kpop smut #female idol smut #kep1er smut #kepler smut #dayeon smut #kim dayeon #kepler dayeon #girl group smut #male reader smut #xiaoting smut #chaehyun smut #male reader insert

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darklinsblog · 2 years

Text

Morpheus being jealous of Matthew

Morpheus saw how close you were with Matthew and that lighted in him and odd sentiment of… discomfort?

No, it was different. It was jealousy

At first he tried to deny it, simply because it was stupid for him, a mighty entity, to be jealous of a bird.

Especially because said bird was an extension of him, Matthew worked for him

But that did not change the truth.

Because every time he would see you laugh at one of Matthew’s comments, a fire would set on him.

He tried to play it off by capturing your attention

But the ways he would do it, would rise confusion in you.

He used his cat form when around you at times when Matthew was not around.

Morpheus would brush his fur all over your legs, wanting to leave his scent on you.

It was a way of marking you as his

Although you adored his cat form and you liked to scratch in between his ears you were still confused

There was truly no reason for him to not use his normal aspect, or well… the aspect you knew him by.

It wasn’t until one day, where Morpheus was curled up in a ball in your lap until he felt the presence of Matthew around making him hiss as an immediate response.

Learning about his jealousy was amusing and unexpected

You would not shut up about it.

Neither did Matthew, feeling some sort of empowerment having made the king jealous.

“It’s not like I could do anything, boss. I’m a fucking bird!”

“…raven”

“Same fucking thing”

Turns out you just needed to talk things out

You found out Morpheus felt distance growing between the two of you, which lead him to feel insecure.

So you needed to reaffirm your love and devotion, to quiet down his demons.

“Next time you feel like this, do talk to me before recurring to your cat form”

Which he did

But he still used his feline aspect from time to time.

It became some sort of inside joke between you.

Tag list: @emiemiemiii @ladyfairenvale @hungrhay

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violetsiren90 · 10 months

Text

All I Haven't Said | Namjoon/Reader

💜 Chapter 2 💜

Table of Contents: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (part 1), Chapter 3 (part 2)

Pairing: idol!Namjoon x f!Reader

Genre: Soulmate AU; idol AU; chapter fic; strangers to lovers; a bit of idiots to lovers, tbh; slow burn; eventual romance; eventual smut; angst (life is messy & hearts are complex); OT7 featured

Summary: You found your soulmate - or rather, he found you. Turns out he's an idol of much acclaim who needs you for very real and unglamorous reasons. What could become of two hearts so used to giving of themselves when they are confronted with needing each other?

Chapter Warnings: This fic is 18+, as is all my work and my page as a whole; Talk and depictions of cancer, its treatment, and the symptoms of both; implication of some disregard for personal agency by entertainment and medical industries; MC is diagnosed with asthma and experiences symptoms; flashbacks of a distressing situation; soulmate first touch & subsequent skinship; partial disrobing for medical purposes; medical setting and minor treatments; some social awkwardness; talk of food, eating, and alcohol consumption in the context of a soulmate AU

Author's Note: Chapter 2 is here! I tried my best to write Namjoon's response under the circumstances, but honestly I don't know how well it was executed. Let me know what you think in the comments/asks! I'm super open to constructive criticism and feedback. Also, I did my best with the Korean phrases and medical jargon. If anyone has more extensive knowledge on those subjects and wants to fact-check, please let me know!

P.S. If you want to join the tag list, drop me a comment or ask!

P.P.S. If no one has told you yet today, you're loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

"At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.”

~ Pablo Neruda

Chapter 2: Touching Me, Touching You

When you touched down at Incheon International Airport, you and Matt were greeted by a rather unnecessarily large party of Hybe personnel in black plainclothes wearing masks who snatched up your baggage and ushered you into the first of a small fleet of black SUV's. The member of the legal advisory team who had visited you in the states, Choi Kang Dae, was riding shotgun and speaking into a cell phone that had not left his ear since departing the baggage claim. In the row behind you was another man you assumed to be a translator, given his fluency in English, but who was currently chopping it up with Matt in Korean, and beside him a large, serious, silent man whose eyes kept traveling to you every now and again. You assumed that meant that the rest of the ensemble filling the vehicles behind you were security, which somehow made you feel less rather than more at ease.

The further you advanced in traffic through the busy streets of Seoul, the more anxious you became. A thousand questions began to flood your brain as your heart began to hammer in your chest. If all these people had come to meet you, were you headed to the hospital now? Weren't you supposed stop at your accommodations first? If you didn't, would you even have a chance to shower a day's worth of airport off before meeting your soulmate? Were you about to bond right now? Would people be watching? Would it hurt? Why hadn't you ever thought of these things before? You felt a familiar tightness in your chest and pulled out your inhaler. An asthma attack right now? They always seemed to strike at the most inopportune times.

Matt was suddenly turning to you.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, looking at the inhaler you were shaking for a second puff.

You slowly exhaled and nodded.

"I'm fine. But where are we going right now, can you ask them?"

The translator asked the Kang Dae something in Korean, and after he responded, the other man turned to you.

"We're going to the hospital. Namjoon-ssi had a seizure last night due to a prolonged high-grade fever, so we are trying to act as quickly as possible to avoid further complications."

Matt turned to the translator.

"This should have been the first thing we heard when we stepped off that plane. I'm not trying to play hardball here, but we're going to have to be communicated with about every step of this process so we can decide how we're going to respond. This was in the contract, communication and a chance to speak with me before she makes any step in this process..."

Matt slipped in and out of English as the attorney apologetically reassured him through the translator of their full intent to follow the contractual specifications. You felt sick, and your heart continued to hammer - though now for different reasons. You had been worried about a shower while he was fighting for his life. This was no time for nerves. You had to fight for his life too.

When the vehicle pulled into the ambulance bay, you and Matt were handed surgical masks and ushered, with security and other Hybe personnel in tow, through the ICU and into a massive steel elevator. You watched the round button number "5" light up red as Kang Dae pushed it with a gloved hand. After the brief assent, the doors opened into a space that looked like it was straight out of a Star Trek episode - floor to ceiling white, blinding fluorescent lights, and hospital workers covered from head to toe in sterile garments ebbing and flowing in urgent silence to and fro to the rhythmic serenading hums and beeps of medical equipment. You blinked in the offending brightness.

Your party was immediately approached by a small woman with a tablet and stylus who addressed Kang Dae. You heard your name mentioned. You heard Matt's. After a brief exchange with the Hybe attorney, Matt relayed that you were going to meet with Namjoon's oncologist. Kang Dae turned to address the security staff, and his words were met with nods and murmurs of acknowledgment except by the tall, serious man from the SUV, who responded to the attorney in a low but firm tone, his eyes flashing over to you as he spoke. You looked over to Matt, your brow creased in question. He watched as Kang Dae concluded the exchange and lead your now small group of four to follow the petite woman down a long, wide hall. As you walked, Matt leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"It appears the indignant gentleman is your personal bodyguard. Seems he's reluctant to stay behind with the rest of security."

You glanced in surprised curiosity over your shoulder and caught a glimpse of the guard seated beside the rest of the team, elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped under his chin, a pensive expression on his rugged features, before he disappeared from view as you rounded a bend.

The hall connected to a labyrinth of others, snaking off left and right, and punctuated with massive, heavy doors. Your guide abruptly swung left to face one of the entrees, flashing a badge card across a sensor which beeped, allowing her to push it inward. It opened into a suite of rooms much homier than the atmosphere behind you, though every bit as sterile.

In the vestibule was a small acrylic table surrounded by matching chairs. As you passed through you noted to the right, a small kitchenette, and to the left a rather large bathroom. At the end of the suite, you shuffled into a large room, separated on the far left end by a curtain. The space in which you stood was fitted with grey leather furniture, a tall bamboo plant in the corner, and a low acrylic coffee-table. An older, distinguished looking man in a white jacket stood from where he had been seated in one of the arm chairs and bowed. Your group bowed in return, and the translator asked that you be seated.

Dr. Na, as the man in the coat was introduced, would run through some last matters with you before you were to meet your soulmate. He relayed through the translator that this hospital was state of the art, Korea's finest, and a frontrunner in successful experimental treatments for cancer and other genetic diseases. The room you were occupying, he said, was a suite meant for long-term inpatient care, and would be nearly identical to the space you would share with Namjoon for the remainder of his inpatient treatment. He explained that Namjoon's condition has been detected far later than was desirable, and that treatments had included invasive surgery and aggressive rounds of chemotherapy, which had slowed, but not stopped the spread of tumors throughout his body. He said that Namjoon had displayed extreme physical and emotional resilience, but that his will to fight the disease overtaking his body had begun to wane with his strength and increasingly burdensome symptoms from both the cancer and its treatment.

At this point, Dr. Na turned to face Matt full on, and earnestly imparted to him while gesticulating at you. Matt's brow furrowed, and he nodded as he listened to the oncologist before turning serious eyes toward you. Kang Dae began to say something, but the doctor held up his hand while also turning his eyes toward you with an expectant gaze.

"Y/n," Matt began, interlacing his fingers as he often did when trying to choose his words carefully, "Dr. Na says that there is not a lot of research around treating cancer, especially at such an advanced stage, with the soulmate bond. There are accounts of it having seemingly miraculous effects on injury and illness, but none that have been objectively measured. It has been scientifically proven to a degree that soulmates bring about peak physical conditions in one another through the bond...over time. The thing the good doctor here really wants you to understand is that there is no guarantee that there is enough time in our situation. He says that bonding with him is going to be a major risk. If the treatment isn't successful and Namjoon should pass, that would mean your ultimate death soon after."

Matt's face had lost most of its stoicism. He looked deeply worried. He looked like he wanted you to get on a plane with him back to the States. He looked like he knew what you were going to do instead. You see, you had already thought about it - the possibility of death. You nodded.

"Tell him I understand, Matt," you said calmly, "Tell him I'd like to meet Namjoon-ssi."

Matt stared at you for a beat, as if debating with himself before turning back to relay your message to Dr. Na. The oncologist nodded, and then turned to you and asked another question in Korean. The translator explained that the doctor wanted to know if you understood the basic implications of the soul-bond. You sighed. You did. You knew that once bonded you would be reliant on each other for nourishment and survival until the end of your natural lives, and that the bond once established was irreversible. You knew the bond was initiated and maintained through skin-to-skin contact. You knew that the bond changed your body chemistry to no longer need food or water, and that food would eventually be rejected by the body like poison. You knew these things because you had done extensive research, not because anyone in the company asking for you to give over your body and soul had tried to make you aware. They had been interested in matters of signatures and compensation. How considerate of someone to ask you now, you thought with some contempt. You wondered what Namjoon knew, what he had been told, what he had been asked.

"I would like to meet my soulmate now," you said suddenly, cutting through the exchange between Dr. Na and Kang Dae.

All eyes turned on you, leaving in half-finished sentences a wake of mild surprise. "I know what I'm getting into on my end of things. You had expressed before that time was of the essence and I would like to be brought to him now."

Matt relayed your response to the group, and the doctor nodded. Soon you were being handed a hospital gown, and a sports bra, underwear, and socks from your suitcase - that you realized with a bit of alarm and indignation, you had not given anyone permission to retrieve - and were instructed to shower and change into these items.

You slipped into the bathroom and sank down on the closed toilet, dropping your head onto the little bundle of clothes in your arms. In your first few moments alone in over twenty-four hours, everything was beginning to hit like a volley of arrows. Agendas, agendas. Hybe wanted your soulmate. The hospital wanted to beat his cancer. You wanted to help him live. But what did he want? Had anyone asked? Would he be honest, if they did? Not for the first time, something squeezed in your chest at the thought of him. But this time, it was stronger. Your head shot up from your lap. You had somewhere to be.

After a quick and thorough wash-up, you padded into the hall where the little group awaited you. You were self-conscious in your limited attire, and you stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the next as people murmured in Korean. A nurse, who had joined the small throng, approached you, slipping a hospital bracelet with your name and Hangul characters and little numbers around your wrist and handing you a pair of grey slippers. Matt turned to you.

"This is it, kiddo. You're going to go with Dr. Na and have your vitals taken, have some blood drawn, and then you'll go meet him."

Matt sighed deeply, his eyes searching yours. He took a backward glance and stepped just a bit closer, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"You sure about this?"

You nodded.

"Yes, Matt, I'm sure."

He pulled his mouth in into a tense line, his brows drawing together.

"That face you're making, that defiance in your eyes," his hand fell from your shoulder, "You could be his twin. I know I can't change your mind now. Nothing could."

You gave a knowing smile. He wasn't wrong.

"I'm gonna be okay, Matt. I'll see you tomorrow. Call my mom and tell her things went fine. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Matt scratched the back of his head, regarding you thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. He bent to press a kiss to your forehead, and turned to make his polite goodbyes.

The nurse ushered you down the hall and into a room that looked a little more like a typical hospital room with a gauze-covered table, a scale, and other vaguely familiar machines and equipment. After she had collected the desired data and taken a vial of your blood, she made a page in Korean, and then motioned for you to follow her. She took you down another series of passages and finally, when you were sure Theseus himself couldn't have found his way back, she stopped in front of a large steel door and scanned her badge.

Room number 594.

The door opened on its heavy hinges, swinging slowly inward. Your heart was hammering in your chest. You realized the moment you crossed the threshold that you didn't have your things. You didn't have your phone, or your bag, or the book that was inside it, or what was between the pages of the book.

You thought about pear-shaped Italian cheese as you crossed through the kitchen area.

You thought about little Diana trying to stop your mother from crying as she lay on the floor of the kitchen, body shaking with sobs, as you moved into large open room at the end of the suite.

And then, there he was. It was all you could do not to gasp.

You would never have recognized him for the man in the photo Diana had shoved into your face last week. Sitting propped up in a large hospital bed, he was covered up to the waist in blankets. His frame, though unmistakably large, was gaunt, and his white tee draped around him like something that used to fit - patches and wires visible across his chest through the cotton fabric. His long arms were thinner than they should have been, ashy, and littered with bruises. His head leaned back against the pillows, he wore a black beanie low on his brow, but not low enough to hide the naked skin where his eyebrows had been. His full lips were chapped and parted as he labored somewhat to breathe. The doctor was speaking to a tall man in a black tee and jeans beside the bed. Namjoon was watching them, until, suddenly, his gaze flicked to you. Your breath caught in your chest. His eyes were unchanged. Something flooded your veins.

"I need to speak with Namjoon-ssi, please," you said abruptly, turning to the doctor and the man beside him.

They looked at you, quizzically. You cleared your throat to speak again, slower and more firmly.

"Could I be alone with him, for a moment? I need to speak with him before we begin."

The doctor turned to say something to the tall man, but a voice from the hospital bed addressed them in a soft, deep timbre. The tall man glanced at you and then at Namjoon and replied. They held a short exchange before both he and the doctor filed reluctantly out of the room, taking the nurse with them.

Namjoon sat further up in the bed, his face contorting in pain as you approached him. You stood a few feet from where he sat, your hands inexplicably itching to reach out for him. You clasped them behind your back.

"Hello," he, rasped.

Even the hoarseness couldn't hide the warmth of his voice. You thought his eyes and his voice must be made of the very same stuff. You were suddenly a different kind of nervous. You didn't even register your own initiative to speak as the question came tumbling out.

"Do you want to live?"

Your soulmate blinked in surprise.

"What?"

You took a breath and repeated yourself, this time with intention.

"Do you want to live?" You asked again. "I know there are plenty of people who want you too, but I want to know what you want."

He regarded you in intent silence for a long moment.

"Yes," he said finally, his cadence thoughtful and deliberate, "Yes, I want to live. I wasn't sure I did, but I do. I do now."

You exhaled a little breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"Okay, good," you nodded, looking away from his intent gaze as you fought, again, the surging urge to reach for him.

His lips quirked into a little smirk at your reaction.

"I was going to ask you a question too, but after introductions," those eyes caught yours again, teasingly, and the little smile deepened just a bit, pressing a dimple into his sunken cheek.

The misery he was living in and he was teasing you? You felt something flutter a little in your chest which you willed yourself to ignore.

"I'm sorry," you bit back a smile, glancing away a bit bashfully, "I just needed to know that you had agency over what was happening here, that it was what you wanted. If no one else was going to give you that choice...well, I was."

He regarded you silently again before addressing you.

"It's good to meet you, Y/n-ssi. I'm Kim Namjoon."

You couldn't suppress a smirk at his stubbornness, and at the fact that he already knew your name, like you knew his.

"It's good to meet you, too, Namjoon-ssi," you replied softly.

He suddenly leaned back in the bed, wincing, his chest heaving a bit. You looked over at the heart monitor that beeped beside him to see that his pulse was rising.

"Should I call in the doctor?" You asked in concern.

He shook his head weakly.

"Not yet," he pressed out, with effort. "I...need...to know..."

You stepped closer to hear him.

"Know what?" He closed his eyes , bringing a hand over his chest as the beeping slowed.

"You...could...die...trying to..." he broke into a bought of coughs that was obviously painful. Once he had caught his breath, he rasped, "Are you sure, Y/n-ssi?"

"Yes," you answered without hesitation. "Yes, I'm sure. This is my choice. I'm sure."

He opened his eyes. You held each other in a silent gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something. He didn't. He merely nodded and asked,

"You ready, then?"

You met his questioning gaze with a wry smile and what you hoped were steady eyes as you answered.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

After the staff had returned to the room, the tall man in plainclothes introduced himself as Sejin, Namjoon's manager. He gave you a deep bow, which you returned, thanking you in practiced English for agreeing to bond with the idol - something that made you uncomfortable all the way down to your bones, and which you tried to dismiss without being impolite. The doctor spoke to Namjoon at some length, gesticulating to you several times. Sejin nodded along as the nurse typed notes onto her tablet.

You felt a bit frustrated, being on the outside of what so immediately concerned you. You were on the verge of asking for Matt to be brought in when Namjoon turned to you.

"The doctor says that while he understands first touch is an intimate experience, that he and two nurses will need to be present to monitor my vitals. My heart is on the weaker side these days."

He looked almost contrite as he said it and your chest squeezed. You nodded understandingly. He might be your soulmate, but you knew this wasn't a meet-cute. This was clinical. What was about to happen between you was a treatment. The doctor continued, and a nurse came around the bed to where you stood and waited expectantly as Namjoon turned to you, this time with an unmistakably apologetic look on his drawn features.

"Dr. Na says that if first contact goes smoothly, we'll need to begin treatments aggressively, which means as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. I guess they want us both in just undergarments."

Ah, hence the hospital gown.

You felt heat creep up your neck. Under any other circumstances you would have been upset at the lack of privacy of it all, but these weren't like any circumstances you had ever been prepared to anticipate. You were going to have to figure the boundaries out as you went.

The nurse beside you rolled up a chair for you to sit in beside the bed, facing Namjoon. She untied and tugged the top of your hospital gown down to place a heart monitor on your chest, your soulmate respectfully averting his gaze.

When all the necessary preparations had been made, you found yourself sitting in a swivel chair cranked up to reach the height of the hospital bed, socked feet not touching the ground. You were facing Namjoon, who kept sitting forward, much to the chagrin of the nurses who kept gently but impatiently guiding him back against the pillows. You felt a sick feeling creep into the pit of your stomach as you glanced at the second nurse wheel in a defibrillator. How bad could this possibly be? Would it hurt? You steeled yourself as Namjoon sat forward again, turning up the palm of his large right hand which rested on the covers beside you.

"It's time," he murmured softly, eyes on you as you gave one more glance to the doctor, who nodded, and giving in to an urge you had kept at bay since you entered the room you slipped your hand into his.

A jolt shot through your body like an intense electric pulse. It hurt, like relentless aftershocks of overstimulation to sensitive flesh...and yet if felt good. So good. You had instinctively pulled to yank your hand away from the pure surprise of it, but you had tugged yourself back to no avail. You opened your eyes (you hadn't remembered closing them) to see Namjoon, head thrown back against the pillows, lips parted and eyes screwed shut as he clutched your hand in a vice grip. You glanced at the heart monitor spitting out beeps consistent with well over a hundred beats per minute. Was that yours or his? But you couldn't very well hold a coherent thought in your mind as warmth began to flood your body, followed by a tingling sensation that seemed to fizzle up from the base of your spine and trickle down your limbs.

Raising suddenly heavy eyes, you realized that you were swaying a bit on your feet. When did you stand? And you were much, much closer to Namjoon - your hand was curling around the base of his bicep, your elbow in his palm, as you pressed every possible square centimeter of your bare arm to his. His eyes were open now and he was looking at you as his chest rose and fell. You returned his gaze, unfocused, drunk on the sensations spreading through your being.

You blinked as you heard the doctor speak, but neither of you tore your eyes away, and as if in a trace, as the nurses helped you out of your clothes, and you crawled into the bed and slotted yourself against his side, stretching out your right arm to wrap around his torso. Every aspect of the feeling grew impossibly stronger, the pleasure factor so high that it felt somehow wrong to be experiencing this with a total stranger in a hospital room surrounded by others. You felt Namjoon let out a shuddering breath. His arms had snaked around you.

The last thing you remembered before falling into a delirium was the nurse pulling the covers over your bodies.

When you awoke, or rather, came to, you felt wrong. You rubbed hazy eyes to find yourself on a little cot. Before you could even wonder where you were or how you got there, the events of the previous day came flooding back.

Holy shit, you thought, you were in Korea. You had met your soulmate - and bonded with him.

When had you even fallen asleep? The last thing you remembered was climbing into Namjoon's bed. Your heartbeat quickened. First touch had been...something else. An image of your soulmate gripping your hand with his head thrown back flashed through your mind.

No, don't, you thought, and pushed yourself to sit up.

In your attempt to move, you quickly realized that the wrongness you felt was that you were incredibly weak. It was a strange sort of weakness, however, one that left you feeling exhausted with every tiny move but wasn't accompanied by any sort of discomfort. In fact, you felt like you were floating on a cloud, if only one you couldn't find the strength to roll off.

You were back in your hospital gown. There was a small table to your left with a lamp, a little vase of flowers, and white telephone. To your left was a machine much like the one you had seen beside Namjoon's bed beeping away, a little green line spiking and dropping across the monitor. A long curtain stretched across the space in front of you. You needed to pee.

As you moved to get off the cot, a sting of pain shot through your right arm at the inner joint and you realized that you had missed the IV drip beside the heart monitor. Clamping the IV stand you rose precariously on wobbly legs. You shuffled wearily forward, pulling the curtain back to reveal the other half of the room...and your soulmate.

He was sitting in bed, over the covers, in a heather grey tee and navy blue sweats, bare feet crossed at the ankles. He was still wearing the beanie, and his head was dipped down, immersed in the book he was holding open in his lap. The mid-morning sun spilled through the open window, bathing the suite in a pale yellow that blanketed generic seating furniture and a small bookshelf topped with a bonsai tree and painted clay figurine beside the bed, but left the abstract art piece on the opposite wall in relative shadow.

You were about to retreat back behind the curtain when a wheel of your portable IV stand betrayed you with a squeak. You pulled the curtain hurriedly shut, but too late.

"Hello?" You heard him call softly.

His voice sounded better, you thought. Not nearly as raspy. You must look like shit, you also thought. Oh well, you needed to get past him to look decent anyway. And to pee. And he was going to see you probably every day for the rest of your life, so, bashfulness regarding your morning mug was definitely a waste of emotional energy. You heaved a sigh, and slowly pulled back the curtain, peeking through as you advanced a step.

"I didn't want to disturb you," you fibbed, clutching the IV stand.

"You're not disturbing me," he responded, shutting his book.

He was looking at you with a soft expression, reserved, but still warm. He looked a lot better than yesterday, too; it was unmistakable. His skin had lost a great deal of its previously ashy quality and the bruises on his arms had nearly vanished. His lips were no longer chapped, and, you noted, were full and naturally deep in color. His face looked less wane, though still thin, his shirt still hanging loosely over his chest and broad, sloping shoulders.

"You look a little better," you urged, hoping to justify your prolonged stare.

He smiled. You were quickly reminded like a sock to the gut how pretty his smile was.

"I feel better," he concurred, "Thanks to you."

You looked down at your feet awkwardly. You had never been good at receiving praise or gratitude.

"Oh...I'm glad," you mumbled.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

You raised your gaze back up to meet his, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

"Probably about as good as I look," you rejoined.

He pulled his smile into a tight line, eyes creasing. You thought maybe that was what he looked like when he was trying not to laugh. Suddenly you felt your bladder demand priority of attention.

"Well, I'm gonna...get ready. For the day," you motioned, quickly realizing you had nothing to change into, and slipped back into the little room behind the curtain.

Scanning the space, you noted your suitcase and bag against the wall. You filled your bag with the essentials and a change before popping back out into the other half of the room on your way to the bathroom. You noticed out of the corner of your eye that Namjoon glanced at you before looking down at his book again, and you ignored the tight feeling in your chest one more time.

Your mom had always said that a hot shower could make a person reborn, and by golly you figured she was right. You felt life seeping back into your limbs slowly but surely as the warm water poured over your body. As always, hot water and steam against white tile oiled cogs of your mind.

Clearly, the bond had served Namjoon well. You were anxious to know what a medical assessment would report. Your own exhaustion confused you, however. Wasn't the bond supposed to nourish you, rejuvenate you? When would you stop needing food? How often would you need to practice skinship now that you were bonded? And what would that look like? A thousand questions filled your mind as you massaged your scalp. You made a mental note to write a list of questions for the doctor.

Once you had finished your morning routine, you felt infinitely more prepared to face the day. You changed into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. As you shuffled back toward your room, you noticed Namjoon bent over the bonsai, tiny scissors in hand. A nurse was typing on a tablet on the other side of the bed.

"Um, Namjoon," you asked, as you paused.

He startled a bit as he looked up at you, dropping the little scissors and cursing under his breath. The nurse peeked over and when she had seemingly assessed that no damage had been done, she smirked.

"At least no bonsai limbs were lost this time," she murmured.

Namjoon slipped the scissors into a little leather pouch.

"Hilarious," he deadpanned, then turned his attention back to you, "Sorry, did you ask me something?"

"Actually," you blinked in surprise, "I was going to ask you to ask the nurse, but I guess I can ask her myself this time."

The nurse smiled at you.

"Ganhosanim, this is Y/n-ssi," Namjoon said, addressing the woman. She gave you a bow which you returned.

"Annyeonghaseyo," she greeted you, "I'm Nurse Cha and I'll be your attending on most days. Please feel free to speak to me in English," she smiled.

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders. While you had been studying Korean furiously ever since your decision had been made, having medical personnel you could communicate with at this stage without having to rely on Namjoon to translate for you was a welcome relief.

"If you have a minute, I have some questions? Or, I will, once I write them down. Could I just put my stuff away and come right back?" You asked eagerly. She nodded, still typing away on the tablet. You dropped your bag beside your suitcase, which you tossed on the bed and unzipped to extract a pen and a notebook with three little bees embossed into the cover. You donned your slippers and crossed back over to Namjoon's side. He was sitting on the bed again, and nurse Yun was examining one of his arms. You plopped down in an armchair beside the bookshelf.

"Nice bonsai," you remarked, trailing your eyes over the intricate geometric patterns of its shallow stone pot.

"Nice journal," he replied. "Moleskin?"

You nodded, holding it up to show him the front.

"It has bees," you said with solemnity, as if the whimsy of the endearing was something to be taken quite seriously, and Namjoon hummed in grave assent. Nurse Cha glanced between you, a smirk at the corner of her mouth.

"You said you had some questions, Y/n-ssi?" She offered.

"Yes," you began, scribbling a few down in the pages in your lap before beginning. "Firstly wha- Oh! What happened to me yesterday? Did I pass out?" You interrupted yourself to ask.

"Yes," she replied. "While the bonding was successful, and the skinship was highly rejuvenating for Namjoon, it appears that you were giving more than you were getting from a physiological standpoint, and while the effect was still probably similar to you on a cellular level, you were disproportionate in your transfer of energy. We've put you on an IV drip for now to ensure you're getting the replenishment your body needs regardless of food intake."

You jotted down a few lines of notes.

"Okay, makes sense. Now, moving on to the food thing - we're still eating, right?"

Nurse Cha began typing on her tablet as she responded.

"Yes. However, there is great boidiversity as to when and what people start rejecting as far as food goes. The average point of solid food rejection begins around two weeks after bonding. Generally, bonded individuals are still able to consume water and distilled alcohols, though they become unable to experience taste."

"Does alcohol have the same...effect?" Namjoon spoke up from the bed.

"An intensified one, actually," she responded, "Being a bonded mate means rediscovering your tolerance, and caution is of course advised. We've actually taken blood panels to alert us of any food sensitivities you may have. These should be immediately eliminated from your diet, as the rejection symptoms can be more severe in cases of late-stage ingestion with these items. The doctor will be in later to review those results with you."

"Okay. And how often will we need to practice skinship, and are we going to need to initiate it ourselves or are we going to be on a schedule?"

"I was wondering about that too," Namjoon said, adjusting his beanie.

"The doctor will go over that with you as soon as he arrives in a little while as well. I know I'm scheduled to update your charts every six hours, so I'm sure there will be some guidance involved at first."

You quickly glanced up at Namjoon and then down at your lap. A warmth spread through your chest as you tried to keep your eyes on your notes and off of his bare arms. You were having those stupid urges to latch onto him again. Your hand twitched around your pen. You wondered what his thoughts were on your next session.

Just then, Dr. Na entered the room. He greeted both of you warmly and Nurse Cha took over relaying the consultation in English.

The oncologist was very optimistic about the effect of the soulmate bond on Namjoon, saying that his vitals had stabilized, his pain levels were lower than they'd been in weeks and the inflammation in his body had decreased significantly. He stressed that, while these were good signs, they were not a guarantee that the skinship was treating the cancer, and that they would have to take scans after a time to see if the tumors had were in fact shrinking.

He reviewed your blood panel results, letting you know that from that point forward you were to avoid consuming nightshades while communicating to Namjoon that he hadn't tested positive for any food sensitivities. He showed you a chart dictating when and how long you should practice skinship each day, beginning with a session immediately following the consultation. He cautioned you to alert medical staff if during a session you began to feel overly-drain, as they did not want you coming to the point of fainting again. You were removed from your IV drip.

After the doctor had taken his leave, Nurse Cha fixed you with additional monitors, instructed you both to strip down to your maximum level of comfortability for the session, and departed. Once you were down to bra and panties, you climbed up into the huge hospital bed to join Namjoon, who once again kept his gaze trained anywhere but your side of the bed as you slipped under the covers and pressed yourself into his side.

Suddenly it was as if you had slipped into a warm bath under the influence of champagne. You closed your eyes and sank into the incredible sensation of his touch. His skin was like a warm cup of tea on the coldest day of the year. Like the first refreshing moments of a plunge into cool water at the height of summer. It was everything wonderful all at once, and you were so caught up in the sensation that you were barely cognizant of a tiny moan escaping your lips.

Horrified, you bit down on your bottom lip and prayed to all that was sacred that Namjoon hadn't noticed. His immediate soft laughter, however, betrayed him, and you felt your face burning with embarrassment - beads of sweat pricking on your forehead as you covered your face with a different kind of groan.

"Sorry," you murmured, ruefully.

"Nah, I get it," Namjoon chuckled, his chest rumbling under your cheek. "If it feels as good for you as it does for me, then that's the correct response."

You allowed yourself to giggle a bit in turn.

"I'm glad it's already helping," you remarked, and you felt him turn his head as if he was looking down at you.

He was silent for a beat before addressing you again.

"Everything happened so quickly yesterday, I didn't even get a chance to thank you."

"For what?" you countered, even though you knew exactly where he was headed with this.

"For leaving your life behind and coming to Korea to give a stranger a chance at his. I'm going to spend the rest of my time making it up to you."

You felt your chest tighten. You pushed yourself up on one arm and turned to face him. The sheet fell down your upper body as you moved, but you were too intent on looking him in the face to notice.

"Namjoon, you're not a charity case. I didn't do this so that you would owe me something. This is a choice I made. All mine. So relieve yourself of any debt you may feel you owe me. We're bound by circumstance, but you're a free man in every sense of the word. I won't be a burden you bear any more than you wish to be one to me."

If you had been looking through his eyes, you would have seen yourself, pressed up out of the sheets with all the modesty of a sea nymph, your features glowing with the effects of the bond and fixed with a splendid kind of resoluteness and soft defiance. But, you saw it from your own, taking in the quiet shock on Namjoon's features that slowly morphed into something you couldn't place. Not yet. You didn't know him well enough.

After regarding you blinkingly, he looked at you with earnest eyes and gave a nod.

"I accept those terms," he assented, and you believed him.

You thought maybe you'd believe anything he said, and, suddenly aware of the bareness of your torso under the intentness of his gaze, you slipped back down against his side.

"I noticed you dropped the honorifics," he murmured teasingly.

You glanced back up at him.

"Oh...sorry, I'm not used to it. I can -"

"It's alright," he interjected, "I think we should be familiar. It will make things easier, right? Only if you want, though," he quickly added.

"Yeah, no, I agree," you answered, shifting to press your leg more fully against his, and smiling to yourself as you keyed up your next remark.

"And I'm only your noona by a little bit anyway, so no need to call me that..."

This time a loud laugh burst out of him that shook your head enough for you to roll away and shoot him a look as he brushed a hand over his eyes in amusement. You smiled as you took in his dimpled cheeks and crescent eyes, and nearly didn't notice the voice speaking in bemused and startled Korean at the mouth of the hall. It was Namjoon who looked up first.

"Yah!" He called in indignation and warning as you followed his gaze to catch but a glimpse of two young men, badly repressing snickers as they bolted back down the hall to the entry of the suite.

Namjoon sighed sharply and turned to you with and apologetic expression.

"I'm so sorry, those idiots are my friends. They're used to coming and going as they please to visit me - which, obviously now they can't just barge in unannounced."

He slipped out of bed, and you glanced away as he pulled on sweats and a shirt.

"I'll tell them to come back at a better time."

"No, no!" you protested, "Just let me get decent. I want to meet them."

Namjoon paused as he kicked on his slippers.

"You sure?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, yeah. I know we're still on skinship time, but, maybe we can just...hold hands? I mean, as long as you're okay with it..."

Namjoon's mouth slipped into a wry grin as he glanced down to the other end of the suite.

"Yeah, I'm fine with it. I apologize in advance if they can't be."

You gave a confused shrug as Namjoon picked up his phone and crossed into the vestibule area to give you the privacy to change. You pulled your leggings and sweatshirt back on and perched yourself cross-legged on the hospital bed, listening with amused anticipation as Namjoon spoke in exasperated Korean on the other side of the wall. You heard the door and three sets of footsteps accompanied by giggles and shushing, and then your soulmate emerged, all but herding the two young men preceding him into the room.

You immediately recognized the strapping, dark-haired one with the leporine smile as Jungkook, the young man who had accompanied Hybe's representation to visit you on Namjoon's behalf. The other young man you also recognized from internet images as one of the members, though you couldn't recall his name. He was shorter than Jungkook, though not by as much as he should have been due to the significance of his heeled boots. What he lacked in height he made up for in athletic build and voluptuously beautiful facial features. He shook his honey blonde hair out of his eyes, earrings tinkling as he regarded you with a coy smile.

"Ijjogeun Y/n-ieo. Y/n, this is Jungkook and Jimin," Namjoon said, gesturing to each of the members as they made polite bows.

"Annyeonghaseyo," you said, returning their bows deeply, "Mannaseo bangapseumnida - dasi mannaseo bangabseubnida, Jungkook-ssi."

Jungkook flashed a blinding smile, round eyes wide and sparkling.

"It's good to see you again too, noona," he answered in English. Namjoon's brow creased as he glanced between you and the young man you had been originally introduced to as the maknae of BTS.

"You've met?" he asked. You nodded.

"Jungkook was one of the people who came to meet me in the US when your company made the proposition," you explained. "He spoke very, very highly of you. His reference of your character was one of the major contributing factors toward my decision to come."

You smiled softly at Jungkook. Namjoon nodded, brow still drawn, as he pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek, jaw clenched and jutting forward, as he clapped the youngest on the shoulder. You thought Jungkook's eyes were just a bit glassy as the two shared a look that seemed to hold a lifetime of history. Jimin regarded the two with sentimentality before returning his gaze to you, again full of enigmatic mischief. The blonde took a step toward you, then turned on his booted heal, saying something to Namjoon in Korean.

You cocked your head to the side, glancing at your soulmate.

"He said I look a lot better already," Namjoon said, eyeing Jimin warily as the younger man continued speaking, flashing you a devilish grin. Jungkook pulled his pierced lower lip between his teeth as he glanced between Namjoon and Jimin. You looked again to Namjoon expectantly.

Awkwardness radiated from him as he deflected saying Jimin was just making fun, and he shot the younger man a look that unmistakably communicated his lack of amusement. Namjoon made another remark in Korean, and joined you back on the bed, hesitating only a moment before he took your hand in his.

You saw his shoulders sag in relief as he breathed a sigh through his nose at the contact. You had to restrain your own reaction, glancing down shyly as to avoid the two pairs of eyes trained in rapt curiosity on you from the end of the bed. Namjoon continued to speak with them, translating between you when your limited Korean wasn't sufficient, and gradually your awkwardness eased in the comfortable presence that emanated between your soulmate and his members.

As the visitors were about to take their leave, Jimin trained you with a newly serious look, leaning against the edge of the bed, and glancing at Namjoon as he spoke in what you could decipher was gratitude.

"He says they're all so grateful to you and glad to have you with us," Namjoon translated. You noticed his thumb slide over the back of your hand as he said it. So did Jimin, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he eyed where your digits were intertwined.

"Ah," you said awkwardly, "No thanks necessary, we're in this together, right?"

You pulled your hand from Namjoon's and in an attempt to raise your arm and give him a nonchalant pat on the back, you backhanded him directly in the face.

Namjoon's hand flew up to his cheek and the two younger members erupted in laughter. You apologized profusely, trying to make sure Namjoon could hear you over Jungkook's wheezing and Jimin's shrieks of what you were pretty sure was "oh shit, there are two of them". When Namjoon had assured you that he was perfectly fine and the other two had composed themselves, you said your goodbyes. As soon as they were out the door, Namjoon was apologizing.

"It's fine," you smirked with a shrug, "That's friends for you. I would have been concerned if they hadn't poked a little fun. I like them. I want to meet the rest of them."

Namjoon slipped back up onto the bed and intertwined his hand with yours as he glanced down, a pensive look on his face.

"There's a lot of people you need to meet," he said quietly, thoughtfully.

You studied him as he continued to look down at your joined hands.

"In fact," he continued, "There was someone I was hoping you could meet tomorrow. Someone we should sit down...and talk with."

You nodded, regarding him intently.

"Her name is Kim Hyung-seo," he continued, "She's my fiancée."

AN: Yeah, sorry to drop that at the end and peace out. 😁✌

Tag list: @butterymin @little-dark-empress @aretha170 @kamilamb @jlee97 @thephotoend @callmenoona25

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