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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, kissing / making out, heavy suggestive themes, teasing / flirting, Simon being boyfriend material, slightly possessive Simon

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Part Seven of Ink & Needle

You meet Simon at 141 Ink in the morning as promised. Tension ensues. An unplanned date commences.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Spiderwebs are delicate, intricate things. They are works of art that kill, trapping and tangling their prey within their glossy strings. Beautiful. Deadly.

Simon is a spiderweb. Has been since the moment you met him at Riot Room. His dark allure drew you in until you stuck and went with him into that green room. Then, he devoured you to the point of ruin.

No other touch has lived up to his. It doesn’t matter that it has been three years and you’ve tried to find him in so many different people. Not one could ever be him. No one could ever touch or worship you like he had in Riot Room’s basement.

Your wraith. Ghost. Simon. Who, after all this time, still thinks about you. Still craves you to the point of near obsession.

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

Simon’s words are phantoms. They haunt you, clinging to you the rest of the day and well into bed when you stared at the ceiling and replayed his words in your head. Your response to those sweetened bullets was no lie. You’ve thought about him often, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing with his life.

Now you know. And yet it doesn’t feel complete. There are so many hollow sections to your wraith. But that hardly matters because the two of you are constantly in orbit of the other. Tied by a teether or maybe gravity. Spinning toward each other until the smaller mass succumbs to the greater object.

The two of you are moving dangerously close to a collision.

Which is why your hands nervously tug on the ends of your sleeves outside 141 Ink. You promised Simon you’d come see him in the morning, and here you are. And you do want to see him, to speak to him, to slide into his lap and feel his lips again.

Yesterday’s kisses roll up to the forefront of your mind, taking root in the cervices of your brain. Memory surfaces, causing your cheeks to heat. It is the recollection of his warm but rough hand in yours, of how his arms wrapped around you in a perfect embrace, and the taste of him that you never forgot and longed to keep exploring.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Simon wants this to be more. He desires a relationship beyond what the two of you had in Riot Room. You felt it then, creeping into your bones and senses until it was an all-consuming sensation that made you bolt. Even then, you knew.

Now, the idea sounds wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The door to 141 Ink is shut. The lights are off. The front of the building is a deep purple in color, almost black in appearance like an eggplant. The door itself is black with the 141 Ink logo in the center above a small window on the bottom half. It’s an odd place for a window, but Simon has a dog, Bravo, and it’s likely for him.

Above the storefront are two levels of old red brick. There are a total of three windows on each level. Nearly all of the other buildings along the street have this. It’s likely an apartment. Maybe two. Simon might be up there right now if he in fact lives above the parlor.

You purposefully came early so that maybe—just maybe—Simon might not be there, and you could brush it off, saying that he missed you. Make up another time to meet. Because that’s what you always do. You run. You bolt. You hide.

And hiding seems awful. It is that instinct that drives you to do it, to keep yourself safe and protected, to keep control. Simon isn’t someone you want to run away from this time. He was so earnest and sincere yesterday when you were in his lap and his lips were pressed to yours.

You also noted how aroused he was, the solidness of him grinding against your core every time your hips shifted in his lap. In that moment, you were thrust back to Riot Room, to how he felt inside you, and how perfectly your bodies fit together.

You were made for him, and he for you. In that tiny room, you knew.

But you’re also starting to panic. Simon has not showed, and perhaps you’ve arrived far too early. Which is funny, since just a few days ago the door to 141 Ink stood open about this time. It’s not too farfetched to believe he’d be up at this hour on a Monday.

You’re not even standing directly in front of the door. You’re nearly on the curb, pacing, questioning whether you should turn around right now and go back home or see this through. Amelia is probably putting the kettle on, and you didn’t eat before you left.

On cue, your stomach growls and you frown down at it, beginning to walk away.

The moment you turn and take a step, the familiar sound of deadbolts unlocking snarls your attention. You freeze, clutching the front of your coat as the door to 141 Ink swings open.

Simon is right there. One hand on the handle of the door, and the other leaning against the wooden doorframe. He’s so tall and broad. Like this, you can see all of him clearly. Yes, Simon is a little softer in some areas, but it only adds to his thickness, making you hunger to know what it’ll feel like when you’re under him.

When. When. As if you know it’ll happen. That none of this will fizzle out but extend outward, heading toward that inevitable collision.

Because you were never under him before. But you think about it now. How those massive arms of his will hold you down, pin you beneath him, create a cage you won’t want to be released from.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathy.

“You came,” replies Simon. It’s an exhalation. A relief and happiness laced into the words that he speaks. You cannot see his features beneath the balaclava, but his body language and tone of voice tell you all you need to know.

Simon’s hand drops from the door frame and he steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and you’re forced to squeeze by him. The heat of him is strong, and his scent is decadent. Rich. Smoky. Like a foggy day in the Pacific Northwest or a quick, frantic kiss in a London alleyway. You have to force yourself not to turn into him, to inhale and remember him like this.

Now that you’re actually inside 141 Ink you can see the space for what it is. The inside of the tattoo parlor is industrial with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. The lighting is warm, brightening up the space. Above you are black metal pipes and a solid support beam. In the back of the space is the tattooing area. While you can see some of the chair, most of it obstructed by a short privacy wall. Behind that and to the right of it is storage, and to the left is a small office space with a desk. Overall, it’s fairly simple, but inviting.

Bravo greets you with an enthusiastic tail wag that sends a breeze your way. You laugh and hold out your palm. Bravo immediately sniffs your hand like you have a treat hidden somewhere. But you don’t, and while the German Shepard seems briefly disappointed, it’s short-lived. He nuzzles your hand and you promptly scratch under his chin and behind his ears.

“Can’t have her all to yourself, Bravo.” Simon’s gruff voice slips over you like a comforting blanket. There is humor in his tone, but underneath is a hint of possessiveness.

Your cheeks heat, and you pull away from Bravo, only to turn to face Simon. He’s so close, and when you’re fully facing him, Simon slides an arm around your waist and draws you even closer. Your hands instinctually go out to rest against his firm chest.

Underneath your palms, beneath his shirt, are his pectorals. They flex under your hands as he inhales, and he draws you closer still. Simon’s free hand, the one not currently wrapped around your waist, delicately cups your cheek, cradles it so gently that you begin to melt.

Simon is strong. This man could easily break you—or anyone—and yet this tenderness is so out of place, like it shouldn’t be possible with a man like him. But your wraith is capable, loving, and you find yourself pressing into him, hands sliding up his chest to lightly tease the bottom of his balaclava.

While you’d like it off, to see Simon fully, you know that’s a limit. You don’t push it, but you do tug a bit, indicating what you want. Your gaze flicks upward, only to meet a gaze that is as soft as Simon’s touch.

Those perfectly pale eyelashes are gently halos against his dark eyes. His brown irises remind you of light through a whiskey bottle. Everything about his gaze is relaxed including his brow and eyelids. It’s a startling look, one that speaks to deep desire.

The very idea sends a ripple of heat to your core, warming you between your legs. This is the intimacy you noticed back at Riot Room, that Simon’s gaze was more than someone simply interested in a quick hook up.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, tone nearly a purr. “Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer?”

Your lips pull back into a soft smile. “Are you teasing me?”

Simon’s pulls you flush against him, and the hand attached to that arm slides from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing. “I think you’re the one teasing.”

You squeak, then laugh as Simon removes his hand from your cheek to wrap that arm behind your back. You’re trapped against him, and even though you cannot see his mouth, you can see the way the balaclava stretches as he smiles.

With gentleness, you slip your fingers beneath the edge of the balaclava, easing it up over his chin and mouth to rest against the top of his nose. His blackout neck tattoo is on full display, as is the scar that runs along his jaw. You remember that scar, and one of your fingers absently traces it.

Simon turns into the touch, and then your finger is brushing over his bottom lip. He lightly kisses your finger, and then nips at it playfully.

“Stop,” you laugh.

“Then give me your mouth,” replies Simon, his head dipping to chase what he’s asking for.

You happily give it to him.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Simon surrenders to you as much as he seeks control. The arms around your waist shift as his hands start to explore, caressing your back, hips, ass, and thighs in tender strokes.

Simon does not shove his tongue down your throat. He doesn’t push or guide you anywhere. All he does is kiss you, as if that is all he needs. As if it is enough. There is the faintest hint of smoke and black tea on his tongue, and it is comforting.

That is what Simon is. What you’ve been missing. Comfort. He is so warm and bright and bold even though you know him as your wraith. He is not a demon at all, or a creature out of hell. At least, not with you, and it is fucking delicious.

The heat of arousal burns in your core, and though you’d love to take this to more private corners, you can maneuver Simon into a more intimate position. That way, you don’t have to be on your goddamn toes to kiss him.

At the moment Simon breaks away to take a breath, you turn out of his embrace, his lips meeting your cheek instead of your mouth. Simon grunts, and you attempt to wiggle out of his arms.

“No.” And it’s nearly a growl that escapes his throat. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Simon’s words are a bolt to your core. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the collar of his shirt, and he dives in again, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You’re primed, wired. You want to have a little control.

Pushing on his chest, Simon reluctantly releases you, but he does not allow you to move away from him. You’re still tucked against his chest, and his head hangs low, creating a deeper sense of closeness. He runs his thumb over your cheek at the same moment your gaze darts to the nearby sofa.

141 Ink’s waiting area consists of two small sofas. One is pushed directly against the wall facing the street under the massive front window. The other is against the wall that connects to it, creating a tiny nook at the front of the shop.

Simon’s gaze follows yours. “You want to sit?”

I want to sit in your lap you think.

Carefully, you place your hand on his chest and push enough to indicate that you want Simon to move. He does, walking backward toward the black leather sofa as your hand guides him. When the backs of his legs knock into the couch, Simon sinks to a seated position.

At first, he’s sitting up straight, forearms resting on knees, all of his curious attention focused on you. With exaggerated slowness, you take off your coat. First the left shoulder, and then the right, tossing it onto the sofa beside Simon.

Simon immediately rests his back against the sofa, spreads his legs, and drapes his arms over the top of it. The corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of an amused smile. He drops one arm to rest his palm against his thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He only rubs his hand there. Back and forth in silent invitation.

It’s so much like Riot Room that you forget you’re in Simon’s tattoo parlor.

His chest heaves, each inhalation deep like he too is full of anticipation. It’s clear that Simon is reigning himself in, pulling back enough to not scare you off or force you into anything you don’t want to do. All he wants is your permission first, and when he has that, it’s over. Done. You’ll submit to whatever he wants.

You know this.

And he knows this.

Standing between his legs, you lift one leg and plant your knee on the outside of his thigh, repeating the motion with the other, before settling in his lap.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” says Simon, as his head tilts back. Your mouth comes down on his throat, and Simon groans. “On second thought, I like meeting like this.”

You smile against his skin, peppering his throat with little kisses before following the line of his jaw, and then finally his lips.

Maybe it’s too much for him, because Simon immediately grabs for you, hands roaming everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a possessive, needful series of touches that is laced with desperation. You are equally needy—equally wanting to consume and touch and devour every bit of this man.

Simon sparks something bright within you. Gives it life. Blows the low embers into resounding fiery brilliance. You are perfect in his arms. You never want to leave.

His hands slide under your sweater, under your shirt, finding your skin. It’s just the tip of his fingers at first, and then his palm. Then he is grabbing hold, squeezing your waist, moving upward until his hand slides into the space between your breasts before retreating.

You whimper at the loss, and Simon breaks the kiss, only to give you more along your jaw and the spot behind your ear.

Simon’s head dips, nuzzling your throat, the balaclava scratching against your cheek.

“I want to kiss you,” murmurs Simon as his lips brush against the side of your neck.

You laugh, fingers lightly digging into his biceps. “My lips are right here.” You turn toward him and meet his dark gaze.

“I’m not talking about these lips,” replies Simon, his thumb gently pulling on your bottom lip. He releases it and it bounces back into place.

“Oh,” is all you say, startled.

Memories emerge. Sensual ones. Dirty ones. The ones from Riot Room when you were bent over and Simon was behind you, tonguing you like it was all he ever wanted.

But how far can the two of you go before someone interrupts this private moment. If you say yes, would he do it right here, or would he take you somewhere else, and if you agree, would that be it? Or would the two of you keep going until there was nothing between your bodies?

Just skin against skin.

“Oh?” he asks, amused. Simon’s hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you back to his lips. This kiss is much gentler than the rest.

He lets it linger, only pulling away enough to look into your eyes. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

You swallow, knowing what he means. He’s not talking about your lips or face or neck. Simon is talking about the rest of you. The place between your thighs. The small, sensitive flesh that has so easily made you come undone for him before.

As you begin to form a response, your stomach growls. It’s loud, completely betraying the fact that you were too nervous this morning to eat.

Simon’s lips part like he’s about to say something but your stomach interrupts him again. He shakes his head, grabs your waist, and easily lifts you out of his lap and onto your feet.

“Bravo, watch the shop.”

Bravo barks as Simon grabs your coat off the couch and presents it to you, opening it up for you to slide your arms inside.

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and you snap your mouth shut under his command, sliding your left and then right arm into your coat. Simon helps ease it over your shoulders, and then he walks off into what you guess is a back hallway. He returns with his own coat, tugging it on just as Bravo takes up position near the door.

There is no asking. Simon takes your hand and guides you to the door, ushing you out into the cold. The moment the door is shut, you see Bravo’s face appear in the window as he hops onto the couch.

Simon has not released your hand once, not even when he uses his free hand to lock up the shop. Dropping his keys into his pocket, Simon effortlessly pulls you into his side, releasing your hand to slide an arm around your waist.

The way Simon tucks you against him forces you to turn into him, to wrap one of your arms around his waist, to rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment—a brief flash—there is peace like this. It’s so natural to hold onto him. Even like this, everything is in place, as if you were always meant to occupy this spot.

Then, the two of you are walking down the street together like any other couple.

But are you a couple? Is this what it is? Or are you making it all up in your head, weaving a fabrication of what you desire versus the reality?

Simon snuggles a bit closer to you, and you immediately forget your trepidation. He is so goddamn warm, a buffer against the chilly autumn air.

It isn’t until the two of you come to the bakery you visited the other day that Simon untangles himself, leaning forward to open the door for you before you have the chance to. Inside, it is balmy. Freshly baked bread and sugar is in the air. It is heavenly, and you inhale deeply, allowing the sugar to saturated into your nostrils.

Simon is right there, guiding you toward the cases. You remember the croissants, and how crushed they were. You didn’t even get to enjoy it properly.

“Usual?” ask the woman behind the counter.

Simon nods, and she opens one of the cases, removing not one, not two, but three chocolate croissants. You look up at him, a question forming on your lips. Simon side-eyes you and shrugs.

“This one will have an American.” Simon indicates you with a quick tilt of his head. Your eyebrow arches, but Simon ignores it.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward him fully to ask him what it is he thinks he’s doing. But Simon still ignores you. He puts in an order for tea for himself, and then rattles off your coffee order.

How the fuck does he know that?

Simon digs around for his wallet but you’re already putting your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” he replies, handing over some cash to the woman behind the counter. He puts the change into the tip jar, and then places his hand on your lower back. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

You surrender to him, allow Simon to take the lead. He escorts you to a set of stairs leading to a second level. You follow behind him, the stairs spitting the two of you out into a cozy space. It’s mostly sofas and armchairs with a few sparse tables, and there is no one else up here besides the two of you.

Simon guides you to the massive window at the far end of the room. There are two small lounge chairs and a table that face the large window. Simon takes off his coat and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs. You do the same.

“Sit here,” he instructs. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, not thinking Simon hears you. He grunts and pinches your butt.

“Ow,” you say in response even though it didn’t hurt. Your arm goes out to swat at him but Simon is already gone, taking massive steps toward the stairs.

You watch him go, sliding into the chair in front of you. It’s overcast today, and the traffic on the road is starting to pick up. Simon arrives minutes later carefully balancing two drinks and two plates. You stand to help him, arms outward to catch anything that might fall, but somehow Simon manages it, setting it all down on the table without issue.

You didn’t know the bakery sold made to order food. And staring down at the plate, you’re close to tears. It’s a classic American breakfast with all the fixings you could want. Since coming to England, you’ve missed it.

Looking down at the plate reminds you of all the times you, Evie, Jade, and Sam would go for breakfast food after a night of drinking. There are so many memories of the four you packed into a booth at Waffle House consuming cheap coffee and smothered hashbrowns. But this plate before you is much nicer than the cheap breakfast you’d consume still buzzed from whatever alcohol you’d been downing.

Simon’s plate has the three chocolate croissants on it, and it’s clear that they warmed them up because the chocolate inside is perfectly melted. Simon sighs happily as he takes a bite.

“Sweet tooth?”

Simon drinks his tea before he answers. “I like sweet things.”

“Like chocolate croissants?”

“Like you.”

Your fingers hover above your fork. Your face steams like a pot of boiling water. There is no reason to be this nervous, to be this on edge with him. This man has been inside you. This man understands how to make you melt in his hands.

“You’re teasing again,” you reply, finally picking up your fork and digging in.

“Am I?” he asks, tearing away another chunk of the croissant to pop into his mouth.

The eggs on your plate are perfectly fluffy and melt on your tongue. You don’t even need to use your knife to cut into your waffles. They part like butter.

You’re in a bakery, eating breakfast that Simon ordered for you, and you have no idea where to take this conversation. This is too real—too date-like, and while that twists your stomach into a knot, it is also an uplift of wind.

Simon didn’t need to do any of this, but he wanted to. There was no question whether or not you wanted to eat, Simon just took it into his own hands.

Because he wants to take care of you says a little voice in your head.

Simon’s words from yesterday show their colors again, waving them around in front of your eyes.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

You swallow down a syrup-coated bite of waffle and decide to change the subject.

“You promised that you’d fit me into your schedule,” you say.

“I did,” he agrees, the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.

“Do you have a time or date in mind?”

Simon smiles against the rim of his tea mug before he takes a sip. “You tell me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“So if I wanted to do it now, you would?”

Simon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d call my first client and reschedule.” He says it so easily, like it’s not an inconvenience to anyone, even though forcing someone else to move to make room for you seems entirely unfair.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” you murmur.

Simon sets the mug down on the table. “What if I want to do it? Does that not matter?”

“Of course it does,” you breathe. “I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Simon is already halfway through his second croissant. “You’re never that. Not to me.” He looks so serious, so upset that you’d even believe that about yourself.

“Do I book a consultation first?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter note.

“You can look through my portfolio when we go back. If you want.” Simon absently rubs at the back of his neck before stretching and resting one arm behind you on your chair. His fingers lightly brush against your spine.

He nods toward your plate. “Finish up and we’ll head back.”

Simon adjusts in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he shifts. His gaze is out on the street, tracking every person and car. It’s odd. You recall him mentioning that he was military when the two of you first met, and perhaps this is just a habit.

You take your time, enjoying every bite, and when you’re done, Simon stands first, offering his hand before offering your coat. When it’s on, he checks you over. There are two worry lines that slice between his brow, but you’re unsure of what might be bothering him.

Should you ask? Would he even want you to? Simon has been open with you about what he wants, but not necessarily about himself. Those are pieces you don’t have. You don’t have a full picture of him. It is unclear, but you wish that it wasn’t. And you hope, with time, that Simon will open up, giving you those pieces of himself to hold within your heart.

With fingers intertwined, Simon escorts you downstairs. He stops at the counter to snag a large homemade dog treat from a glass jar before the two of you return to 141 Ink. Simon hands you the treat to give to Bravo, and the adorable German Shepard couldn’t be happier. His front paws joyfully dance against the floor, his entire butt moving with his tail as you remove the paper label from around the treat’s middle.

When you present the treat to Bravo, he doesn’t dive for it. He takes it gently from your hand and then promptly finds a spot in the window light, peacefully munching away at it.

“Here,” says Simon, offering a thick black book.

You take it with both hands, shifting the massive tome to one arm so that you can open the cover. It’s Simon’s official portfolio. The title page includes his credentials, contact information, and some stylized shots of his artwork. You flip the page, completely absorbed in the art before you. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there staring down at the portfolio until Simon clears his throat.

“You can sit down.” He lightly lifts his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Right,” you laugh, cradling the portfolio like it’s a precious gift and you don’t want to break it. You sink down onto the sofa and Bravo pads over, laying down next to your legs, resting his head on your feet.

Simon motions to the tattoo chair behind him. “I need to finish setting up.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” You have your coffee, a foot warmer, and this beautiful book of art.

While Simon sets up, you take this moment to observe him in his natural element. He is so calm as he moves about the space. He’s efficient too, completely focused on the task at hand without looking rushed or stressed.

Bravo shifts, rolling onto his side. You reach down and scratch at the dog’s belly. When you return to the book, you’re lost in the color and talent, entirely absorbed in the artwork. Some of the photos are of actual tattoos while others are high-resolution photos of his artwork. Whether they’ve been sketched on paper or done digitally is unclear to you.

Regardless, Simon is talented. And you start to form an idea about where this talent came from. He’s ex-military. Did he have time on deployment to sketch? Did he ever carry a little notepad or sketchpad with him wherever he was in the world? It’s a sweet image, and one you’re achingly curious about.

“Simon.”

He immediately gives you all his attention. He sets down whatever it is he’s holding in his hand and walks over to you.

“You good?” he asks when he saddles up on the opposite of your legs from where Bravo lays. Delicately, he reaches out and runs his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say, flustered by the touch. “I had a question.”

He nods, indicating that you should ask.

“Did you make art while you were in the military?”

Simon shifts on his feet. “I did.”

He doesn’t say anything more, which is frustrating, but it’s something you want to know. So you push anyway.

“On deployment or…?” You trail off, hoping he takes it.

Simon shrugs. “Not really. My deployments were numerous but short term. Focusing on…covert assignments in classified locations.”

Short-term deployments? Covert assignments? Classified locations?

You frown. “Like American Special Forces?”

He shrugs. “They’re comparable.” It’s not the answer you wanted. But Simon must know this because he sighs and continues. “I created mostly on my time off, and sometimes on base if I was training new recruits. Had lots of time.”

“I see,” you reply softly, trying to imagine Simon curled up in a bunk late at night sketching away.

“See anything you like?”

Simon means in the portfolio but you can’t help thinking he means himself.

“It’s all amazing,” you murmur, flipping back through the pages. You point to several pieces that you particularly like. “But they don’t have to be like this. I’ll take whatever you come up with.”

Simon nods and takes the portfolio. “I can sketch up a few ideas, show them to you later. Start small and if you’d like more, I’ll add to it. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you nod. “It sounds wonderful.” Reluctantly, you push off from the sofa, and Bravo makes a muted sound in the back of his throat like he’s annoyed that you’d actually get up and disrupt his slumber.

“What do I owe you?”

Simon’s brow rises slightly. “Owe me?”

“It’s a consultation, isn’t it?”

Simon shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Simon—”

“Not happening.”

“I need to do something for you.”

“You owe me nothing. Consider the tattoo a gift.”

You shake your head. “I can’t accept that.”

Simon shrugs. “You can.” He glances over at the clock and the middle of his brow creases. “My first customer will arrive soon.”

“Are you dismissing me?” You’re teasing him, and he knows it.

Simon steps into your space, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. “You’re welcome to stay.”

You do long to stay, but there are so many things on your plate. Groceries is priority, especially since you’ll be staying with Amelia for a while. You’re not letting that woman pay for everything. You’ll be damned if you take advantage of such a sweet old lady.

“Probably better that I’m not a distraction,” you breathe, entirely on edge from how possessively he holds onto the back of your neck.

“Probably,” replies Simon, slotting his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard length of him and shiver. His other hand reaches for your hip, and you cannot do anything else but allow it, melting into his body as he pulls you close.

“One to keep me hanging?” he asks softly.

You smile, and push up the balaclava enough to press your lips to his. You go back to flat fleet. “So you can think about me all day.”

“Count on it.”

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bangaveragewhitewine · 6 months

Text

blood red bloom

Eddie Munson x Reader (bouncer x bartender, established relationship)

Halloween, 1992

“You’re gonna have to work a lot harder to come up with a prank that will actually scare me, sweet thing.”

Eddie’s voice echoes in your head as you stare at the red inky star in your little leatherette diary.

A late period wasn’t quite what you had in mind, but here you are, sitting on your bedroom floor and staring at the mocking inky red star in your diary.

This Halloween was turning out to be pretty damn scary.

Word Count: 6.7k

Content / Warnings: Pregnancy scare - this is angst-heavy with some brief mentions of Eddie and reader's anxieties of being parents. Discussion of the future. Miscommunication. A fight that's not a fight but they kiss and make up anyway. Brief sex mentions. A reminder that this, and all my fics, are 18+!!!

Please feel free to skip this segment if it’s not your thing!!

Author's note: We couldn't let Halloween pass without an instalment of Happy Hours, could we? This was a toughy, it's been a rough and hectic few weeks, but I hope you enjoy reading the latest snippet! Proof-read by @specialagentmonkey, finished off in the taxis to / from the airports in Dublin and Boston!

Since the first day with a chill in the air, the first fallen crunchy-crisp leaf, your boyfriend had been in Halloween mode. It was your second Halloween together, your first living together after you accepted Eddie’s cute proposal with his spare key in June. Even though he was messy and left the toilet seat up, you loved living with Eddie.

You loved waking up with him every morning and falling asleep together every night. You loved going grocery shopping together, and you adored how he would sit in the bathroom to talk to you or read his book while you lounged in the bath or did your makeup.

Autumn and Halloween meant horror movies, decorating the apartment and planning your costumes together. Eddie was stupidly talented with carving pumpkins, and you roasted the flesh with thyme and sage and onions for a huge pot of soup that warmed your bellies for days.

During your first year together, he had noticed how you scared easily - jumped a little or clutched your chest when he accidentally jumpscared you or purposefully snuck up to grab the squish of your hips with a monster-like growl. It always made him laugh, and his apology was always a kiss that quite often turned into something more.

You quickly learned that you could never get him back.

Yeah, Eddie was jumpy but he possessed a sixth sense for whenever you were trying to scare him.

When he had challenged you to scare him - to really scare him - you’re not sure that realising that your period was later-than-late was quite what he had in mind.

A rare Friday night off, October 30th, had started with another failed attempt to spook him. He was almost condescendingly kind when he said ‘ooh, that was a good one!’ after you popped up from that cramped back seat of his Dodge.

Once you clambered out of the car so Eddie could make it to work on time, he pulled you in for a kiss and cupped your face with such tenderness.

“You’re gonna have to work a lot harder to come up with a prank that will actually scare me, sweet thing.”

He kissed your pouty scowl away with his wicked smile and left you to enjoy your night off.

His challenge to scare him echoed in your head as you stared at the last inky red star scribbled in your diary. The hardwood floor felt chilly beneath you as you knelt on the ground surrounded by lipstick and pens and detritus from your bag spilled around you.

Thirty-six.

Your period was thirty-six days days late.

The little leatherette diary fell from your shaky hands. If you hadn’t already been on the ground, you are sure your knees would have buckled.

Slumped against the side of the bed, you rested your racing head against the navy duvet - the blood-red blooming rose print seemed mocking as you tried to remember if you had definitely written your dates down correctly. Your periods were pretty regular, never more than two or three days out of sync if even that many.

You hadn’t even thought about your period, or its lateness, until you spied the full box of Kotex next to Eddie’s shaving kit beneath the sink. As the bath filled with lavender bubbles and swirling steamy water, you had pondered on how you liked seeing your things side by side now that you lived together; your dresses hanging next to his nice shirts and jackets, toothbrushes sitting in the same holder, your perfumes and potions lined up and organised next to his new shampoo and conditioner replacing the horror that was 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner and body wash.

As you gave a pot of fresh-green facemask the sniff test, the box of period products had caught your eye.

Eddie had picked them up for you during a particularly bad set of cramps, cramps so bad you had called out of work. He had arrived home with salty Lays and sweet creamy chocolate and the biggest pack of painkillers they would let him buy, and you had cried because it was so kind and thoughtful of him. But that had been well over a month ago…

As the filling bath turned to white noise in your ears, you had flustered to the bedroom to check your diary.

The thirty-six (almost thirty-seven) day lag made you feel like you were going to turn inside out. And not because you were cramping up this time.

The bath was cold by the time you arrived back from a late expedition to the CVS five blocks away, armed with a share-bag of Reeses Peanutbutter Cups and a pink box that promised ‘quick and easy results!’

A year in and neither of you could keep your hands to yourselves. Moving in together had meant that you and Eddie had endless pockets of time together, and rooms and surfaces to officially christen as a cohabiting couple. Eddie’s car had seen some action when you took a road trip back to Hawkins to visit his Uncle a few weeks ago - the driver's seat, that cramped back seat, the bonnet…

When Eddie arrived home from work just after 3 a.m., you still had not touched the test or had a wink of sleep. He crept in like your favourite cryptid and dropped a kiss on your head, trying with all his might not to wake you as you feigned sleep. He settled behind you and fell into a sprawling-limbed rest while you lay awake.

In those dark hours, lit only by the red glow of the clock, you imagined every scenario.

The thought of a little one with dark curly hair and big brown eyes makes your heart ache in a good way, especially when you think of this imaginary little person in Eddie’s arms. That ache twisted like a knife when you imagine him not wanting anything to do with that made-up little person, half him and half you.

You were never set firmly for or against being a mother - of course you got broody sometimes when you saw a cute kid in the grocery store, but equally you had been more than happy to hand back your cousin’s screaming baby when his diaper leaked on you when you visited home back in the spring.

And Eddie? Did he even want to be a Dad?

He had a lot of tangled-up feelings there, held them in his chest like a pulled-tight tangle. That’s how he explained it when his own Dad had come up in conversation. He carried that sadness and hurt with him for almost two decades.

Would he want you to get rid of it, or would he even want you if it was really happening? You tried to be rational, think about how he had promised to love you when you had silver hair and dentures one night when you were both high as kites. Maybe it might be okay, you could make it work…

Sleep came and went, pockets of light dozing interrupted by your heart thrashing in your chest just when you managed to snatch some peace.

As Eddie snored softly, peacefully asleep, you glared at the red-glowing clock, its analogue numbers mocking you until 5:55 blurred behind your eyes. Caged in by the weight of Eddie’s arm, with his hand on your tummy beneath your (his) sleep-shirt, you managed to drift again.

The pitiful pockets of snatched sleep make you feel irritable and wrung out the following day. With a steaming mug of strong coffee, you watched the sun peak through the broad silver-grey sky while Eddie slept on, snoring and unaware.

You still couldn’t summon the courage to sneak the test from your bag and pee on the damn stick. In true Halloween style, it mocked you like Poe’s Tell Tale Heart all damn day from its stowing place in a bag under the bed.

Eddie was unbearably sweet with you from the moment he woke to find you re-reading the same page of your book for at least the eighth try.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that you weren’t in good form - despite your joint excitement for Halloween - so he tried and tried to cheer you up; a late breakfast sneaking smiley kisses over egg and cheese and home fries. With a wide smile, he shared his ideas for a new drawing for a new batch of Corroded Coffin T-shirts for their gig before Thanksgiving with hot sauce staining his mouth until you wiped it away.

You kept getting distracted when he showed them to you and felt awful when you saw the flicker of hurt on his sweet handsome face. You rallied yourself and helped him pick two to show to the guys when they met to rehearse.

You finally snatched some sleep, cuddled up on the sofa before you had to get ready for work. Eddie hated having to wake you; he was as gentle as he could be, rousing you with light kisses to your troubled brow and warm cheeks.

“Hey, princess. Time to transform,” he whispered, his fingers itching with excitement to don the black velvet and silver chains draped on hangers in your room.

Hours later, you and Eddie walked into Jackie’s carrying a tense air between your joined hands.

You were still the sexiest vampire couple Chicago had ever seen; Eddie in a halfway unbuttoned black shirt and slacks topped with a velvet blazer you had thrifted, silver chains shining on his chest and fake blood smeared like your lipstick on the side of his mouth. Your black velvet dress showed off your curves and made Eddie’s eyes pop out of his skull like a cartoon when he first saw you in it. The bloody puncture marks on your neck dripped onto your chest and cleavage, the perfect blend of gore and sex appeal.

You felt shitty, had snapped at Eddie more times than you could remember while you tried and failed to make your makeup look not terrible.

“You look hot as fuck, baby. Have I told you that?” Eddie squeezed your shoulders as he looked at your reflection in the small vanity he had bought for you when you moved in. He was sweet like that.

“Mhm. Only ten or eleven times.” Tight smile, you met his warm gaze in the mirror. “Not as hot as you, Ed,” you say, pushing off the attention he doled out so genuinely and easily.

The subtle dark shadows below his cheeks and smudged smoky beneath his eyes suit him, gothic and mysterious. You had spent more time on it than you had planned because he couldn’t stop talking and you had (quite seriously) threatened to stab him with your brushes on more than one occasion. Now you were pressed for time with your own makeup. Clock ticking, you were at least thankful that the shadows beneath your eyes didn’t need much more darkening up.

“Nah, fuck off. You’re beyond belief. I can’t wait until after work already.” That glow in Eddie’s eyes that usually sparked hot want in your belly made you feel like prey. Sure, you were dressed as his recently-changed victim but you didn’t feel much like play-acting now, or sex for that matter.

He kissed your head and breathed in your perfume - he loved how you changed it out for the seasons - and the Fall’s scent was rich and warm and sexy.

“Feelin’ okay?” Eddie had asked when you went silent and spaced out again for a few moments, shoulders tensed. He missed your usually returned flirtation when you give as good as you get and then some.

“For the hundredth time, Ed. I’m fine. Please just let me finish this, okay? Please. We’re gonna be late.”

Since then it had been pretty much radio silence.

Eddie stewed, not rising to your bad mood because he might say the wrong thing and make things worse. In the car, he had bit his tongue and held back the suggestion of a weekend away, the idea to book some time off around Thanksgiving and just go somewhere together, alone. He wasn’t sure he could take another unexplained sad sigh or an away-with-the-fairies gaze when you hadn’t even heard what he had said.

So he said nothing and scared himself with his own spiralling ‘what if’.

Instead of eking out the last few minutes before work with Eddie, sharing a cig and trading kisses like you usually do, you leave him to enjoy his cigarette without your dark cloud mood.

“Hey. You’re forgetting something.” Eddie raises a brow at you.

“Oh, thanks.” You hold your hand out for your bag he had carried from the car.

You lean up and peck his cheek, swiping at the mark your dark lipstick left behind.

It wasn’t the proper kiss he had been angling for, but it was better than nothing.

“See you later?” he tries.

“Yeah, if I can get away from the bar. It’s going to be mental busy…” Resisting the urge to rub your eyes and ruin your makeup, you offer a small smile. “Be good. Love you.”

“Yeah, love you too.”

Eddie watches you go, his heart hurting in a way it hasn’t since he finally mustered the courage to kiss you in that same dingy back alley. Yeah, you two had your little arguments over the last year, didn’t always agree and got in funny moods with each other, but this felt different. He didn’t like it one bit.

The bar is the fullest you have ever seen it, everyone decked out in their Halloween-best. Your arms ache from shaking cocktails, but the special menu you had curated is going down a treat. The pain is worth the tips and the compliments, the recommendations passed between high-top tables and clusters of costumed customers.

The music is loud, the atmosphere sparky and fun, and yet it isn’t enough of a distraction, or enough to buoy you up when you’re feeling so low. Not the compliments on your costume, or the questions about whether you and the hottie bouncer were matching on purpose. You forced your smiles and laughs, genuine love for your vampire lord on the door made it easy to answer those probing questions. You tried to get out of your head and lose yourself in the best night of the year, but every time you would remember the last inky red star in your diary, the full box beneath the sink, the test you were scared to take.

You weren’t necessarily avoiding Eddie, you had filled waters for him and Jeff and the new guy Trevor, but had barely had time to look for him in the crowd, never mind checking in on him. Your mood had transferred over to him, and your guy twisted tighter with extra added guilt.

It was well after midnight before you took your break; the bar had been rammed with orders and while you could have slipped away, you threw yourself into work instead.

The need to stretch out your legs and hips and crack your back for good measure became undeniable and you slip away with a glass of ice-and-lime heavy soda water for a breath of cold air.

You’re mid-sip when Eddie pulls you into the small staff bathroom, spilling your water down your arm and onto the busted tiles. You yelp as the door clicks, pure fear until you realise it’s him

“What the- Eddie!”

Eddie’s gaze bores down on you, looking like a very pissed-off sexy vampire.

“You fucker! Scared the shit outta me, Ed.” You shake chilled water from your arm as you glare at him. He was lucky not to have glass in that pretty, pissed-off face of his.

“What the fuck is up your ass today?” he asks, arms folded.

Your skin prickles all over, hairs stand on end.

“You’re in a foul fuckin’ mood. What’s up? Did I do something?” Less accusatory now, he just looks hurt.

“Eddie, it’s fine.” You will your voice to stay steady as your stomach drops.

“It’s not. You’ve barely spoke to me, every little thing I do has annoyed you.” “It’s not you…”

That sounds way worse and you see him visibly wince.

“Ed, it’s not your fault, baby. I’m sorry.”

He sighs, shoulders deflated. “Then talk to me. Please.”

“Ed…”

“Am I not making you happy? Is that it?”

“No! Jesus, Ed. Never! You make me so happy..”

“Then what?! Please just talk to me.” His voice breaks.

“I… fuck.” You sigh, breathe deep. Your eyes strong as you speak, say it out loud, “My period is late.”

His brow creases, confused, before folding high under his bangs. Eddie’s eyes are wide, frantic. “Oh.”

Silence settles, no more voices echoing on the tiles.

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Fuck… Are you..? Are we..?”

There’s a sweetness in how he asks, a scared look in his eyes that you recognise from the mirror. It makes your tummy twist and your heart ache. Why had you been so scared?

“I don’t know.” Your voice is cracked and broken. “I don’t know.”

His arms open out to you. You don’t need a second invitation. You practically fall into his arms, gripping him as tight as you can.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispers. Eddie’s heart hammers hard in his chest. “We’ll figure it out.”

As he holds you close, his eyes cast upward to the grotty ceiling. He has no idea what he’s doing, but right now you need a hug so that’s what he will do.

“I’m sorry.”

His big-ringed hands hold your face, looking into your tired eyes. “Why sorry? Pretty sure it takes two… if you’re. Y’know.”

You sniffle, nod. “I know. I don’t know if I am..”

“You need to piss on a stick or somethin’, right?”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, despite the tears in your eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

“Okay. Okay, you can do that. I’ll even hold the stick if you want me to.” He’s dead serious too, not just trying to make you smile. Though it is a bonus, and he melts into a little grin to match. “There’s my princess.”

You cuddle back into him again, “Sorry I was a bitch all day.”

“You know I don’t like that, baby.” He frowns and cups the back of your head, stroking gently with his thumb. “Knew there was something wrong though. Wish you could’ve just told me.”

“I…” Your voice gets caught in your throat, words lodged and stuck like they choke you. “I was scared.”

Though your voice is muffled against Eddie’s jacket, he hears you and squeezes you tighter. His eyes squeeze shut too.

“You don’t need to be scared on your own. I can take it, I’m a big boy,” he promises, repeating it so you know it’s true and real. “We’ll figure it all out.”

His sweetness makes tears flood down your face, that dam holding back every conflicting emotion finally broken. And Eddie holds you. He simply holds you tight and safe and doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know either. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to kiss this better, doesn’t know what he wants or what you want either. All he knows is that you need him like he needs you.

“Fuck, my makeup,” you sniffle, face creasing more when you realise you’re still mid-shift.

“You’re gorgeous,” he promises, kissing your forehead. “Okay so, we’ll work our butts off for another few hours and then we can go home and swing by CVS?”

“I already bought one. It’s at home.” You look down at your toe-to-toe boots before looking into Eddie’s eyes. “Bought one last night when I realised. Too chicken to take it.”

He nods, pinches your chin with sweet affection. “Okay. Well, drink your water so you can piss on that stick, yeah?”

He’s smirking when you hide your face in his neck again, groaning in something like embarrassment. “I’d do it for you if I could. But I can’t, so drink up.”

Eddie lifts your glass from the sink ledge and tilts it to your lips. Despite the warmth of his arms and the stuffy little bathroom, the water makes you shiver as it cools you from inside out.

Hand in hand, Eddie walks you to fix your makeup at your locker as he distracts you with a few of his little anecdotes from working the door. He catches your eye in the mirror in your locker as he tells you about a table of drinkers he heard raving about your cocktail menu.

“Can you make me one later?” he asks, coming to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“Course,” you murmur, patting deep Merlot-red lipstick on your pouty mouth.

“Can I get some of that?” He raises a brow in the mirror, and smiles, his teeth glinting, when you tilt your head back to press a peck against his mouth.

A few kisses and the squeeze of his hands on your hips centres you again, helps the tension loosen in your shoulders.

“We need more fake blood.”

“We definitely do. Want me to bite you a little more, my pet?” His voice is wickedly low against your lip; it makes you shiver.

Sexy vampire couple had been an easy pick for you both. Eddie had got really into it when you arrived home with the press on fangs - a hookup from your friend who worked in theatre production and went costume shopping with you.

“You’ll get carried away again, Drac. I’ve gotta go back out in a sec.”

He squeezes your hips and behaves himself as you dab fake blood against the corner of his mouth, letting it drip down his chin, before adding more to your neck and chest.

“Hot.”

“We are.”

He hugs you from behind again, one hand on your tummy, so he doesn’t mess up the blood. “S’gonna be okay, I promise. We’ll figure shit out. I’m behind you no matter what. Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d be fucking lost without you, Eddie.”

“Right back at you, sweet stuff.”

A well-aimed kiss saves any blood transferring onto your face before Eddie walks you back to the bar. “If you need a sec, just take it. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He smiles and steals a final kiss before patting your velvet-clad behind as you step right back into taking orders.

You don’t see the moment he takes, ducking into the back again to process what was going on. You pour cold beers as he sinks against the wall, breathing deeply so he doesn’t spiral into panic.

He doesn't know how to be a Dad, didn’t have a map or footprints to follow. Wayne was a great substitute, but Eddie was nine years old and grown beyond his years by the time he stepped up to try and fill the gaps made by his no-good brother.

Ringed fingers push and scrape against his scalp, tugging hard enough to bring him back to earth. The pain anchors him, reminds him to breathe again.

He doesn’t know what to do, how to feel, how to be what you need. But he does know one thing.

Running away isn’t an option, not when he has you.

It’s almost 4 a.m. before you can leave with Eddie. It’s almost 4 a.m. and he keeps you tucked safe and warm beneath his arm as you walk toward his car. You can see your breath bleed into vapour in the now-November air.

You feel like you have been run over by a semi-truck as you fold yourself into your seat. Everything hurts and yet you’re somehow wired and wide awake, even on the pitiful amount of sleep you managed last night.

Tired eyes stare into the streetlight above the car until you see spots. Brought back into orbit by the squeeze of Eddie’s hand over your fishnets, you share a tight smile with him.

“Okay?”

“Ish. Tired. Need to pee.”

You had been holding it in. No more excuses, or avoiding the inevitable.

You help Eddie click off the little fangs on his already pointy canines and do the same with your own, tucking them into their boxes and into your bag. Shiny gold plastic medals sit on your chests, your prizes for the best costumes among the Jackie’s crew.

He turns the key, squeezes again before hooking his arm works the headrest to reverse out of his spot.

You’re both carrying the weight of the unknown. It doesn’t feel any lighter. Not when you have caught Eddie chewing his black-polished nails and the skin around them, seen him zoning out and pretending he was fine.

Until you know more, have an answer, you can be not okay together, hand in hand in the darkness.

Once you’re on the road, he squeezes your hand and keeps a hold of it as music from the radio fills the silence.

“You hungry?” Your voice is the first to breach the fragile peace.

“Kinda. You want fries?”

“Not really but if you do, it’s my turn.”

He smiles, slight and soft, and squeezes your hand. “There’s some spaghetti left. I’ll heat that up.”

You squeeze back, it’s enough to say ‘okay’ as he sails through green lights and empty streets toward your cosy little apartment.

The walk from the car to the lift to your door, apartment number 8 with its handcrafted Halloween wreath, feels like wading through syrup.

Eddie doesn’t let go of your hand from the moment he helps you out of the car; not when you press the button for the lift, or when he fights with the sticky lock that you have been meaning to call maintenance about. It locks easier from the inside, the bolt slides in easily to double-lock it safely.

Eddie takes your jacket to hang side by side with his own, matching leathers that make you smile through the pressure at the back of your eyes.

“I wanna clean my face and then do it,” you murmur, fiddling with the strap of your bag.

“Okay. We can do that. Clean faces and pyjamas.” Eddie nods, a held-in breath puffing his chest up with false confidence.

He eats cold spaghetti from a Tupperware container by the fridge as you strip out of your clothes and change into fuzzy leopard bottoms and a holey She-Ra t-shirt once the fake blood is swiped from your chest.

The pink and white box from under the bed comes with you to the bathroom.

Eddie joins you at the mirror with oily rich red spaghetti sauce slicing through the fake blood around his mouth. You clean your face as he strips down to boxers and pulls on his soft sleep hoodie that definitely has a concoction of questionable stains; toothpaste and your sleep-drool for sure.

Red and black stained makeup wipes and cotton pads fill the bathroom bin and Eddie lets you comb and scrunchie his hair as you ignore the pressing need to pee for a few more moments of normality. He closes his eyes as you rub cleanser into his face as you had your own, gentle touches and swipes of wet-warm cotton until he’s shiny-clean and human-looking again.

With a layer of moisturiser on, there are no more distractions. The boxed test can no longer be ignored.

“Will I go?”

“You can come back in after I pee. We have to wait like..” you check the box for an answer, “Ten minutes.”

Eddie nods, leaning down to kiss you once. “You don’t need me to hold the stick or anything?”

“I have to pee in a little cup-thing and drop it onto the stick. Chemistry shit,” you shrug, cheeks warm.

“Oh yeah, rules me out then.” He drops one more kiss to your lips before awkwardly taking his leave.

You feel less alone when you know he’s lingering close by.

Eddie doesn’t realise that he’s picked up stress-tidying from you until the bathroom door creaks open and you find him crouched amongst a clutter of unorganised tapes.

“Can you time ten minutes on your watch? Or the egg timer?” you ask, hanging against the doorframe.

The tapes are shoved back into a nonsensical stack - not organised by artist or chronology as he had planned to do - and Eddie scurries to grab his old Casio watch before joining you in the bathroom again.

He slightly panics when he sees you sitting on the floor, but crouches to join you with cracking ankles.

“Old man ankles,” you tease, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Mmhm, getting more like Wayne every day,” he murmurs back, dropping his hand in your lap for you to hold.

Cradled between your palms, you lift it to kiss the side of his thumb.

“Wayne is great. Just keep your hair. Please.” “Deal.”

Silence settles across the room and you watched the way Eddie’s socked feet bounce nervously.

“Eddie?” “Yeah?” “What are we going to do?”

He turns his head and presses a kiss to your hair, bumping the side of his face against your wobbly scrunchied bun.

His voice is quiet. “We don’t know yet.”

“I know that. But it… I’ve been going crazy thinking, Ed. I know you have too.” You squeeze his hand. “Would you want me to get rid of it?”

That idea plucks something painful in his chest. The knot of tangled emotions feels heavier than ever.

“No. Only if that’s what you really wanted. I’m not gonna make you do anything, especially not anything you don’t want to do.” His murmured words are warm on your head and your heart.

“I feel like I’m being pulled apart. Like… I’m just so confused about what to do, Eddie..” His arms wrap around you, hugging you close.

“That’s okay. That’s okay,” he promises.

After a few beats of silence, you feel like you can breathe deep enough to say the words that have been rattling around your head. “I… I do want kids. Some day. With you.”

He nods, agreeing before going quiet again. He thinks, tries to choose his words carefully.

“If that day is like.. nine months away, is that okay with you?” he asks.

“That’s the scary bit.” “Yeah.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be a Mom yet. What if I do it wrong?”

Eddie gives you a sad smile. “That’s how I feel too.”

Your foreheads rest together, eyes closed.

“What if I’m never ready? What if I always feel like this?” you continue, leaning your cheek against Eddie’s steady palm. “I’m so happy with you, Eddie. What if this changes us, fucks us up?”

Dry lips press against your forehead, his thumbs swipe your cheek soothingly as you admit the fears that he has been holding too.

You hug him again, squeeze Eddie hard.

“My mom and dad had me by our age.” Eddie’s voice is a whisper against your cheek. “And… it went so wrong, that I’m scared I can’t do it right.”

You squeeze him tight, brushing loose hairs back from his face as his truth spills, unwound from that knot in his chest.

“I just wanna… I want to do it right. For us. For a baby. I want them to feel so fucking loved and happy. I’m so fucking scared, but… I know what to not do. I don’t want to be like him.”

Your heart breaks for that hurt little boy. You had seen him in photo albums and yearbooks, seen him with your own eyes when Eddie had bad days. He’s with you now, looking lost under the shitty bathroom light.

“You won’t be like him. You’re not him, Ed.”

“What if I am? And I just don’t know it?” There’s a frantic smashed-broken edge to his voice.

You crawl onto his lap, a knee on either side of his thighs so you can hold him properly, see his face. Swiping the beaded tears on his black lower lashes, you return that kiss to his forehead.

“You are not your Dad. You just said it, you know what not to do yeah? That’s so important, baby.” You stroke his cheeks with your thumbs.

He nods, wiping his face with his sleeve. His fingers drop to press against his chest like he is massaging the knot to free up his words. “I don’t want to let you down either.”

“You never have, Ed. Never ever.”

His head rests back against the bath as you hold each other. Both scared, but it feels less utterly impossible and all-consuming.

“I think… maybe, it’s good that we’re kinda scared. Because it means we care.” Eddie looks up at you, smooths his hand up your side.

“And babies are kinda scary.” “Oh yeah. Absolutely terrifying.” “Cute though.” “Oh, for sure. That one in the park last week, with the bobble hat..?” “Cute as fuck.”

You share a smiling little kiss before he brings you back for another long holding hug.

It’s easy to get lost in your head, trying to add up your very minimal savings with the cost of a baby, a bigger apartment.

You had both agreed that while you liked your jobs, you didn’t want to be there forever. Eddie wanted to get some more experience with music technology, maybe take a few courses and start teaching guitar lessons again to make extra cash on the side.

It’s early morning now; your routine is all over the place with your late shifts and sleepy afternoons.

After a few moments of silence, Eddie speaks again, bringing you both back from the meandering paths in your minds.

“I’m gonna marry you, y’know.”

You smile, knowing that you both wanted that happy ending. “Yeah? You gonna make me Mrs Munson?”

“Yeah, for sure. Knew that since the day I met you, baby.” He rolls his eyes, playful and pink-cheeked to distract from how raw he still feels.

The swell in your chest makes you sob-laugh.

“You gonna say yes?” he asks, just in case. “When I ask, I mean. This isn’t me asking, by the way. That’ll be way more romantic.”

“Okay.” You roll your eyes at him. “When you ask me, yeah. I’ll say yes.”

“Okay. Cool.” “Cool.”

Another smiling kiss, noses bumping each other’s cheek as you imagine your future together.

You have this feeling in your gut that this man holding you, letting you hold him, will be a great Dad someday. Eddie thinks you will be a great Mom; with you by his side, he feels like he can do anything.

“Ed?” you murmur against his lip. “They have to look like you or I’m gonna be pissed. Whenever that is.”

“Nah, get outta here. Poor kid.” He pokes gently at your ribs with wiggling fingers, stops you from squirming away with another hug.

“Been thinking about a little baby with curly hair and brown eyes,” you admit quietly, mumbling against his neck.

“You been spending too much time in those photo albums with Wayne.”

“It was one afternoon. Your Mom had hundreds of photos of you, Ed. It’s sweet that he kept them, and started his own albums.”

Your fingers fiddle with the drawstrings on his hoodie as Eddie loses himself down that same path of practicality, lit by glowing reminders that he has to grow up someday soon.

“I’m gonna get those fliers for guitar lessons printed next week. Get some cash together. I have some amps I could sell…”

“Ed, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know but.. we can’t have loose wires and heavy shit around with a baby, baby.”

He smiles at the word-play and your heart swells with how much you adore him.

When your lips meet again, the tinny ring of the timer beeps on Eddie’s watch, eating up the distracted peace you had both found.

“Want me to check?” he asks, seeing the shining fear reflected back at him when he looks into your eyes.

“Yes please.”

You slip off his lap and stand, holding out your hands to help Eddie up before you perch on the side of the bath.

“One line is negative, two is positive,” you say, the pink example lines from the back of the box etched into your mind's eye.

“Okay.”

Eddie takes a deep breath. Pauses to cup your face and kiss you before going any further.

“I love you.” His eyes are sparkling, the set of his mouth more serious.

“Love you.”

“This doesn’t change that, okay? S’a fact.”

You nod and steal one more kiss before letting him go to the counter.

Eddie picks up the stick, checks under the light. You watch his face, see the shadow of conflicted confusion. You know then that it’s negative.

“One line,” he whispers, looking up at you.

You nod, coming over to stand with him. You see the one line, solitary and stark.

“Okay,” you whisper, tucking yourself under Eddie’s arm.

You can’t decide if it’s relief or loss you feel; either way, it pushes you over the edge of the precipice you have been teetering on all day and you sob.

Eddie’s hands smooth over your back in soothing strokes, up and down, as your tears soak into his hoodie. He’s not sure what to say, not quite sure how he feels. Burning pressure pushes at his eyes as he lets his cheek rest against your head.

“I don’t know how I feel,” you manage in a small voice after a few moments.

Eddie swipes your tears, the dripping snot too, and thinks you look beautiful. One day, he knows you will shed happy tears caused by two pink lines and he will kiss their salty joy away with a smile.

“We don’t need to have an answer. I think we got carried away thinkin’ huh?”

You feel bone tired, wrung out. “Yeah.”

“Let’s sleep on it.”

There’s a lingering question about your late period that you can’t fathom yet, maybe the test was a dud? Maybe your iron is low, your hormones are off. But at almost five a.m. on that chilly Sunday morning, it can wait until Monday.

You had felt every single emotion since the evening before when you realised and now that you have an answer to the question that had terrified you, thrilled you too in some small way, you felt like a popped balloon.

“I’m really tired.” Your voice sounds pathetic in your ears and it makes you grimace, feeling mad at yourself for getting so worked up.

“I know, baby. Let’s go to bed, okay? I’ve got you.” Eddie whispers his promise against your temple and bends his knees to lift you up.

“Ed…” you start to complain but you’re too tired to fight, so you wrap your legs around him and hold on.

“Shh, let me.”

Eddie is so gentle, it makes your heart hurt. He lays you down and makes sure you are cosy, leaves ever so briefly to get some water and flick off the bathroom light before joining you in bed.

With the lights off, you seek each other out, hold each other close.

You feel utterly consumed by that confusing feeling, the sad relief.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart.”

“No, I... I got us all wound up and now I feel so stupid.”

Eddie is a steady and sure anchor as your body shakes in the dark.

“You’re not stupid.” He holds you, whispering your name a little firmer to try and bring you back to him. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Please, don’t beat yourself up.”

He sows kisses along your hairline as he makes his heartfelt promises. “I meant what I said. I want the future with you, all of it.”

You just nod, promise him that you want him too, forever. Slowly the tears subside, leaving you feeling beyond exhausted.

Eddie fights sleepfulness to make sure you’re okay, already at peace with the fact that you had so much ahead to look forward, to plan.

He thinks of the antique shop windows, packed with trinkets and curios and glittering gems that you’re drawn to, like a magpie, every time you have a free afternoon to wander in the city without worry. You’re easily sidetracked by their beautiful mystery, and Eddie loves watching your awe.

He thinks of a shiny sparkle on your finger, a little ceremony or a flight to Vegas for the hell of it, and of tiny hands to hold and teach.

He thinks it will be okay.

Lulled to sleep by Eddie’s stroking hands, the warmth of all of his adoration he wraps you up in, you feel peaceful and calm, and not at all scared.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs, likes and comments are absolutely adored and cherished ❤️

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #bouncer!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #bouncer!eddie munson x bartender!reader #bangaveragefic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie stranger things #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson fic #vampire eddie munson #bangaveragefics

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1d1195 · 6 months

Text

Traditional Extra IV

Read Traditional here

A little on the shorter side.

I love to make Harry whiny.

Warnings: angst, fluff, nothing particularly special about this one.

~2k words

"Baby, come on. You’re scaring me,” she said gently. He wanted to throw something. Everything was making him mad; he felt the ache all the way to his bones.

“Y’can’t fix this,” he muttered bitterly.

It was quarter past one. Which meant that she was set to walk into Harry’s office with his cup of tea in her hand. Even though it had been more than a year since her hot beverage accident, she was extremely mindful of turning corners with something that could scald her in her hands. The idea that Harry might fire someone because she was accidentally injured was too much for her to bear. She had her phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. Her cold coffee was in the crook of her arm as she reached for his door.

But instead, all sound stopped at the noise behind it. People paused in their path to the breakroom, the conference room, or back to their offices. The sound of Harry screaming nearly echoed as she looked at the wooden door separating her and her very obvious, very angry boyfriend.

“God bless her,” someone murmured.

“Don’t think I could do it. No matter how cute he is,” she heard another voice whisper. She wondered if she knew they were loud enough for her to hear. Or maybe with the phone pressed to her ear, they didn’t think she was paying attention.

“I’m sorry, I will call you back in half an hour,” she said softly to the phone. There was a response, but she didn’t hear it as she hung up. Niall was back in their office. Probably already looking to solve whatever issue had Harry breaking the sound barrier. Or maybe he was lucky and in another meeting. Maybe this wouldn’t be his problem. But it was definitely going to be part of her problem.

Harry didn’t scare her for the sake of her well-being. She never worried about her safety or whether Harry would harm her in a fit of whatever was causing him distress. The only alarm Harry caused her was the worry that he was going to have an untimely heart attack at such a young age due to his distress. More so, she worried one of these days she wouldn’t be able to fix his problems.

Or that he wouldn’t want her to. One day Harry was going to yell at her. Not purposefully. Not because he was mad at her. But he was going to take his frustration out on her. It was a matter of when not if. Maybe today would be the day.

Turning the knob, she heard everyone behind her collectively hold their breath. They knew she would fix it... probably. She entered slowly, like it was a lion’s den, and she didn’t want to be seen just yet. She closed the door quietly, with a soft click.

Harry was leaning over his empty desk. His computer, his phone, the picture frame with a picture of them from her graduation, all of it was laying shattered and broken to pieces on the floor across the room. His breath was practically panting. She watched him for a few moments: his shoulders rising and falling quickly and dramatically.

Whatever happened obviously made him mad. When Harry was mad, she felt the creeping sense of worry that he would work himself up to a point he couldn’t come back down from and again, worried about his health.

“Harry, baby?” She asked softly after a moment.

“Get. Out.” He seethed. She felt like a knife had been twisted into her heart and she felt like she would cry. Harry never told her to leave or accidentally yelled at her without a pet name attached to it.

He was definitely going to ruin their day. He was going to take out his frustration on her. Today was sure to be the day. She stood silently by the door. Afraid to take another step or make another noise. He still hadn’t turned around. She could see he was still shaking from across the room. Her heart felt so heavy for his worry and discomfort of whatever was hurting him.

In an instant, his cell phone was pressed to his ear. “What?” He snapped. Harry listened for all of twenty seconds before his phone was added to the pile of debris. He took three strides behind his desk and threw his chair toward the rest of his office supplies as well. A hole appeared in the drywall.

That was too much for her. She had to intervene. She was worried he was going to hurt himself at any moment. Swiftly and silently, she made her way to the couch, setting the drinks on the side table before she hurried to Harry’s side before he tried to tip his desk over or something. “Harry,” she whispered softly. He flinched at her touch, yanking from her so violently it almost looked like he smacked her hands away. She blinked in surprise and tried again anyway. “Baby,” her voice was firmer. She pressed her hands on his forearms. He looked at her, still seething with rage. She could see sweat forming at his hairline. Darkening his chocolate curls. His face was flushed red, his arms were clammy to the touch even through his shirt.

“I told you t’get out,” he snapped at her; it was like he wasn’t seeing that it was her.

She nodded understandingly. “I know,” she whispered in agreement. “I know,” she tugged him toward the couch. Despite how angry he was, he let her lead him. Harry stood in front of the sofa still shaking and she paid no mind to it. She pressed him back, so his legs touched the furniture and he had no choice but to sit. She crouched in front of him.

He was intimidating. Even to her, she couldn’t help but feel the adrenaline running through her blood, her heart fluttering nervously that she was going to make matters worse and just upset him more.

But his typically gentle, green eyes turned nearly black—his pupils dilating to fit nearly the entirety of his irises with how angry he felt. His breath was a bit raspy. His muscles were practically rippling as his hands and arms shook. Even just sitting there.

“Baby, come on. You’re scaring me,” she said gently. He wanted to throw something. Everything was making him mad; he felt the ache all the way to his bones. “Put your head between your knees please.”

“Y’can’t fix this,” he muttered bitterly.

“Harry, please just let me try,” she whispered softly. “Just five minutes and then I’ll leave, and you can set the office on fire,” she promised. Harry grunted in response, and she guided his hands behind his head, his elbows rested on his thighs. She rubbed his back soothingly. “Deep breath,” she whispered. He placated her and took a deep breath, but it sounded shallow. “What happened?” She asked softly.

He shook his head. He could feel tears pricking his eyes.

“Harry, baby,” she murmured. “Talk to me, please. Should I get Niall?”

He took another breath. “I lost a client. A huge one. S’going to...” his breath was shaky as he exhaled. “Kitten, s’bad,” he mumbled.

She frowned. “Oh, love,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He picked his head up and looked at her. “M’sorry I yelled at you,” he muttered. “I’m...”

She shook her head. “It’s okay, I know it’s not about me.”

“I shouldn’t yell at you. Ever. You only try t’help. Always,” he looked so dejected. “I...I have t’find a new client or I’ll have t’make cuts next quarter.”

“Okay, so we’ll find one,” she whispered.

He wanted to snap but it was his angel touching him so gently. Trying to comfort him as best she could. He couldn’t hear it. He shook his head. “S’not that simple, kitten,” her positivity was admirable, but he was so mad, so sad. This was a huge deal. A huge letdown.

She sat beside him and grabbed his hand. She twined their fingers together and she looked over at the pile he made of all his electronics and the chair. With a squeeze of his hand, she rested her head on his arm. “Whatever it is Harry, I’ll be right beside you,” she promised.

He turned toward her. “Kitten, I might...have t’fire you.”

She felt her heart flutter, but she nodded looking at their hands. “It’s just a job,” she whispered.

“Love...”

“Harry, I have you. A job... at your company.” she shrugged. “It’s just a bonus.”

“I might lose a lot of money.”

“I’m not with you for money,” she promised with a smirk.

He looked at her, his eyes were red around the corners. His face was withdrawn. He was handsome as ever; even as broken as he felt. “You would love me...if I was broke?”

“I would love you even if you didn’t have a porch swing.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “M’so in love with you. So...” he shook his head. “Hopeless for you,” he murmured. “Don’t deserve you,” he mumbled. “You’re too good,” he nosed at her temple. “I’m sorry, kitten.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize to me.” He looked at her. So sad. Poor thing. Her heart ached to make it better. The first thing she was going to do when she got back to her office was tell Niall as much as she could, and begin searching for a new client. Then probably order Harry new furniture. He stayed silent. His anger settled into sadness. He felt so dejected.

Sighing softly, she cupped his face. He looked so sad. “Do you know you told me you loved me when you were sick?”

He looked up at her curiously. “What?” He momentarily forgot about the turmoil he felt about his company.

“You were delirious,” she smiled. Harry thought she looked like an angel. He swore she had been sculpted by an artist. Even when he felt so terrible, she was just so pretty. It felt like he was healing. “You were falling asleep and just told me you loved me,” she shrugged.

“So y’knew all that time,” he murmured with a smirk toying at his lips. It was weird how he could make him feel better. Even at a time like this.

She nodded excitedly with an impish grin. “Yeah...” she smirked.

“And y’still thought I didn’t love you with m’whole heart after that? That I wouldn’t have...” He rolled his eyes as he trailed off.

She giggled and shrugged. “People can say crazy things when they’re sick.”

He looked at her. “I love you.”

“I’m aware,” she said cutely. If she had a free hand, she would have flipped her hair behind her shoulder. Harry laughed at her, shook his head so his nose bumped hers. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his eyes getting this dreamy, far-off look. His chest felt warm. Part of him never wanted to leave this couch. He never wanted to move. The idea of dealing with what was in store for him seemed so bleak.

She was never bleak. She was perfect. She made everything better, even when he didn’t want her to. “I love you,” she repeated effortlessly. “So much. No matter what. No matter how much money you have or how many porch swings you buy me.”

He cupped her face and leaned so his lips just barely brushed hers. “Don’t know how I did this without you before,” he murmured.

“You’ll never have to do it again,” she promised.

Harry was dreading getting a new phone and a new computer, knowing how bad it was about to get. But somehow her ability to worm her way into his heart and his brain made him believe, even for a moment, that it would be okay.

Or maybe it was just the taste of her lips between his that made him believe.

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @youdontcaredoyou @tiredinwinter @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach @straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals @angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams @summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland @lolyouallsuck @buckybarnessimpp @stylesfever @harrysxcarolina @lovrave @pandeebearstyles @acesofspades

Traditional taglist @tpwkstiles @matildasatellite @jessitpwk @jerseygirlinca @ameerakane20 @kimmi-kat @avasversion @youcouldstartacult @manrocket-mo @golden-hoax @harryssky1 @michellekstyles @soachibstel1 @morklee02 @harrysflorencex @cherrycolas-things @emma34501 @wish-upon-a-star-1310 @daphnesutton @pandeebearstyles @acesofspadess

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist for more of my writing.

#harry #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles blurbs #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #ceo!harry #sugardaddy!harry #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #one direction #one direction writing #traditional

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cheegu3 · 8 months

Note

Maybe whenever you can no rush! If u can do a Yandere ENHYPEN hyung line where the reader maybe has a pregnancy scare it’s up to you if the reader actually is or isn’t pregnant:)

tw / trigger warning; yandere themes, NSFW, mentions of sex, unhealthy relationships, talks of abortion, forced abortion, murder, pregnancy, possessiveness, jealousy, pregnancy scare, breeding/preg kink

this is heavy so don't read if it makes u uncomfortable !!

note; I could NOT find a matching pic for heeseung 💀💀

Enhypen - reaction to s/o having a pregnancy scare

Heeseung

Probably has a breeding kink and has waited a long time to get you pregnant. Heeseung believes it's the ultimate way to be connected to you forever, which is all that he has ever wanted.

If you were on birth control, he'd hide them from you or purposefully try to make you forget to take them by distracting you.

Therefor he won't let you have an abortion even if you wanted to. He'll prevent you from leaving his house; putting up cameras and asking for help from the people around him to watch you.

It's also to make sure you won't have an '' accident ''. If he's watching you 24/7 no such thing will ever happen, and it puts his mind at ease.

You told him before even taking a pregnancy test that you thought you might be pregnant. The early symptoms were there - nausea, fatigue and light cramps, as well as a missed period.

You dreaded his reaction, just because you knew exactly what it'd be like. Your boyfriend might've thought you didn't hear what he said while he was fucking you, but you did. After some time, you realised he was trying to get you pregnant by interfering with you taking the pill, it seemed that you had only realised it too late.

The door opened and you blurted it out without wasting much time as soon as he stepped in.

'' Hee, I think I'm pregnant. ''

His movements stopped, and slowly his lit up eyes met your sad ones.

'' Fuck, I've been waiting so long for this. '' he whispered, almost eerily obsessive.

Jay

Doesn't want it at all and there will be no arguments about it. When you told him about your missed period, he felt sick to his stomach.

Knowing the decision was ultimately up to him however made him feel a little better. But he hesitated to force you to get an abortion. Jay wanted you to think he was the perfect boyfriend, that manipulated you into thinking you had a choice at all times, giving you a sense of control.

In reality, if you didn't want to get one after he'd gently bring it up as a suggestion, then it would disappear one way or another. Carefully he'd research how to get rid of it at home.

Your food would be tampered with and not long after, he would have to comfort you as you mysteriously started bleeding.

Of course, it was only a scare though. So thankfully he didn't have to put you or him through that. But still, there were a lot of things you weren't aware of what he was capable of doing just yet.

'' What does it say? ''

You both held your breaths.

'' Negative, '' you murmured, feeling your face drop.

You were trying to control your disappointment, not wanting it to show to your boyfriend who must be devastated. But when you saw him in the corner of your eye, your mouth fell open.

'' You're...happy? ''

His smirk that was spreading quickly turned into irritation as your sniffles filled the small bathroom.

Jake

He's fine with whatever you want to do. If he was being honest with himself, the thought of you being pregnant with his child made his chest swell with pride and turned him on at the same time.

It would be a definite way to make less men flirt with you. In Jake's sick head, that child would be proof to those men that he was the one who was fucking you and finishing inside you. He wanted them to know that so that they'd keep their eyes off of what was his.

Having his arm stuck around your waist wasn't enough. He needed them to see that you were a happy family and he was the man of your life that would always be there.

If it was just a scare however, he'd be disappointed, having already imagined himself as a dad and doting husband and fantasizing about it whenever he was alone. But he was also okay with it, knowing it was coming soon anyway.

'' I think it's real this time. '' you groaned, slowly turning the pregnancy test around.

Jake was grinning, he already had a feeling that it wasn't a scare this time as well.

Positive

You barely had time to react before he threw himself into your arms, kissing you and mumbling over and over how much he loved you.

The hands that hovered over his back, slowly fell down. Your mood was way different than his. You didn't want a lovesick freak to be the father of your kid, that's no way to live.

Sunghoon

He didn't want a baby but for different reasons. Firstly - the thought of having to share you with someone else made him feel hot with anger. He believed your attention should be on him all the time and you should only love him.

Second of all he was a bit scared of the complications that could come with you being pregnant. Although he was rich and had access to the best care in the world, he was terrified of any possibility that involved losing you.

If you died in childbirth, he knew he'd forever hate that kid for taking away the one thing he loved - and that was also another thing, he wouldn't love the child even if it was his own. He only loved you, and that's how it would always be.

'' Thank god. I don't want any kids. ''

Your forehead furrowed as you glowered at him.

'' I do, '' his head snapped towards you, looking angry now too. '' At some point. ''

'' No. ''

You scoffed at his stern and short tone.

'' What? What do you mean no? ''

'' I don't want any kids, you only need me. ''

'' But- ''

'' Do you want to get punished? '' he growled, voice growing dangerously low.

#yandere kpop #kpop yandere #yandere enha #yandere enhypen

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ifangirlalot · 7 months

Note

hiii, i just wanted to mention that i love your writing and if you could please write a finn smut with she/her pronouns? y/n and him could be actors and are working on stranger things together and they get hot and heavy in her trailer 20 minutes before shooting their scene, so someone knocks on the door and is asking if y/n's in there but finn doesn't stop ykyk doing his thing and so she's struggling to answer and this is such a long request im so sorry 😭😭😭

˗ˏˋ 𝐇𝐎𝐓, 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 ˎˊ˗ | starring finn wolfhard

FINALLY AN ACTUAL PLOT TO WORK WITH! I love getting requests, but most of the time you guys just ask for smut/fluff with a character and don't give me any ideas as to what to include, so it takes me forever to actually write- But thank you Nonnie for your (thankfully specific) request!

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

~*smut!*~ [𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘:] p in v, dirty talk, kind of public sex, exhibitation (if you squint), clit rubbing, basically porn w/o plot bc this is literally just smut the whole way through

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[Finn's POV]

With the scene finished, I immediately grabbed [Name] by the collar of her shirt and yanked her into my trailer with me. I've been pent up all morning from her little tease fest during hair and makeup. She thought she was so fucking slick, sliding her skirt up to show more of her smooth thighs, letting her shirt skid off her shoulder to show some more skin. Well now she was going to show me every bit of skin on her body. Since she so clearly wanted to anyways.

"Finn! Jesus, what is your problem, we're shooting again in twe-" I cut off her words with my mouth as I gathered her wrists into my hands and held them against the door of my trailer, my other hand holding her hip firmly in place. I was hardly ever this forward and blunt, but sexual frustration was enough to make any man crumble into a heap of desperation and desire.

[Name] stopped mid-sentence, her words dissolving into a quiet groan as her lips parted against mine. Her hands twitched in my grip, but I didn't let them go. My lips hurried to her throat in a frenzy as my hand slid off her hip and gathered her hair into a ponytail in my fist so I could kiss her neck without her hair trying to strangle me. I tugged the makeshift ponytail and flicked my tongue over her soft skin, so tempted to make a hickey, but still having at least a shred enough of common sense to know that it probably wasn't a good idea to leave one now… at least, not on her neck.

After sucking a few small red marks that would disappear completely within a few minutes, I slid both of my hands to her waist and picked her up. Turns out being horny made me a little stronger than I was usually.. I slammed her body down on the bed and crawled over her, pinning her body down with mine.

"Jesus Finn, what has gotten into you today?" [Name] panted quietly, tilting her head back while my mouth continued its exploration of her neck.

"Like you don't know." I shot back, gently placing my hand on her neck and pulling her head closer. "You teased me this morning and I haven't forgotten. I'm horny [Name]. And you're gonna fix this issue for me." Before she replied, I moved my hands to the hem of her shirt and pulled it off her body, tossing it away into a faraway corner; it crumpled to the floor, forgotten for the moment. I felt around on her back until I found the clasp for her bra. I struggled for a moment, trying to get it free, but when I couldn't, I groaned in irritation and flipped her body over roughly. My hormones were running rampid in my body, I couldn't wait for much longer, and it felt like [Name]'s bra was purposefully trying to ruin it for me.

I finally got the damn thing unhooked and shot it away quickly, letting my hands wander over her breasts, my fingers rubbing her nipples. I moaned quietly under my breath as I moved my head down and let my tongue flick her nipples into my mouth. Her tit felt so good in my mouth, so full, so perfect, so soft.

[Name] moaned quietly, her body arching up in my hands as her her hands wandered into my mouth. She was down to her panties now and I was absolutely loving it. This morning, I woke up planning to wake up and go to work just like every other day, but now I was in [Name]'s trailer with her tit in my mouth and my hand down her panties rubbing circles into her swollen clit while she moaned helplessly under me. Life was fucking great.

I couldn't wait anymore. I needed her now. My cock was throbbing so hard and painfully against my jeans that I felt like it might actually explode if I didn't shove it into her tight, pink pussy right fucking now. I pulled my fingers out of her underwear and lapped up her sticky juices from my fingertips, my eyes meeting hers as she watched me, her eyebrows crinkled up in arousal and her chest heaving from my tease. She moaned and tilted her head back, hips pushing forward into mine.

I grabbed her lush hips in my hands and shoved them into the mattress, keeping her body pinned down as I used one hand to unhook my belt and yank my dick out. I tugged a condom packet out of my back pocket and ripped the foil wrapper with my teeth.

Oh yeah. I came prepared to fuck her dumb with my cock.

I rolled the condom onto my cock and moved down slowly, taking the elastic band of her panties between my teeth and moving them down slowly, my tongue darting out to kiss her wherever it could reach- her thighs, her hips, even the entrance of her pussy, as my teeth slowly moved her underwear down her perfect legs and around her ankles.

[Name] kicked them off and wrapped her arms around my back as I pushed myself between her legs, holding her thighs in place on my waist as I eased my dick into her, inch by inch. I pulled a hiss of pleasure between my teeth, slowly exhaling as her warm core welcomed me in. "Sssss.. ahh.. Fuck, good girl, that's it.."

A cracked moan left my lips as I thrusted my hips into her. I could hear the fap of my cock penetrating her wet hole over and over as she moaned loudly beneath me, shouting my name over and over. For the first time in a while, I felt confident.

"Oh god Finn, yes, yes! Oh god yes, fuck, fuck. fuuuuck!" [Name] moaned, spreading her legs wider, her mouth open wide in pleasure as her eyes rolled back in euphoric pleasure. I pummelled my hips forward again and again, my hand grabbing at the headboard to keep it from smashing against the wall again and again. There wasn't much I could do about the mattress and bedframe creaking underneath us as I fucked her, though.

A knock at the door. "[Name]?" a producer said, knocking once more. "Hey, you're up in about five minutes and you haven't gotten your hair fixed up yet."

[Name]'s eyes went wide with alarm as she looked at me. Oh, was she expecting me to stop? Right now? She was fucking insane, if she was. No fucking way was I stopping now.

I smirked mischieviously and pulled her hips taunt against mine, ravishing her body faster and harder. She was drooling now, cock-drunk from my blatant usage of her body.

Try talking now, I challenged her silently. Do it. I dare you.

"I-I.. nghhhh. I-I, fuck I'm s-sssss…." [Name]'s apology died on her tongue as I slammed my hips into her harder than before and she bit her lip hard to keep from making a noise.

"That's it, good girl, keep quiet. Don't make it obvious what's happening here." I taunted in her ear as I continued to fuck her forcefully. I could feel a knot forming in my stomach, threatening to unravel completely in the next few minutes.

The producer knocked again. "[Name]? Hello? What's going on in there, are you okay?"

Her eyes begged me for mercy, but I just smirked and continued doing my thing. I could feel her pussy clenching around me, letting me know she was close to cumming. I just smirked at her expectantly, waiting for her to let the producer know she was perfectly fine and would be out as soon as we were done. With noticeably shaky legs, might I add.

"Y-yes!" she screamed, panting heavily, but somehow managing not to moan. "I-I'll be out.. s-soon!"

My eyes were locked on her breasts, watching them bounce with every thrust I made against her body.

The producer's footsteps receded and I smirked at her again, pushing my hips directly into her g-spot. [Name] moaned out before she could stop herself and her body shook desperately as she screamed out my name, her body emptying out every ounce of sweet, sweet cum. "Oh God, Fiiiiiiiiiiinn!"

I pushed my hips against hers a few more times before finally spilling into the condom with a load, throaty groan. I panted heavily, my body sticky with sweat as I rolled off her.

"I'm so fucking pissed at you." [Name] scolded breathlessly, but I could tell she wasn't really mad at me. She was more embarrassed than anything. I was sure I'd be embarrassed too, once the high from my orgasm wore off. But for now, I was cocky, smug, and pretty fucking proud of myself.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure you are. Just hush and get your pretty little ass out there before they come looking for you again." I smirked and gave her a cheeky wink as she groaned and tossed a pillow at me, hurriedly shoving clothes back onto her body and running out, leaving me alone, cackling at her as I cleaned up after us.

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zablife · 7 months

Text

Michael's Wedding Gift

Requested by @peakyswritings for my 2K celebration An Evening at Arrow House. Warning: This is a dark fic 💀

A/N: For added effect play "A Heart Made of Yarn" by Franz Gordon while reading.

The new Mrs. Shelby nuzzled her cheek against the course hairs of Tommy's chest, eyelids shut tight to keep in the tears that threatened to overspill. Her breath caught in her throat as she whispered, "I don't understand why he isn't allowed to come to the party?"

Tommy moved to sit up in bed and his wife scrambled to find a place at his side. What had she done that was so wrong, inviting his cousin inside for tea when he arrived unannounced? He was the only relative to congratulate them in the month they'd been married.

As Tommy caught sight of the tear rolling down his wife's cheek, he softened. "If I'd known you wanted him here, he would have been invited, but Michael is going back to Boston in the morning. It couldn't be helped," he answered, brushing the tear away with the pad of his thumb. A deep chuckle rose from inside his chest as he asked, "What's so special about Michael anyhow? We're expecting at least fifty other guests who will be more than happy to coo at your gorgeous gown from Paris."

Mrs. Shelby sniffled as she replied, "It's not that. He was kind to me," she recalled, thinking of Michael's warm, brown eyes and unassuming nature which made her feel at ease around him. She learned that he was relatively new to the family business which gave them something to bond over. He wasn't brash, but shy and quiet like her and the kinship they forged was something she held dear despite the short time spent together.

"There will be other parties, love," Tommy assured her with a kiss to the top of her head. She held to that promise, dreading the evening before them because she understood the Shelbys could be an unforgiving lot.

--------------------------

As Mrs. Shelby greeted the arriving guests, she shifted nervously in her high heels and nuzzled closer to her husband's side. Despite the warm summer evening, there was a distinct chill radiating from the glacial stares of Tommy's friends and family. Apparently, not one found her worthy of the great Thomas Shelby, MP OBE. Sensing his wife's nervousness, Tommy gave her hand a gentle squeeze and she willed herself not to give up so soon.

As she turned to accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, she locked eyes with Tommy's man Isaiah. He swaggered toward her purposefully as he deposited a key into her hand.

"What's this?" she asked with a tilt of her head.

"A wedding gift, compliments of Mr. Michael Gray," he said with a bow.

"A car?" she asked incredulously.

"You must have made quite an impression," Isaiah remarked.

"I wouldn't say that, but he was understanding of my situation," Mrs. Shelby replied, staring at the key which sat heavy in her palm.

"Whatever you say, ma'am," Isaiah agreed, turning his back to her.

"Isaiah, wait. I was wondering something," she asked with genuine concern. A thought had been plaguing her mind since tea. She hadn't wanted to make Tommy's cousin self conscious asking about his obvious limp, but she couldn't reconcile it seeing that Michael was far too young to be a war veteran. "I was hoping you might know what happened to Michael's leg?"

Isaiah's eyebrow twitched with a hint of mischief and he bowed his head to whisper, "Reckon Tommy don't want you to know, but his cousin's a nutter. Blew up the wishing well in his village with dynamite when he was a boy and got caught in the explosion."

Mrs. Shelby's hand flew to her mouth in panic. Surely the man she'd been speaking with a day earlier wasn't capable of such things. "My God," was all she could utter.

Isaiah gave a nod as guests filed past them, unaware of Mrs. Shelby's distress as he continued the grizzly tale. "That's not all. He got a taste for it after that. Set fire to the little farmhouse where he lived and the family who took him in burnt in their beds," he said, lips curling into a wicked sneer, delighted by the reaction he received.

Then he added one last threat for good measure. “Stay on his good side, Mrs. Shelby. Perhaps convince your husband to bring him back from his exile in America? Michael wasn’t pleased about that,” he said ominously.

Mrs. Shelby felt her heart racing and palms sweating as she looked around wildly for Tommy. As she spied him coming closer, she grabbed for him with trembling hands, a way to anchor herself in a sea of confusion and terror.

"There's my lovely wife," he beamed. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked seeing her ashen face.

"Can we go?" she begged, desperate to be rid of the unpleasant company. "There's something I'd like to show you," she said, holding up the key.

"Of course," Tommy replied, placing an arm securely around her waist.

"Michael's given us a wedding gift," Mrs. Shelby announced, gesturing toward a beautiful new Bentley parked in the drive. "What do you make of that?"

"It's a very nice automobile," Tommy conceded through clenched teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets hastily. "Shall we join our guests now?" he urged, turning to leave.

"Tommy, is Michael...dangerous?" his wife called to him, his foot frozen on the top stair. Before she had time to dissuade herself, she ran to him and confided everything Isaiah told her.

"People like to make up stories because Michael was away for many years, but it's nothing more than idle gossip,” he explained with a wave of his hand.

"Tommy, I must insist you take this seriously. Tell me you haven’t sent Michael to Boston to punish him. That he has no reason to quarrel with you,” his wife urged, voice bordering on hysteria.

Tommy's hands clasped her face between his large palms, icy blue irises fixating on hers in a hypnotizing stare as he promised, “Of course not, it’s only business," he swore. "Do you believe me?"

She nodded slowly, placing a hand over his. Her Tommy wouldn't lie or make false promises. She had complete faith and trust in her husband in that moment. She took his arm as he offered it out to her and walked confidently into dinner, knowing he would protect her from harm.

It would be the last time she was seen alive. The next morning as she placed the key in the ignition of her shiny new automobile, the engine suddenly exploded, tearing and twisting the metal into an unrecognizable ball of flame. As the smoke billowed up to the heavens, Tommy raced to the wreckage, finding a note on his doorstep left by his embittered cousin.

"Congratulations, Tommy. I understand why you eloped with this beautiful creature and left us all to fend for ourselves. Tell me, has she ever looked more lovely than she does now?"

-------------

Tag List:

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

@theshelbyslimited

@kittycatcait219

@notyour-valentine

@areyenotfondofmelobster

@polishcrazyone

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@jomarch-wannabe

@helen06dreamer

@raincoffeeandfandoms

@dearshelby

@cillmequick

@call-sign-shark

@peakyltd

@brummiereader

@runnning-outof-time

@emotionalcadaver

@thegreatdragonfruta

@flysafepapi

@the-makingsofgreatness

@noforkingclue

#Michael Gray fanfic #Michael Gray imagine #Michael Gray #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x you #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagine #zablife 2k celebration

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snoopyana · 2 months

Text

unclear.

“i don’t know if i’m in love with you or the idea of loving you.”

everyone has a time in their relationship where they seem distant. of course though, you didn’t suspect him of cheating, you just suspected that he was falling out of love. and maybe you were too. but you two could fix it, right?

jung sungchan. angst.

you both knew this conversation was necessary. both having things weighing heavy on your shoulders, it came down to who spoke first. but your words were caught in your throat — maybe it was a bad idea to do this in a public setting. while trying to compose your erratic nerves, sungchan sat silently, his fingers tapping onto the wooden table that you two were seated in. the silence was almost unbearable, as if the whole café knew what was going on and purposefully fell silent.

“sungchan.” your voice caused the man’s eyes to shift their focus from the window to your face. the eye contact making you choke-up again. he took notice of the nervousness that seemed to basically form a cloud over your body — taking it upon himself to say the sentence that you oh-so-dreaded. “i think we should breakup.” leaning back into his seat, sungchan crossed his arms over his chest. scanning your face for a reaction — a reaction that came in the form of tears. his soft voice paired with his heart shattering words made your already sour mood take a plummet to the deepest depths of your soul.

you were quick to use the pads of your thumbs to swipe away any tears. “yeah, i’ve wanted to tell you for awhile now but,” taking in a shaky breath, you had to conqeur up all your strength to even look at the man that was seated across from you, “i don’t know if i’m in love with you or the idea of loving you sungchan.” your eyes flickered across his face for a sign of anything. sadness, anger, hurt. you just wanted a reaction. but he didn’t give you one. so you continued.

“and it’s so unclear in my mind and i’ve tried to make sense of it every-time we’re together.”shifting in your seat, his silence made you feel so uncomfortable. as if he really didn’t care for what you were saying. it was almost as if he was waiting for you to finish so he could leave. sucking in a breath, your lips parted to quickly finish the tangent that you were on. “because it’s not love when we don’t talk anymore, and it’s not love when you make me feel like i’m a bore.” that got his attention, now he was the one shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“i never did that, i always gave you my attention to the fullest.” perking up in his seat, his hands falling onto his knees with a sigh. was this really gonna be a messy breakup? “that’s the thing sungchan, you not once ever even realized that you made me feel that way. you never truly paid attention. always thinking you were right.” you mumbled the last part under your breath, but he heard. he heard you loud and clear.

“really? come on dude. don’t make this any more complicated than it has to be. i did see know how you felt, why else would we be having this conversation?” this conversation. the same conversation that was overstepping that already blurred line of what one would consider a ‘clean breakup’ because he didn’t want to listen. you started to fidget with the rings that decorated your fingers, ready to leave this conversation, leave this place.

leave him.

“if you saw how i felt than it wouldn’t have needed to come to a breakup. maybe if you even attempted to give me a safe space to tell you about my feelings we could have fixed things and it never would have gotten this bad.” there was a shake in your voice, tears threatening to slip past your waterline for the second time today. reaching for your bag, you threw a 20 dollar bill down. “here, and d- and don’t contact me again.” your voice cracking, you were quick to find your way out, sungchan staying seated.

his own vision blurring as his eyes followed you out the door — to only dart down at the money you had thrown on the table. all he could do was sit there.

tense and alone.

note — guys, i was listening to mxmtoon and tiffi and have so many angsty thoughts that i wanna write about. this is shorter than my usual content but i feel like if i were to drag it out, it would take away from the atmosphere.

#luvyujun #riize #riize angst #riize scenarios #riize sungchan #riize imagines #sungchan #jung sungchan

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v3nusxsky · 1 year

Note

Hello

I really liked ‘the first heat with you’ story so I was wondering if you could write a another story where the f!reader is a werewolf and is experiencing heat so she avoids her lover (Larissa ofc). So Larissa confronts her about it and reader explains what’s going on and Larissa offers to help reader with it.

I would love for it to be sub!reader with some wholesome smut. Thank you and hope you have wonderful day <3

You’re not mad? 18+

*Authors note~ part two for The heat with you. It's gonna be a different take on it but I'm very excited to write*

Trigger warnings~ sub r dom l degrading, praise, shifted cock oral toys overstimulation dumbification wearwolf smut heat name calling

Prompt~ see ask^^^^

✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫✫

Being a werewolf was certainly something. It was common for wolves to find mates within their packs, which is what made you all the more of an outcast. You'd fallen in love with a shapeshifter who just so happened to be your boss. Much like when you were to wolf out you had no control over what was generally called heat. Female wolves experienced the heat every very months, similar to a females monthly period but where you felt impossibly unstated. Nothing could satisfy the burning desire than ran rampant through your veins.

That's the very reason female wolves of a certain age get passes given to them around their cycles. The fact they physically can't stop themselves from acting on their animalistic instincts made for hectic classrooms with no teaching going on. It made more sense to give the girls passes and allow them to catch up after their heats. The same curtsey was extended to female wolves on the staff. And you had yet to experience one knowing the headmistress was your mate. Until now.

Your instincts calling to you to find her and let her ravish you in every way possible, to relieve the pain that was caused when you were unable to find your mate. But you ignored it, with a great deal of pain, you ran away from Larissa. The poor principal didn't understand why you were purposefully ignoring her calls and texts, you weren't showing up to your classes. All very unlike you, you were normally so attentive and diligent in your work, always willing to please her. Pleasing her? That's it you ran away because of your heat. She felt like such a fool for it taking her days to work out. Her heart aching at the thought of your pain because you didn't want to burden her. She just knew she had to find you.

She made her way to your sleeping quarters and knocked firmly to announce her presence, "go away!" You whined, clearly trying to be forceful but sounding nothing unlike a needy puppy. "It's Isa darling" the blonde purred. "Don't come in!" You shouted the fear soaking every word causing the older woman to enter the room. You'd created a beautiful nest for yourself, she immediately recognised some of your favourite blankets and pillows, the thick heavy scent of your arousal smothering the room. "Mommy!" You whimpered as you tried to ignore every impulse to run to her and beg and plead with her to help you. To make the pain morph into something more pleasurable.

"Is my puppy in her heat? She lovingly teased you coming closer to your nest. You almost forgot yourself and bared your teeth at the older woman in warning. "Now now puppy don't growl at mommy, she only wants to make you feel so so good" she murmured her usual dominance shining through. "You. Don't mind?" You whimpered confused, surly she must hate the idea? You needed her so badly and you didn't know what would satisfy the desire. But you knew it would be intense, and submitting to her, letting her take care of you never sounded any better than right now.

"Oh puppy, of course I don't mind, I love you and this is a part of you darling. I know how much pain you must be in. Torturing yourself aren't you love? You need mommy to make it all better hmm?" Was all it took for your resolve to die out, "mommy please hurts need you please" you whimpered with your best puppy dog eyes, then blanket that covered your body making you uncomfortably warm, you longed for her smooth cold hands to soothe the inferno on your skin. "Let me in that beautiful home you made us then pretty pup" she purred as she began to strip off clothing.

You wriggled over to the middle, not caring that the blanket exposed your painfully hardened nipples or that she could visibly see the hand that had been teasing your dripping hole the entire conversation. "Puppy? Have you been keeping those pretty sounds from mommy?" She quizzed you with a raised eyebrow. Fuck. One thing Larissa hated was when you hid the sounds that so rightfully belong to her. "Sorry mommy" you whimpered pathetically. "You're lucky you're in heat darling or mommy wouldn't touch you for a week pet." Oh fucking hell, you were a mess without her touching you.

Larissa quickly joined you in your nest and immediately instructed you to lay flat like you were, but to remove your hand from your folds. You complied with a whine, Larissa coming to grab both your wrists and place them above your head. "Don't move them pet, understand?" Your eyes widened in fear, how the hell would you do that? "Yes mommy, I'll be good" you mewled just wanting her to touch you.

Soon enough Larissa's lips met your skin, sucking and nipping on the sensitive skin of your neck. Her hands tailing up and down your naked body as you whimpered and whined. "Mommy! I need please, hurts!" Finally taking pity on you, your girlfriend brought her mouth to your soaked core. Immediately, her tongue darted out to get a taste of the slick you were offering as you let your legs tighten around her head. A quick smack to your thigh had them tumbling back open, "oh fuck me mommy god!"

Larissa couldn't help but moan at the taste of you, the heat making it more potent and dangerously delicious. She couldn't help but moan around your cunt, your hips bucking wildly against the blondes face, carnal need driving your actions. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Fuck more" you mewled, "so close! Please please please god" your needy whines as she doubled her efforts to fling you into the pleasure pools of bliss. She helped you back down before she came to kiss you, your slick coating her chin.

"Mommy!" You squirmed uncomfortably needing more. "Oh I know pup, you need more don't you? Nothings gonna solve this pain but mommy filling you with her fat cock" she purred, a little shock at your animalistic growl before you pulled her into a passionate kiss. Nipping at her bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Pretty puppy, why don't you get on your knees for me" she demanded.

You scrambled to comply as Larissa moved around you to grab her chosen toy, attaching it to you and tuning it on before she shifted her aching core into a well hung girthy cock. Immediately, your eyes fell to the appendage, standing proudly to attention. Your tongue darting out to wet you plump lips. "Come on pet, be a doll and wet this up for mommy" she murmured teasing your lips with the mushroom tip of her cock. Immediately, sticking your tongue out to lick the length before she greedily thrusted it into your awaiting mouth.

She kept her pace punishing, you needed that and Larissa was more than happy to provide it for you. Only pulling from the warm tightness when she felt herself near her own orgasm. You whined in protest only to morph it into a growl as she turned you round and pushed you to be on your hands and knees. "Oh pet, your dripping. All bc you're a whore for mommys cock huh? Such a good cockslut!"

You let out a howl as she pushed her cock into your cunt without a warning, your walls fluttering around her pulsating member. "Oh fuck pet. So warm and tight, such a perfect pussy for mommy to use aren't you. Needy puppy" she moaned, pulling out just leaving the head inside of you before slamming back into your cunt.

You were a goner. Larissa is incredibly skilled and it was no surprise that you came many a time on her cock. Her stamina better than anyone you could think of. "Puppy, mommys gonna cum, take my load puppy, give mommy more" she panted as she brought a hand round your body to tweak and tug on your nipple. You came with a cry of her name, Larissa following seconds after you. Shooting thick spurts of cum into your aching core. The warm thickness of it causing you to moan for more as you squeezed her dick as if it was in a voice grip.

"One more, puppy one more for mommy" she whispered in your ear before sucking the sensitive skin behind the lobe. You whined when you felt the your cunt become empty. Your legs shook as Larissa guided you to straddle her thigh. Her hands gripping your hips as she forced them to rut against her firm thigh. "One more pet one more for me, such a good puppy" she murmured pressing kisses to all the skin she could reach.

At this point you couldn't speak and you couldn't think, all you could do is feel that overwhelming sensation of pain mixed with pleasure. Your coil tightened again once more. "My poor puppy can't even speak or think. Don't worry mommy will do it all for you, that's it baby keep rutting against my thigh. Such a pretty bitch in heat, come puppy drench my thigh" her dirty words threw you over the edge as you saw stars, your mind and body thrown into ecstasy as animalistic sounds tore through your body.

"Gorgeous? Come back to me baby. You did so good. So so good for me darling. Such a pretty puppy. Good girl darling" she murmured over and over again, rubbing your back gently as you slowly came back to the real world. "Get some rest baby, you know you'll need it again in a few hours" you whimpered shuffling closer to the woman, "you don't mind Isa?" A sweet kiss to your head, "of course not darling girl, now get some rest sweetheart." Was the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you. Truly you were the luckiest pup in the world to have such a wonderful, caring and understanding mate.

Word count~ 1791

#anon answered #fanfic #anon requested #anon request #larissa x you #larissa x reader #principal larissa weems #principal larissa weems x reader #larissa weems smut #larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #weems x reader #weems smut

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sexybabystevie · 2 years

Text

Up to the Gods

Protective Best Friend!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

Tags and Warnings: Only Mild Volume 1 Spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Self-Sacrifice, Possible Character Death, Slow Build, References to Depression, Vaguely Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Anxiety, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Best Friend!Steve Harrington, Protective!Steve Harrington

Word Count: 9057

Summary: The time you have left to save Max is speeding away, so you come up with a last-minute plan. Your best friend Steve, however, isn't so keen on you following through with it.

A/n: Please read warnings for possible triggers. This is my first time writing for Steve (and writing on this account) so I hope you enjoy! If you want a part two, please let me know, and if you have any feedback at all, then tell me! I love hearing from my readers!

Steve Harrington Masterlist

It had been two hours since Max revealed that her headaches and nightmares had started five days ago, which meant that you now had approximately 17 hours to find a way to save her. 17 hours and 24 minutes, not that you were purposefully counting down the minutes – seconds even – but your anxious mind was running out of things to do that could effectively distract you as you sat on an old, dusty couch in the Wheelers’ basement, so one of the only things you could do was periodically look at the watch on your wrist.

To everyone else, it was obvious that you were a ball of anxiety. Your left leg was bouncing rapidly against the hardwood floor, one hand at your mouth as your teeth bite your fingernails down to the skin, the other thrumming your fingers against the itchy material of the arm of the couch. Your eyes blankly stared ahead of you, unconsciously boring holes into the back of Dustin Henderson’s head.

All of the kids sat together on the floor, crowded around Max. The room was silent as everyone was both unsure of what move to make next and was also exhausted after spending yet another day trying to keep Hawkins and its residents safe from the Upside Down’s wrath. However, you were all too on edge to make any attempt to sleep, so the heavy air in the room remained the closest thing to communication among you all.

The smothering quietude and your own nerves made you feel as though you were floating, like you were somewhere far off into space, an astronaut abandoned by their crew, left to swim among the bright stars, instead of a helpless teenager who was about to lose yet another friend. If you were more in touch with your emotions, you might say that it was almost relieving.

About to lose yourself to your murky mind once more, you were brought back to your haunting reality by Steve Harrington’s hand resting on your knee, sending a sense of warmth throughout your body. You tentatively look at your best friend, who you had forgotten was next to you on the Wheelers’ couch, and you can tell that he’s as uncertain as you are from how his hand slightly shakes against your skin and from the way his bottom lip is partially buried in between his teeth. One of your first instincts is to cover his hand with your own, to intertwine your fingers with his in the hopes that maybe it could provide the both of you with a little comfort, but your mind is too tired to even think about dealing with the surge of emotions that would evoke in you.

Suddenly Steve’s hand is feeling too warm – like a blanket that was once comforting but quickly became uncomfortably, suffocatingly hot – and you softly brush his hand away and stand up a little too rapidly. Your head is spinning and you latch a hand out onto the wall so that you don't fall over, eyes closing tightly to try and steady your dizzy head.

“You okay?” The concern in Steve’s voice is more obvious than ever, and you make an effort not to turn around so that you can avoid seeing his face. You don’t want to think about how the inner part of his brows are probably raised, how his lips would be slightly downturned as his eyes would be softly squinted at you, scanning your features before meeting your gaze in an attempt to read you. You don’t want to even entertain the idea of him directing his protective nature towards you, not when everything is going to Hell and poor Max is in grave danger.

Taking a deep breath, you compose yourself and stand up straight before conjuring the least ridiculous and most believable excuse for you to get up.

“Yeah.” You nod at the stairs ahead of you, still incessant upon not meeting his gaze. “Just gonna go get some water.”

You only receive a noise in response, something that sounds half like a grunt and half like a hum, and then you slowly climb the stairs to the Wheelers’ ground floor, your knees popping and aching at their sudden movement.

A dim lamp hanging over the kitchen sink is the only thing lighting your way as you step carefully into the kitchen. Hushed whispers bounce and echo off of the walls, and you’re met with two shadowy figures who are bent over a small table residing on the outskirts of the room.

A quick glance confirms your beliefs; Robin and Nancy are seated at the little breakfast nook, hunched over with tired eyes and hands grasping coffee cups. It takes them a minute to notice you in the dark atmosphere – you also froze at the sight of them, previously hoping that you wouldn’t have to interact with anyone else – but they welcome you with tense smiles and beckon you over.

You hold up a hand, signaling that you’ll join them in a moment, and walk over to the cabinets to scavenge for a clean cup. You were going to use the water excuse as a way to avoid talking to other people, both Steve and the two girls, but ironically a glass of cold water seemed pretty good right about now.

After filling the cup with water from the kitchen sink and taking a few long gulps, the cool water soothing your dry throat more than you expected, you approach the breakfast nook again.

You sit your glass down on the table and pull out one of the metal chairs, cringing as the sound of the legs against the floor squeal louder than you anticipated. Robin’s face scrunches up at the sound and she instinctively covers her ears while Nancy just flashes you a sympathetic look.

“Sorry,” you mutter, awkwardly taking your seat and running anxious fingers against the fabric of your pants.

Nancy shakes her head and takes a sip from her coffee cup before speaking.

“It’s alright. My parents went to sleep hours ago, and there’s this weird draft upstairs that pretty much makes it impossible to hear anything that happens down here.” Her eyes glance towards the basement opening. “The only ones we have to worry about waking are ourselves.”

You scoff at the thought of anyone being able to sleep when faced with your current predicament.

“Yeah, everyone’s just about as awake as the two of you are,” you say, gesturing towards the mugs held in the girls’ hands.

Nancy nods, as if she already expected that answer to a question she hadn’t even meant to pose, and Robin fiddles with the handle of her cup before releasing a short and mirthless laugh.

“Yeah no, this is Sprite,” she speaks with a sense of urgency which you chalk up to her typically excitable personality. “Coffee makes me so fidgety and anxious that I feel like I have to pee for like three hours after I drink it. Plus, I don’t really like the taste. Even with lots of sugar and creamer and stuff, it tastes too bitter.”

Her words bring an involuntary smile to your face. You just can’t help it; you can’t possibly imagine a more fidgety version of the girl ahead of you. Not that it was a bad thing – in fact, you quite enjoyed her random ramblings when you, her, and Steve had unbearably long shifts at Family Video. Many boring nights of taking endless inventory were slightly more manageable thanks to her bumbling on about whatever thoughts entered her head.

You had known Robin for months now, thanks to being coworkers and bonding over making fun of Steve and complaining about your boss Keith, and while you weren’t as close to her as you were to Steve, you liked being around her and interacting with her. It was easy to get along with her because she knew about you via the grapevine – also meaning that Steve had talked about you so much that she practically knew everything about you except for your Social Security number – and was quick to bond with you when she found out that the two of you shared a sense of playful snarkiness. You could easily call her your friend, one of the few you had that were actually your age, and you were usually quite comfortable around her, but something in tonight’s air made you hold back from engaging in your normal banter. Maybe it was the looming weight of the situation you all would have to face in less than 24 hours, or maybe it was the other girl who sat at the table with the two of you.

You were shocked as you had watched an unlikely friendship form between Robin and Nancy a few days ago. The two were seemingly incompatible; Robin was energetic, passionate, and could sometimes get carried away quite easily when around others that made her comfortable. She had a cooler, more calculated side as well – one that you had heard about and witnessed briefly during last year’s fall of Starcourt – and was always exceedingly smart and was quick to grasp new topics, something that you oftentimes envied her for. Meanwhile, Nancy Wheeler was quiet and kind, but never was one to waste time on bullshit. She was headstrong and brave when she needed to be, and often was persuasive enough to get others to see things from her perspective. She was a girl who really wanted to be someone and who held the potential to be someone who could do big things, and while Robin was just as capable as she was, she wasn’t as deeply motivated in the same ways that Nancy was.

But then again, you weren’t as well acquainted with Nancy as you were with Robin, despite knowing the former for longer.

You had known of Nancy back in high school, your impression of her a good one as you considered her one of the few people in Steve’s original crowd that were tolerable. She never spoke to you, allowing you to fade into the background as the others did, but you still found her more approachable than anyone else. You thought that maybe, if you ever made the effort, she would have spared a glance and a few words for you.

Your impression, however, was tarnished and faded a little as you met Steve. It was at the Halloween party, back when the two first started having more obvious relationship problems. You watched as Steve stormed out of the party and your curiosity got the better of you, so you followed him. Somehow, at the stroke of a mere miracle, he was hopeless and tipsy enough to spill what had happened to you – all of it. You were shocked and had wondered for a split second if this was some kind of Halloween prank, but that broken and worried look on Steve’s face forced you to believe that this was reality. You tried to provide some comfort, although you weren’t the best at it, and that had just been the beginning of the two of you having some very chance run-ins until you started to hang out willingly, both surprised to find out that the other was actually a pretty decent person.

You were there when Dustin had dragged Steve to his house to find and kill Dart; you were there when Steve found out about Nancy and Jonathan’s unnervingly close company; you were there when Nancy finally broke things off with him and ran off to Jonathan, something that you expected but were nonetheless disheartened to see. You were there as you and Steve became surrogate parents to a group of pre-teens that were left without supervision, and you were part of the reason why your venture into the tunnels beneath Hawkins was successful in burning up the roots of the Upside Down.

You were there for so much of Steve and Nancy’s breakup, alongside Steve, that things between you and her were still awkward, despite both of you having expressed your acceptance and willingness to move forward from the situation. You had never spoken about it and sometimes wondered if you were the only one who felt it, but it was like a constant thickness in the air and a tenseness that was held in both of your voices whenever you spoke to one another. You had always just assumed that things were too awkward for you two to ever make a true attempt at bonding.

Still, as you sit with her and Robin inside of the shadowy kitchen, you feel like maybe this could be a chance for you to try and work together with them – maybe the three of you can come up with some kind of way to take action to save Max.

You leave your thoughts behind and clear your throat; even if Nancy Wheeler did hold a distaste for you, collaborating to save your redheaded friend was worth far more than holding some petty grudge.

“Have either of you thought of something we can do?”

You don’t have to specify what you’re talking about; you’re sure that it’s the most prevalent thing on everyone’s minds at this very moment, whether they want it to be or not.

Silence falls between the three of you, and no one has to make a sound for you to know that that is an answer in itself.

“I want to,” Robin reveals, voice steady and sincere, “but it turns out that intercepting a secret Russian message and decoding it is a lot easier than trying to figure out how to take out a cross dimensional wizard guy.”

You nod in understanding and suddenly feel guilty that she’s been brought into all of this. She’s just a senior in high school; the worst thing she should have to worry about is passing economics class, not wondering if an innocent young girl she knows is going to make it through a fight with some evil being.

But then again, you think, Max doesn’t deserve this either.

She’s been through enough the past few years, having unfortunately moved to the biggest literal hellhole in the entire United States and then being promptly thrown into being some kind of hero for it. Not to mention the worst part, which was that she lost her stepbrother Billy during the disaster that was last summer. You had known Billy from high school, and admittedly you weren’t a huge fan of his jerkish behavior, but that didn’t mean that you thought he deserved to die. From how Max had completely retracted herself from others and changed into a totally new, much more gloomy person, you could tell that she wasn’t taking it easily, despite the fact that she revealed on multiple occasions that she hardly even really knew him at all. You couldn’t imagine the thought of losing someone like that and being left to wonder if you could have been closer if only you had made the right steps, and so you always tried your hardest to be there for Max in the little ways, like driving her to school and taking her out for dinner so that you could make sure that she got at least one meal a day.

The truth was that, in your shenanigans with Steve, the two of you had grown to love and provide for these kids almost more than their own parents. They were witty, snarky, and unabashedly hilarious. Most of the time they seemed to be more capable with their intelligence than even you and Steve, but that just gave you yet another reason to admire them.

It was this bond between all of you that had you so anxious; you couldn’t bear to lose any of them. It was your job as their older-sibling-but-also-parental-figure to protect them and make sure that they were being properly taken care of, and this mishap was not an exception. You had to save Max, if not because of your role as the kids’ caregiver, then because you personally didn’t want to even imagine a life where she was gone and you couldn’t sneak her out to get fast food during her lunch period at school. You had already lost El and Will – you understood why they moved away and were a bit less worried about their wellbeing because you trusted Joyce’s judgment as a mother, but at the same time that didn’t completely resolve the way you dearly missed them – and you knew you wouldn’t be able to cope with really losing one of them.

Just as your thoughts were dangerously close to spiraling into heartbreak territory, a fleeting idea crosses your mind and your eyes widen like saucers. You force yourself back into reality and flicker your gaze between Nancy and Robin, eyes sparkling with hints of hope that causes the two girls to give you a questioning glance.

“I think I might have an idea.” You speak with such excitement that your words tumble out of your mouth and onto the table, blending into one extremely long and warped noise. It takes your companions a few delayed moments to comprehend what you said, but when they do, their faces mimic yours, surprised and auspicious, so you waste no time in continuing your thoughts.

“What if we can distract Vecna?” You’re aware of the way the girls’ faces scrunch up in confusion, but it feels like maybe you’re onto something and you don’t intend on stopping until you’ve shared with the class. “Obviously he’s targeting specific people, but so far he can only actually attack one person at a time, no matter how many he has partial control over. So… what if we can somehow get someone to break into his mind? Like, we send someone in as bait to keep him preoccupied… Kind of as a way to either stall him or maybe attack?”

Robin chews on her bottom lip and her eyes look distant, as if she’s racking her brain for something that could be of help to you, and Nancy furrows her brows in thought and gently shakes her head.

“The best person who we could send is Eleven, and even if she did have her powers, she’s with the Byers in California.” Nancy seems to be skeptical of your idea – which honestly makes your heart plummet into your stomach – but when she continues speaking, it seems as though maybe she thinks you’re more capable than you realize. “She would be our best shot at taking him down normally, but…” She pauses and looks up at you, meeting your gaze with a small, tiny nod of agreement. “It’s the best plan anyone’s thought of so far.”

You swallow the lump in your throat that had formed previously and nod back at her, taking a deep breath of relief. Whether or not you were liked by Nancy Wheeler wasn’t one of your top priorities, but knowing that she approved of your half-baked idea filled you with an odd sense of pride.

Robin, however, makes a quiet grunting sound and blinks her eyes several times before looking at you. Before she even utters a word, you can tell that she’s found some sort of hole in your plan.

“Vecna only takes people that he wants, for whatever creepy reason he has. We would have to make sure that this person is of use to him or he will just discard them.” She softly sighs and fidgets her hands around her coffee cup again. “It has to be someone with trauma, and from who the other victims were, it seems like it has to be some pretty shitty trauma. I just don’t know of anyone else that we have here who could possibly be effective bait…”

She gives you a small frown, as if she’s sorry that she’s potentially ruined your one shot at being able to protect Max, but you hadn’t told them everything yet. The truth was that you had someone in mind the minute the idea had fully festered in your head, you just weren’t sure if Nancy and Robin would think you were crazy.

Throwing all caution to the wind, you decide to tell them. After all, like Nancy said, this was your best shot at a plan.

“When I thought of all of this, I had someone in mind. Someone who fits all the criteria and who Vecna might take instead.” As the remaining pieces of the puzzle fit together inside your brain, you leave Nancy and Robin to wonder in anticipation as your feet are rushing towards the basement stairs. You quickly turn around and yell, “Sorry, hold on! I’ll be right back!” before you’re bounding down the steps.

When you reach the basement, you ignore the way that all of the children look over at you, heads tilted as they no doubt question why you were both running down the stairs like a madman and rushing towards the pile of bags and backpacks that’s against a closet door. You can feel Steve’s eyes on your back as you dig through the mountain of everyone’s things – he’s staring hard enough to cut into your very soul – and you feel guilty, as if maybe he can somehow telepathically understand your intentions. Your hands run across the familiar leather of your purse, and you take it before you rush back up the stairs to explain yourself to Robin and Nancy. You don’t acknowledge Steve or the kids, you just stomp right up those steps again and feign ignorance. They won’t react well to your idea; plus, you don’t really have the time to fill them in. You’re limited now, time ticking down to less than 15 hours before Vecna strikes.

As you reach the kitchen again, you approach the countertop next to the sink and set your bag on it. You unzip the main zipper on the purse, widening the opening and plunging your hands into it; it’s too dark to see clearly, even under the lamp above the sink, so you use your fingers to search for that ridged cap that you know is hidden inside.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the two girls leaving their places at the breakfast nook, hesitant yet curiously stepping closer. Your gaze flashes back to your current task at hand, and if you had only paid more attention, then you would have noticed the addition of another set of booted footsteps.

“What’s going on?” The tentative voice of Steve Harrington finally registers in your mind, but you’re determined now – you have to do whatever you can for these kids – so you say nothing in response and let Nancy and Robin explain for you.

“(Y/N) has an idea,” Nancy relays. “She thinks that maybe someone can distract Vecna from going after Max.”

“Yeah,” Robin cuts in, “and she ran downstairs like crazy to get her bag and hasn’t said a word since.”

As you continue looking through your purse, now opening other side pockets and navigating your fingers throughout them, Steve is nearing closer to you until he’s in the center of all of you, Nancy and Robin further in the back as there are only two or three steps between you and him. He’s about to speak, to ask you if you’re okay, but you mutter “Finally!” under your breath and turn around before he can.

You have a small, accomplished grin on your face as you showcase an orange pill bottle in your hands, the rough, rigid edges of the lid pressed into the skin of your fingertips.

The two girls just stare at you, blinking with blank, perplexed faces. Nancy narrows her eyes at you – you can imagine her verbally asking you if this is a joke – and Robin just is completely silent, her mouth slightly agape as she seems not to have a single coherent thought.

It even takes Steve a few minutes to recognize what you’re trying to do, but when he reads the tiny font on the side of the bottle – Paxil – it hits him like a freight truck. He looks at you with gaping eyes, almost in disbelief.

“No,” he says firmly, already shaking his head at you in the same way that he shakes his head at Dustin when he insists that he’s old enough for Steve to teach him how to drive. “Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

You can see Nancy and Robin giving each other tilted glances in your peripheral vision, communicating something to one another only through their eyes, but you ignore it. With Steve’s current disdain present in his narrowed gaze, the last thing you’re worried about is coming fully clean to the two girls behind you.

“We don’t have any other plans, Steve.” Your voice is low and quiet and you flash a brief, uncertain glance towards his face, maintaining uncomfortable eye contact for barely a second. You had hoped to see his features softening – maybe that would mean that he would give you a solid chance to explain – but they don’t. He remains stern and still, like a soldier reporting to their general.

“Then we find something else. We come up with a new plan.”

“You know it isn’t that easy. We’ve spent hours trying to come up with something, and this–” you shake the bottle in your hand for emphasis, “–is all that we’ve got.”

You’re beginning to lose your patience. You expected a fight from him, for him to be upset and worried about the implications of your suggestion, but you also thought that he would trust you enough to let you follow through with it. You know it’s risky – anything relating to the Upside Down is – but you know you’re right. You don’t really have much of a choice, but Steve is more stubborn than he’s ever been throughout your lengthy friendship.

Of course, he’s losing his composure as you are, and you feel your throat tighten as he raises his voice at you.

“Then I’ll think of something!” His voice cracks as it increases in volume and you think that for a single moment you can recognize hints of desperation burrowed into it. Still, you’re too frustrated and tired to even consider dealing with the possibility.

“Why does it always have to be you?” you ask, body trembling against your will. “Why is it that, when I have an idea, suddenly it’s you who has to come in and try to come up with a better one? Why do you always act like I’m completely incapable of anything when I’ve been around for more than enough of this hellish shit to know what I’m doing?!”

Steve just rolls his eyes and scoffs as if he can’t believe what you’re saying.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind – that this reminds you a lot of the entitled way that he acted during his ‘King Steve’ phase in high school – and you push it away before it causes you to become emotional enough to angrily voice that thought.

“Well, maybe when you come up with an idea that isn’t completely stupid, we can go along with that.” His tone is cold and almost uninterested, and it causes you to falter. Your face contorts – mouth twisting downwards and brows rising as your eyes quickly scan over his, searching for a sign that maybe he regretted the words that just spewed lethally from his lips like molten lava spurting from a volcano – before your pain and disorientation forge into rage.

Robin anxiously steps forward and makes you realize that you had fully forgotten about the two other people in the room with you and Steve. She bites her lip as she stands between you both, hands with black painted fingernails holding the two of you away from one another without touching. She takes a long, uneven breath before speaking.

“I know you’re both angry,” she starts, head turning back and forth so that she can maintain eye contact with you both consecutively, “but let’s try to take a deep breath and calm down. Arguing isn’t going to help any of us.”

You close your eyes and do as she instructed, several deep breaths in and out. From the heaving noises you hear in front of you, you can tell that Steve is doing the same.

When your eyes are opened again, you nod at an expectant Robin in order to signify that you’ve gotten yourself handled. She gives you a small, friendly smile prior to shifting her attention to cooling Steve down. After he mirrors your actions to her, she mutters a few hasty ‘okay’s under her breath, as if encouraging herself to continue playing mediator. You don’t blame her for being so frazzled; you and Steve had never fought like this before.

“First,” she says softly, glancing at the orange bottle still gripped tightly in your hand, “what the hell is that?”

You lift the container in question up and display it in your palm before explaining.

“It’s an old medication my doctor recommended to me.” You tried to keep your gaze centered on Robin, knowing that any kind of interaction with Steve would probably go sour, but you still see him wince at your words. You try not to think about how it makes your stomach churn. “It was supposed to help with… some things, but it ended up making them worse.”

“Yeah?” Robin nods enthusiastically, probably just satisfied with the fact that you haven’t started arguing with Steve again, but another voice pipes in and interrupts.

“Sorry, but what does this have to do with distracting Vecna?” Nancy takes a step closer to the three of you, leaving her place among the awkward and uninvolved shadows. “You said you had a plan that might work, but I don’t think I’m following what this has to do with that.”

You freeze and look down to your feet.

This is it. This is when you have to reveal just how reckless and absurd this entire plan of yours is. You knew Steve was right when he said that it was dangerous and stupid – you just didn’t want to admit it. But saying and elaborating on this… that was admitting that this was risky as hell, and you were suddenly worried about how they would react.

You could see Steve looking at you expectantly, wondering if you were going to say it. Wondering if he was right in what he assumed you were going to do.

But he already knew he was right, and you did too.

“The medicine gave me severe night terrors and headaches, along with hallucinations.” You meet the calculating eyes of each of your friends and chew on the inside of your cheek. “Consistently.”

The room falls painfully silent as everyone processes your implications. You can practically hear the sounds of the pieces of the puzzle connecting together in their brains, and you try to calm down your hammering heartbeat.

“That’s still not everything,” Nancy says, one brow arched as the other is furrowed against the skin of her forehead. “Chrissy, Fred, Max… They all have one other thing in common with each other that Vecna likes to take advantage of.” She doesn’t have to say it, you already know exactly what it is she’s talking about, but she does anyway. Ever the detective, was Nancy Wheeler. “Trauma.”

Everything is silent again, but this time it’s filled with a deeper heaviness, as if the air itself is carrying the weight of the world on its shoulders. Steve’s brown eyes are bouncing between you and the other two girls – he knows something that they don’t – but you can’t read him. His face is flashing through emotions like a parent snapping thousands of photos at their child’s kindergarten graduation, and you have a feeling that Robin and Nancy might be coming to the realization that there’s much more to this endeavor that they aren’t yet aware of.

Everyone’s eyes are on someone else’s; Nancy’s flipping between looking at you and Steve, Robin’s watching her, and Steve is staring at you with the intensity of a military grade, high-beam flashlight. Your own gaze fixates among all of your companions, feeling like a deer caught in between the headlights of three different cars at once.

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Steve’s whisper bounces off of the walls until it reaches your ears, and while he seems much more calm and collected than he was prior, the fact that he still doubts you – still doesn’t see just why you’re so adamant about this – causes frustration to bubble up into your veins.

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“Not when it’s the only way!” Your voice wavers despite how loud it is and your lip quivers between your teeth while your chest fills with an ache that you can only describe as pure desperation.

Your outburst shuts everyone up, too stunned and concerned and perplexed to muster up their voices. Quietude covers the room like a fresh fallen snow, freezing time and extending it all at once, and you can’t decide whether you hate this awkwardness that keeps hold of your tongues or if you want to relish within it.

The tension of the room is broken by the creaking of the stairs and your head shoots around rapidly, worried that you had completely screwed up by waking Nancy’s family. The last thing you wanted was to be on anyone’s bad side, especially the people who were so kindly giving you a place to stay as the world was becoming a living nightmare.

However, Karen and Ted Wheeler didn’t stomp downstairs with fuzzy slippers and lavish robes on, roaring and ready to lecture you about respectfulness and noise levels before ultimately deciding to kick you from their home. No; in fact, the culprits behind the case of the squeaky staircase happened to be a set of three heads that were peeping around the edge of the wall, carefully looking at you with widened eyes and fretful frowns.

With one shared glance between them, Robin grabbed Nancy’s hand and led her towards the children, rounding Max, Dustin, and Lucas back down the steps with reassuring whispers and gentle, guiding palms resting against their shoulders. Through the echoed sound of descending footsteps, you hear the kids grumble various words of protest, insistent upon their worry for you and Steve. Regardless of how upset you are, you feel your heart swell momentarily.

Only half of your group remains, leaving you and Steve in a silence that’s both more awkward than before and more comfortable. Being around him never failed in making you feel as if you were safe and accepted for who you truly were, but the absence of Robin and Nancy also meant talking about the inevitable. It wasn’t as if you really had any other choice, so – argument or not – you ultimately just want to get this over with.

“I don’t know what you think I’m trying to do, but I’m not trying to senselessly put myself in danger.”

Steve’s mouth opens, as if he’s already prepared to speak in protest of you, but you hold up a hand and stop him before he can.

“Just listen to me, okay? For just a minute?” you ask, sighing into the gap betwixt the two of you.

Luckily he nods, an almost sheepish look crossing over his features, like maybe he’s starting to realize that you might have some kind of end goal here that doesn’t have to do with getting yourself killed.

You feel a tiny bit of guilt when you see how his lips downturn slightly, and you try to lighten the mood a little.

“I promise I’m not crazy.” You send him a genuine, playful smile – the kind that are as familiar to him as the strands of hair on his head – and he chuckles in response.

He smiles fondly and shakes his head at the ground in front of your feet. “Yeah, that’s not true.”

You release air you didn’t know you were holding in and softly giggle with him; it isn’t even really funny, you both just need something to get rid of some of the tension that’s still clouding the room like smoke. The moment ends all too soon, though, and he looks at you with eyes that are painfully expectant.

Swallowing a nervous lump in your throat, you begin, “I know it seems unnecessary and stupid to you, but I meant it when I said that I don’t think this is dumb.” You can see the uncertainty flickering through his warm, brown eyes, but you continue on anyway. “If it can save them, then it’s worth the risk.”

He’s completely still while he processes your words. You can see his eyes swap through emotions under his furrowed brows; he’s fully and wholly unsure of what exactly to say and how exactly to feel.

He sighs and runs his hands anxiously through his hair, and after a few more conflicting facial expressions, he caves.

“This is important to you,” he starts, establishing direct eye contact in the soft way that he does whenever he’s about to tell you something that he knows you don’t want to hear, “and I get it. I mean, I’d do anything to keep the kids safe too, but I just don’t think this is–”

“–Steve.” You harshly interrupt him, knowing in advance how his sentence is going to end, knowing that he’s once again tossing your idea to the side. You want to be angry, to argue and scream and shout at the tops of your lungs, but you just don’t have the energy, so you settle for showing how you truly feel – exhausted.

“Why don’t you trust me? We’ve been best friends for years and you always do this,” you start, annoyed and angry and confused, but most of all, just so sick of this. “When we were going underneath that farmland to set those vines from the Upside Down on fire, you made me stand back with Dustin ‘so I had someone to protect me.’” Your hands make sarcastic air quotes as you recall his exact words.

“Back then I just thought that you thought I was incapable because you didn’t know me that well, because we hadn’t known each other for very long... But you still do it. You wanted me to stay with Dustin and Erica instead of driving back to Starcourt with you and Robin so that we could help Eleven. When you were first translating that secret Russian code, you tried keeping it a secret from me for days before Robin finally told me, and when we got stuck in the Russian base underneath the mall, you let Erica – an actual ten year old – help out more than you let me.”

Your breathing staggers and you clench your fists so tightly that your fingernails dig into your palms. You feel tears threaten to fall from your lids and down your cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you bring your gaze to settle on his.

“You treat me like a child.” Voice strained, eyes watery, and chest drumming with anxiety and hurt, you feel as though your friendship with Steve could be ruined by what you say. And yet you don’t stop; you’ve gone too far into your feelings to leave the rest of it unsaid. “You treat me like a helpless, useless child. A child who has no freedoms and purpose, because, hell, even any other kid around has more value during these kinds of things than I do.”

You hold your stance firmly as Steve says nothing, just staring at you without any apparent emotion. The worry and apprehension from before is gone, and all he has left in front of you is himself. An unreadable version of himself. You don’t know what you expected, but this ambiguity is almost heartbreaking; from your perspective, it really didn’t seem like he cared about a single word you had just said.

Minutes pass and there’s still nothing; no words from Steve and no emotions from him either. You purse your lips together and squeeze your eyes shut; if this is how it’s going to be, you only have one last thing to say.

When you open your eyes again, you ignore the stray tear that cascades down the hill of your cheek.

“I just wanted to help. That’s all I ever wanted to do.” Your voice is an unintentional whisper, which isn’t that surprising since you wouldn’t consciously trust yourself not to quiver either. “And I want to keep the kids safe. That would be my way of helping… So please, Steve. Just let me go through with my shitty plan so that we can buy Max some time.”

To your unwavering disappointment, Steve heaves a sigh and somberly shakes his head at you. You can’t tell if the ghosts of teardrops that you see at his lashline make it worse or not.

“You don’t understand.” He speaks softly and tranquilly, which is more than you expected from him, but it still doesn’t resolve things between you. It still doesn’t make you feel any less useless.

“Then make me understand!” you beg, voice crumbling under the pressure of its own volume. “If I don’t understand then just tell me!”

Steve’s gaze snaps to yours and stays there, his mouth pressed and trembling against his teeth that are chewing on the inside of his lower lip. While you assumed that he would be more angry, more defensive, as he’s standing in front of you now, he just looks like a sad, young boy who is petrified at the thought of losing his best friend.

“I can’t just sit here and let you take those meds because you know that it’ll do much worse than give you nightmares and headaches,” he reveals, tone hushed and fervent. “It’s dangerous because you’re at risk by putting yourself in the hands of a bloodthirsty villain from another dimension, and you’re at the risk of your own hands.”

You shake your head quickly, ready to disprove his point.

“I’ve been doing better, Steve. I haven’t done anything like that or had thoughts like that in months, I can–”

“No,” he says sternly, using the voice that you know means no more negotiation, and then his hand snatches the bottle of pills out of your hand. You’re fuming as you realize that he intends on trying to use intimidation to get you to cower, but your rage falls a little when you watch a tear fall from his pleading eyes. The combination of guilt and panic that you see in them makes your brain completely disregard how his knuckles turn white at how much force he’s using to grip the orange bottle, makes you forget that he even took the bottle from you in the first place. Finally seeing how this is all really affecting him, you let your anger fall away.

“I watched as you started to hate yourself more and more every day. I waited when you kept ditching our movie nights and our parties with the kids because you thought that you deserved to isolate yourself.” He pauses, face contorted in nothing but agony and dread. “I watched my best friend turn into someone that I didn’t even recognize anymore, and I can’t… I can’t do that again.”

He grunts to try and cover up the way he’s sniffling up his unfallen tears, and you feel your heart collapse into your stomach. You knew that he hadn’t reacted well when all of this went down, but to this extent..? You believed him, though, at such a vulnerable state it was disrespectful to even suggest otherwise. Plus, if your roles had been reversed, you would have felt as frantic and hopeless as he did.

Your throat tightens as you start to realize that maybe you’ve both been unfair to one another. That maybe you both should have been more honest instead of resorting to angrily upholding your pride.

“Steve, I–” You try to apologize, to explain yourself – you’re not really sure exactly what all it is that you’re trying to do, but you feel the need to fix this somehow. After seeing Steve like this, you’re certain you’d do anything to reassure and comfort him, but he misinterprets your resignation for defiance and doesn’t give you the chance.

“No!” There’s something raw in his voice, in the way that he’s almost too quick to snap his face to look at yours, and it’s as if the words that have been spewing from his mouth have been shards of glass, slicing the insides of his throat until he’s hoarse and drowning in his own blood.

“I don’t care, okay? Whatever argument you have against me is nothing because I won’t let you go back and relive that night in the hospital again.” He tries to be authoritative with his tone but it fails, and suddenly everything he’s saying is sounding more like a set of desperate pleas than a nonnegotiable demand. “I won’t sit there and be some useless bystander again while you’re barely hanging on to a thread of life.”

Steve opens his mouth and then halfway closes it, eyes flickering and features conflicted. He wants to say more; you know what he wants to say, but you also know that even he – as clueless as he sometimes can be – understands not to cross that line. Not to shout at you about your past turmoil like it’s your fault, because he’s fully aware of the fact that it isn’t.

He also keeps his tongue bitten for your own dignity, to keep the kids and your few friends from hearing about this without you being ready, and regardless of how your current relationship with him is fairing, you find yourself mentally thanking him for holding back.

You make a move to close the smothering space between you two, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder and rubbing your thumb along the edge of his collarbone. Surprisingly, he relaxes into it like he would any other time, when you weren’t in the middle of an argument that could potentially mess up everything.

“Steve,” you say his name slowly, sickeningly sweet as it tumbles from your lips, as if you’re trying to tell him so much with just his name – ‘I understand,’ ‘I forgive you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and something else that you’re not quite ready to admit to yourself that feels like falling and flying all at once.

You don’t say anything then, knowing that what you’ll have to say won’t be what he wants to hear, so instead you keep your eyes on his, praying that somehow your thoughts can telepathically connect to him like they do when Vickie walks into Family Video, a sweet smile on her face as she asks Robin about her movie preferences. With pouted lips and brows tilted upward in concern, you hope that he gets it.

Minutes pass, and then you see the first sign of acquiescence – his face eases a little as his eyebrows straighten. It’s hardly anything and it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but it was enough for you to know that his insistence was starting to crumble.

“It’s for the kids,” you whisper, gaze floundering all over his face so you can monitor each feature that changes. You could say more – that these kids were thrown into the mouth of Hell at the ripe age of 12, bearing witness to more destruction, death, and heartache than anyone should ever have to – but you don’t have to. Steve already knows; it’s part of why he does all that he can for them. “I would do anything to protect those kids.”

Without a single beat passing, Steve replies, “And I would do anything to protect you.”

It’s quiet, hushed and whispered into the room as if it’s a secret for only you to hear, although anyone else could see it with their own two eyes, plain as day. It’s soft and warm and ever-comforting, like when you wash your sheets and immediately cover yourself in them when they first get out of the dryer, shrouded in familiarity and the steady feeling of returning home during the holidays, the promise of a warm meal and your own bed no matter where you roam, forever there and forever yours.

And suddenly everything makes a little more sense. The uncharacteristic stubbornness from Steve, the anger and hesitance and fear that radiated from his disposition; because that’s what it really was – fear. The looming sense of doom that filled the boy’s head and heart at the thought of you going against Vecna alone.

It was a fear that ran deeper than any he had felt before – even when the Russians under Starcourt had taken you hostage to try and strip you of your information and pride – amplified by swirling thoughts of your hand brushing against his as you sorted movies at work, the sound of your shared footsteps and giggles as you hid in the back room of Scoops Ahoy to sneak far too many ‘free samples’ of ice cream, and the feeling of you pressed against him – crying and breathing and safe – after you reunited as the smell of fire filled both of your lungs.

You and he, alike, had come to self-realization, but uncertainty and a different kind of fear had kept you from acting upon it. Unsure of one another, of where you stood among the thin line between best friends and something more, until now. Until you heard it in his voice, in that same little admission that was an enigma just for you, and you just knew without him even saying it. You knew.

Your arms are around him in an instant, grasping at the soft cotton of his t-shirt and burying yourself into him. His eyes close as he pulls you impossibly closer, hands at your shoulders and his lips soft against your forehead in an eternal kiss. Warmth floods throughout you, filling your chest until it feels like it might be exploding, filling your lungs until breathing is a little easier, a little harder.

“I can’t lose you again,” he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and tingly, “not even for a second. Not even partially.” He doesn’t have to add in the next part, you already know and he does too, but he does it anyway, a murmur that you can barely make out against the white noise of the Wheelers’ loud refrigerator. “Don’t you get it?”

And you do.

You don’t have to look up to see the fondness in his eyes or to watch the way that a small tear rolls down his cheek and lands on the top of your head. You don’t have to hear him say it because his fingers tighten around your shoulders and he takes a long, deep breath; you can practically hear him repeating a mantra in his mind – You’re here, you’re here, you’re here…

Overwhelmed with emotions – far too many of them – your own eyes start to water again and you move yourself to rest your nose and mouth across his shoulder, both at an attempt to ground yourself and because teardrop stains on the shoulder of his shirt would be less uncomfortable than having them against his chest, not that you thought he would mind at all.

You steadily inhale the fabric of his t-shirt and the smell that can only be described as him, an intoxicating mixture of sweet patchouli and faint vanilla that has an inkling of his floral-scented laundry detergent.

You’re both doing the same thing: breathing and living and holding one another up and together, like the roots of two trees that have been intertwined for decades, now having to branch into one after the wake of a tornadic storm. You’re in the middle of your own thunderstorm now, with everything around you spinning and yelling and uncertain and tumultuous; all you have and all you want is one another, to stay as tightly interwoven as you’ve always been, so you clasp your bodies together in hopes that it will see you through the eye of the hurricane.

You hold each other until you’re slightly sweating and your bodies are beginning to grow stiff, but you never falter, hopelessly devoted to each other like the sun and the moon, lovers forever in pursuit of their counterpart without ever touching, but without ever receding either.

You’re sure he can feel it in your touch – or in your gaze or your words like you could see it in him – but you want to say something anyway, so you whisper, “I know,” with your lips close to the smooth skin of his arm. You want to push the thin cloth away and preach it into his bare flesh, over and over again so that he remembers it forever, but you don’t because it won’t save you.

It won’t save Max. As much as you might want them to, the feelings and fears that Steve holds for you – that you hold for him – are not capable of turning into soldiers that can defeat Vecna and the Upside Down. So far, there’s only one person who you both know that’s ready – as ready as you can be for battle with a great unknown – and who might have a shot, and that’s you.

But, like everything else that remains comfortably unspoken but not unacknowledged between the two of you, Steve knows this too.

“I have to do this,” you mumble, feeling the most regret that you had the entire night, “for them.”

Steve doesn’t argue this time. He swallows the lump in his throat and wills his few tears away, aware that this is your choice to make – not that there really is much of a choice to make. With one last overbearing inhale against your forehead, as if he’s branding the scent of you and the very sensation of you into his brain forever, he slides something into your jacket pocket that rattles as it lands – the orange pill bottle – and ignores the very crushing of his heart as he gives the fate of his most beloved person up to the gods.

#steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things four #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington angst #steve harrington hurt/comfort

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reminiscingtonight · 1 year

Text

Almost In Love

Leah Williamson x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: I was in a mood 🤟 Happy December everyone!

Lover Of Mine (Part Two)

[WOSO Masterlist]

Leah’s in LA.

When you wake up this morning, you go about your business like normal. You go for your morning jog. You facetime your parents. You join a yoga session on the beach with Christen.

When you get the text from Tobin, you forget how to breathe.

The last time you saw Leah was years ago.

You could have fallen in love with her.

Scratch that. You did fall in love with her.

Leah just didn’t want to make it a thing.

---

It was never supposed to be serious. Leah made that clear.

The first night you fell into bed together she knocked those words into your head between each mind-blowing orgasm traded between you.

You couldn’t help but fall in love with her anyways.

It’s easy to fall in love with Leah. She’s funny, sweet, caring. Every touch lingers on your skin, every word warms your soul to the core. You find yourselves spending more and more time together off the field.

What starts as hot and heavy secret nights together grows into early morning coffee dates, late evening strolls. Things become softer and softer between the two of you. You catch Leah staring at you more than enough times.

You practice the words in your head. “I really like you,” “Would you like to go out on a date?” “I know we said we wouldn’t, but I’m falling for you and I think you are too.”

The night before you confess your feelings, everything falls apart.

You’re at a bar with the rest of the girls. You can’t help but keep checking your watch. Leah’s late. She’s never late.

It all makes sense when Leah walks in hand-in-hand with Jordan.

“Woah, when did this happen?”

Leah blushes when Caitlin hoots at the two of them. “We just thought we’d give it a go again.”

Jordan tells them about how they’ve been slowly rebuilding their relationship. Long nights talking things out. Mornings watching the sunrise together. “Our feelings never faded. So we wanted to try again.”

Bile rises to your throat with every word.

You spend the night avoiding Leah. She spends the night glued to Jordan’s side. You pretend it doesn’t hurt when she doesn’t seek you out.

It’s only when you’re ready to call it a night that Leah tries to approach you.

You extract yourself from her hands with ease. “I’m happy for you.” The words taste bitter in your mouth. “Hope you and Jords make it.”

Something flashes in her eyes.

Pity? Regret? Guilt?

You don’t keep eye contact long enough to figure it out.

You’re out the door before Leah can stop you again.

---

[We’re thinking about getting drinks after the game. You wanna join?]

You leave Tobin on read.

You know Christen knows something is up when you don’t entertain her quiet musings on your drive to the BANC.

You’re stuck in your head during warm-ups. You miss one too many shots. Freya pulls you aside, asks if everything is okay. The way you lie through your teeth must be enough because she lets you go with a gentle warning to pick it up once the game starts.

You can’t help but think of blonde hair in red and white when your teams line up. You can’t help but think of accented words and a warm touch when Ali pats your back before you’re led out.

When the refs start marching, you do your best to clear your mind.

---

When the team finds out you’re leaving, they throw you a going away party.

You take shots with Beth. You sing karaoke with Katie. You pretend you don’t see the way Leah keeps watching you.

It’s easy to pretend you don’t care. It’s easy when you spot the way Jordan has a hand on Leah’s waist at all times. It’s easy when you can see the way Leah lights up every time Jordan whispers something into her ear. It’s easy in the same way your nerves are lit aflame and you have to fight the urge to scream.

Leah tracks you down after the night has died down.

“I thought you were extending your contract.”

You purposefully avoid her eyes. “I have to head home for our friendlies soon anyways. The Spirit has been bugging my agent about bringing me home for the 2021 season so it just makes sense to stay after the national team games are done.”

“And there’s nothing that can convince you to stay?”

“Leah,” you sigh out. “We both knew my loan was going to come to an end eventually.”

A part of you wants her to fight for you to stay. To convince you that what happened between the two of you wasn’t only in your head.

You make a move to leave. Leah moves to block you again.

“(Y/N).”

When you turn towards the defender she looks nervous. You can’t help but feel a flutter of hope in your chest.

Tell me you want me and I’ll stay. Tell me you’ve made a mistake and I’m yours.

“We should keep in touch.”

You want to say no. You want to tell Leah to go fuck herself.

You bite your tongue. “Of course.”

You return to the states.

The two of you very much do not keep in touch.

---

Leah comes to the game. Because of course she does.

You’re not sure why you thought she wouldn’t.

You spot her, Keira, Lucy, and some of the other English girls with ease. They’re not doing much to keep a low profile. You would’ve thought they would’ve gone up to the suite with Tobin. Instead you see all the English players sitting near the field.

The whistle sounds and you push all non-soccer thoughts out of your head.

You think you’re doing pretty good. All of your passes connect, all of your shots are on target. You think you’re doing pretty good until you get nailed by the soccer ball right in the face.

You drop like a sack of rocks.

Christen’s instantly by your side, concern etched on her face.

“I’m fine,” you groan out, raising two shaky hands to your forehead.

The glare she gives you is enough for you to fall silent and follow all of the trainers’ instructions without a fuss when they run you through the concussion test.

You stick your tongue out at her when you pass with flying colors. It earns you a couple chuckles from your teammates.

When Christen forces the own goal minutes later, you’re sure to throw yourself onto the dogpile without care.

Christen ushers you up to the suite the second you’re both showered and done changing after the game. A feeling of dread starts to sink in. It’s easy to forget about Leah when you’re on the field. It’s harder knowing who exactly is waiting for you upstairs.

You nearly sigh in relief when Tobin is the first to greet you.

“How’s the head?”

You shrug. “Fine. A little sore but feels alright.”

Tobin looks like she wants to say something else. She doesn’t get the chance to.

“You played great.”

You give Leah a curt nod. You’re well aware of the way Tobin’s eying the two of you with interest.

Tobin joined Arsenal not long after you had left. She was never there to witness the way you tore yourself apart for Leah. A part of you is glad she didn’t have to see it. You’re not sure how your best friend’s partner would react if she was placed in a position like that.

That’s a lie. You know she would’ve torn the younger player apart for hurting you the way she did.

You play nice to save Leah the trouble of having to explain anything to Tobin. That doesn’t mean you don’t do your best to always have at least one buffer between the two of you though.

Keira greets you as if you’re two old friends. You feel awkward, knowing her closeness with the lioness who broke your heart.

You’re even more confused when she tries to talk you up to Leah in the rare occurrence you find yourself stuck between the pair when you’ve gone out for drinks. Leah blushes at something Keira says. You do your best not to read into it.

You count the minutes until you can politely excuse yourself. When the clock strikes 11, you make your excuses, claiming to be exhausted from the game. There’s a chorus of whines but you just wave them away.

Christen presses a kiss against your forehead, telling you to text her when you get home. You’re headed for the door right after you promise.

You’re not expecting it when Leah follows close behind you.

“Do you think we could’ve been something?”

You freeze, back still turned towards the English defender.

“If I hadn’t chosen Jordan and if you hadn’t left. Do you think we could’ve fallen in love?”

The air hangs heavy between the two of you.

The question’s one you’ve asked yourself every day since you left. If you had tried harder, would Leah have picked you? If you had stuck around, would everything have changed for the better?

Slowly, you turn around. You raise your eyes to meet Leah’s.

You’re not sure what you see there. Maybe a little bit of regret. A little bit of hope.

You’re not sure what you want to see there.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

This time when you leave, Leah lets you go without a fight.

#leah williamson x reader #uswnt x reader #uswnt imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #Ace writes

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animereaderinsertwriter · 1 year

Text

Pairing: Hawks x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags/Warnings: smut with a sprinkle of angst for flavor, plot only if you squint, implications of mating cycles

Final Word Count: 2k

The night was cool against the heat of Keigo's flesh. As he glided purposefully over the city, the lights of alabaster skyscrapers twinkled in and out, creating the illusion that he was soaring through a sky of closer stars. If he could, he would snatch the lights and keep them in his pocket to give to his mate, his lover— but in the absence of that, the ruby necklace he'd picked up on the way would have to do.

You loved rubies, he knew. Garnets were your very favorite, but rubies were a close second. The precious stones reminded you of his wings, you always said.

… not that you would necessarily appreciate the reminder, now that things were less good between the two of you.

Keigo put the thought out of his mind. Birds of his kind, he knew, thought nothing of the distance between mates. He didn't have to share a nest or even a city with you to love you, care for you, protect you— and his body was talking to him, calling out with the desperate cry of springtime. It was time for him to be near you again.

A thick, heavy droplet of blood dropped onto one of his lashes. Nonplussed, Keigo blinked it away. Unsurprisingly, his forehead still burned from the scrape it had taken; a villain he was fighting had violently slammed his head against the concrete curb, leaving road rash and a splitting headache in his wake. Soon, though, that would no longer matter.

Soon, he would be with you.

It was a quiet flight to your penthouse apartment— well, technically his penthouse apartment that he paid for with ridiculous amounts of money from his overtime hours. Or, he used to pay for it until he bought the building just to gift it to you last year when he had to make the move from your city to his next assignment. He hadn't wanted you to worry about a nest. You should always have one, a place to call home, and this way you could have one that you liked, one that was familiar to you. Keigo hadn't understood why you were so reluctant to accept the gift. He hadn't bought it for himself. He'd bought it for you.

It's too much, Keigo, you'd told him, worry in your eyes. It's— it's just too much.

At first, it felt like you had rejected him instead of the building— like you had looked at him and found him to be too much. The rejection had hurt like a gaping wound until he realized what you meant. You'd thought he was trying to establish some kind of control over you, creating some false sense of obligation. Keigo had never wanted that. He had only ever wanted you.

Your apartment was dark as he entered it, replacing your spare key beneath your doormat. He'd tried to tell you to move it— really, it was for your own safety, anyone could find it there— but you stood firm on your stance that if someone wanted into your home badly enough, they'd find a way in with or without a key, and Keigo found himself unable to argue with that logic. Although, he supposed as he passed by the pristine granite countertops of your kitchen, he shouldn't complain when it benefited him in this way.

The carpet of your living room was soft beneath the weight of his boots. Keigo moved silently through it, stepping around the odds and ends that made their way into your floor during your busy work week. For a moment, he was tempted to snag something from the floor to keep with him— a pen, or a small hair tie—but only just managed to refrain, knowing there were more important things to be done first.

Finally, he reached your room. Your bedroom door was left open just a crack; moonlight from the hallway window fell over it, giving the white of the doorframe a luminescent glow. Slowly, quietly, Keigo pushed inside, and was greeted with the greatest reward he could fathom.

You were sleeping peacefully, your lashes kissing your cheeks. You must have fallen asleep unintentionally— your phone was still in your hand, playing something soft and sweet. Keigo smiled. You were as beautiful now as you ever had been, and the love that lived always just beneath the surface of his skin rose to his cheeks in the form of a flush.

Here, watching you, surrounded by your scent, Keigo was in heaven.

Keigo didn't want to wake you. You looked tired, worn; it would be selfish to disturb your rest. Even so, the pull of your even breathing was too much for him to resist. With shaking hands and slow motions, he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. When you did not stir, he moved closer, shifting to his hands and knees, crawling towards you, head low, heart penitent. Using his wings for balance, he moved one knee over your hips, straddling you. Shaded under the umbrage of his wings, he could barely make out your features— dissatisfied with this, he moved them, and your hair fluttered in the draft the motion made.

At last, you woke.

In your sleep, your shirt had wrinkled and risen enough to show a sliver of skin. That sliver broadened as you stretched, unwary— but then your eyes were blinking open, and you nearly screamed when you realized you were not alone.

"Sh," Keigo shushed, placing a gloved hand over your mouth. "It's just me, dove. Just me."

Your body relaxed with recognition, but your eyes were worried.

"Keigo…" you tilted your head, eyeing him. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Fine," he said, stroking the soft skin of your cheek. "Just fine."

A single crimson drop of blood rolled off of his nose, dripping onto your cheek. Immediately, he wiped it away, but it left a reddish stain, marring your flesh.

"You're hurt."

It wasn't a question, and Keigo had no answer. He pulled at his collar, allowing cool air to reach his heated skin, and a groan escaped him unbidden.

"Hang on." You squinted up at him, then glanced to the calendar you kept on your nightstand. "What's the date?"

Keigo barely heard you. A hunger in his belly was speaking to him, urgent, insistent. Tentatively, he rolled his hips, then groaned low in his chest at the sensation of pressing against warm, yielding flesh. He tried the motion once more, felt the relief it gave him, then decided his pants were hindering the experience. He went to unbutton them, intent on chasing the feeling he desperately needed, but a smaller hand on his own stopped him.

"Keigo," you said, looking up at him. "It's early, but— you're— you're having your cycle, aren't you?"

Something about that phrase was deeply familiar. He knew it in his bones. Even so, his body could not catch his mind; he made no reply other than to whine, desperate to be allowed to resume his task.

"Oh, baby." You stroked his hands with your thumbs, watching him with a mix of uncertainty and concern. "We— we really shouldn't, you know. Not when— not when things are— when you're so—"

Keigo didn't process your words so much as your tone, but he gathered your meaning anyway. Hurt, he whined once more, but kept himself still aside from the tremors that wracked his body.

"I don't want you to be in pain, I just— if— if you want you can— I mean, maybe it's better if you go to someone else."

Those words hit Keigo like a punch to the face. You didn't seem to notice, lost in your own world as you continued to babble.

"I mean, really, I don't mind. I don't want you to have to feel obligated to come to me for this, especially when we have all these issues—"

Desperate, incapable of handlong much more rejection, Keigo managed to respond.

"Don't… want someone… else. Only you."

You looked up at him once more. The uncertainty in your eyes faded as your gaze softened, and you said,

"Okay. Okay. Whatever you need, then, baby. I'll give you whatever you need."

So saying, you released his hands, and with panicked elation, he nearly tore his pants in an effort to get them off. Desperate, stumbling, he pulled them all the way off, the heat that flared under his skin proving to be too much as he struggled— and then your hands were there besides his own, helping him, and suddenly his pants and shirt were both gone, leaving him only in his boxers.

"Easy," you soothed him. "Easy Keigo."

Your hands— soft and warm against him— nudged against his belly, raking through the fine blond hair there. Your touch was a balm; everywhere your skin pressed against his, the heat receded. Keening, he rocked his hips against you, maneuvering you onto your back. With your legs wrapped around him, almost all of you was touching almost all of him, and as he kissed you deeply, he thought he had never wanted anyone more.

"Breathe," you reminded him between kisses, your hands tangled in the waves of his hair. "Breathe for me, baby."

Your voice was too calm, too even. Keigo needed you to be as desperate for him as he was for you. Eager, he pressed kisses to your jaw, down your throat; his hands played with your nipples through your shirt, the pads of his fingers coaxing them to hardness as he left bruising from your neck to your collarbone.

"Don't worry about me," you told him as he moved one hand to rest on your stomach, feeling the softness of your flesh against his touch. "Find relief for yourself first."

If he'd have had the words, he'd have told you that touching you, feeling you, pulling pleasure from your body was his relief— but words escaped him as he tasted the salt of your skin, grinding his cock against you.

"Please," he murmured against you, not quite knowing why. "Please, I need—"

Without waiting for him to finish, you responded. Your hands grabbed the hem of your sleep shirt, pulling it over your head. Your body now bare save for your panties, he kissed from your clavicle down to the soft curve of your breast. Arching into his touch, you let out a sigh, and Keigo knew that this was the beginning of what would make you cry out into the darkness of midnight.

"Keigo." Your voice was tremulous, needy as your hands tightened in his hair. "Keigo— oh."

His wandering hands had finally found purpose between your thighs, pushing into the familiar dampness of your cotton underwear. Your scent was strongest here; if he had been less desperate, he might have moved lower, placed his nose between your folds and lost himself there. As it was, though, his body had an altogether different need, which beckoned all the louder as he pushed your panties aside, dragging the pad of a large, calloused finger through your sex.

"Yes," you encouraged him, moving your hips to meet the strokes of his fingers. "You feel so good. I want you inside me, Keigo."

He shuddered, cock twitching as you pushed his boxers down over the curve of his ass, freeing his erection to the open air. As your hand wrapped around him, he pulled your panties down, then accidentally ripped them as he tried to wiggle them from beneath your hips. Never one to leave a job half-done, he ripped them the rest of the way, tossing them aside as you let your legs fall open for him, your sex wet and ready.

"Nngh," Keigo grunted, burying his face in your neck as his cockhead breached your entrance. "F-fuck."

Wet heat enveloped him. In mindless ecstacy, he rutted into you, inhaling the scent at your neck; in response, you keened, back arching into him as your hands caressed his back. A few moments later, and your hands were in his feathers, stroking them with gentle fingers, and Keigo lost himself entirely to the feeling of being of one body, one soul with you.

The bedroom filled with the sounds of coupling. The slap of his balls and the low, rumbling sound that came unbidden from deep within in his chest commingled with your sharp breaths, soft moans, and satin swears, blending and balancing into a sweet euphony that no symphony could ever capture.

"I love you," he heard himself saying above the sound of them. "I love you."

You didn't reply. You didn't have to. The trembling of your body, the transcending of your soul into something more than yourself, more than him, more than this bedroom and more than anything was answer enough for the love in his heart. You arched against him, and with a great cry, you fell away, having reached the pinnacle of your pleasure.

"Come in me, Keigo," you told him, voice wrecked as you stroked his wings. "I'm on the pill. I want it. Come for me."

His body, unwilling to deny you anything, jerked forward. His orgasm came sudden and swift, like a bolt of lightning striking an open field. He came and came and came, gasping and groaning, fighting for air in the aftermath of incomparable intensity.

"That's it," you soothed him, hands twisting in his hair as he collapsed against you. "Rest, now. We can talk in the morning."

Keigo tried to fight it. There was so much that needed to be said, so much that he couldn't think to do or say— but his body made the decision for him. Like a stone through glass, he fell from consciousness, thinking of glittering rubies and the softness of your flesh, willing, wanting.

In the morning, he knew, it would be the same as it ever had. He would love you, and you would love him. Whatever else existed was outside of that, and could wait forever if it had to.

#hawks x reader #bnha smut #bnha imagines #hawks x yn #keigo takami x reader #mha headcanons #mha smut #hawks

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divine-misfortune · 8 months

Text

The skirt hardly reached the elastic of the thigh-high socks leaving a thin strip of pale skin. Skin that Zephyr was eyeing hungrily. It was shorter than they'd anticipated and were so grateful for that fact, their earth ghoul and his beautifully long legs displayed perfectly.

Mountain can't help but fidget with the hem of the fabric, soft cotton toying between his fingertips, as he stared at his feet. Something shameful gnawed in his gut and grew the longer they sat and stared in an oddly loaded silence.

"Did you put it all on like I told you to?" The air ghoul asked with a quirked eyebrow and Mountain almost seemed to retreat into himself. Wrapped his arms around himself and nodded stiffly. Hair tucked behind his ear, they could see the peachy glow in his cheeks. "That's my good girl...Lift up your skirt for me."

Mountain shifted in place, shoulders raising up to his pink tipped ears.

"Buttercup, I wasn't asking."

His brow furrowed and the earth ghoul exhaled sharply, a growl stirring up somewhere in him. Zephyr cleared their throat and it died just as quick as it came. They weren't keen on repeating themself. Mountain unfolded himself and reached for his skirt with faintly shaking hands.

Zephyr's lips curled into something coy as soft white lace was presented to them. The way it cradles his bulge makes their mouth water. He strained against the fabric, like his cock might just spill out.

"White looks so good on you, makes you look like a doll..." They sighed fondly, eyes never straying from the ignominious display. "You make such a pretty girl for me, rosebud. I knew you would, meant to be a pretty girl, weren't you?"

Mountain made a slightly strangled sound and took the fabric in fistfuls rather than pinching and lifting it daintily.

"Say it for me, princess."

"I...I'm meant to be a pretty girl." His typical baritone softened, weak and purposefully gentle.

"Just needed help to realize it. You're better like this, isn't that right?"

"...I'm better like this."

Zephyr trilled happily, watching Mountain's face go several different shades of pink but more importantly watching his cock start to fatten up under the lace. If they didn't know any better they'd dare to say there was a small wet patch on the fabric. Their tongue darted out to wet their lips, an undeniable itch to mouth at his cock through his panties till he makes a proper mess of them.

"Take your panties off for me, darling."

Pink turned to a deep red as Mountain audibly choked. His breath caught in his throat, gaze snapping up to fix on them for the first time. He froze for a long few seconds but his eyes inevitably flicked away. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic and slowly began to wiggle them down his hips. Zephyr felt hunger turn voracious as his skirt fell and covered their view of him undressing but Mountain stepped out of his panties and the air ghoul's smile turned into an outright grin.

"Oh."

Mountain buried his face in his hands as a proper sense of shame washed over him. His skirt tented with his cock finally free, hanging heavy between his thighs. Peeking out just a few inches under the length of his skirt, the head was equally as flushed as his cheeks. It was ruddy, hard, and twitching. Bobbing helplessly between his thighs. Zephyr groaned outright and pressed their palm to their own arousal, feeling it kick under the weight of their hand.

"Oh, now that's just unbecoming of a proper lady, isn't it love?" Mountain shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was biting his lip a proper red as pre pearled at his tip.

"Not a lady," Mountain rasped "just a whore."

#spicy tag #writing #void writing #mountain ghoul #zephyr ghoul #nameless ghouls #mountain/zephyr #the band ghost #ghost the band #the band ghost ficlet

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oncewhenalongtimeago · 3 months

Note

Every day I love more "sorry, but I think I lost your plot", I really enjoy reading updates <3

I wanted to know if Stoick will force Hiccup to have a talk about girls after all

Or hiccup overthinking about the attempt of kiss while our reader doesn't know how to continue in denial

Sorry for my bad english, I tried my best :(

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 22

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 1,846

Stoick ends up arguing with his son when all he wants to do is talk. Hiccup is mad.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, Dragons: Defenders of Berk, Fright of Passage, post episode, Hiccup’s POV, Reader’s POV, unedited, half-fill

“Son.”

The sounds of the chittering of bugs and animals and leaves were lighter by the village, much lighter than when he’d been walking in the woods with you.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there standing before he had been approached.

Knowing who it was was enough to immediately sour his mood.

Hiccup didn’t have to look over to tell who spoke, as his father was the only one with a presence large enough to sense from a mile away, at least when he was aware of it, and there was no one else with as heavy or confident a step on Berk.

“Dad?” Hiccup held in a deep sigh, looking crossly out over the village, purposefully not looking towards his feet, brows dropping into a furrowed line. He had the idea his Dad was looking out over Berk in the same way. He didn’t have to look.

He remembered a time they spent staring in a much similar way, out over the docks just before his Dad had gone after the nest and he’d gone and tamed Toothless.

“Where have you been?” Stoick asked gruffly, staring down at his son.

He wished he had gone now and gone fast.

Hiccup shot a quick glare to his right, where his father stood, eyes making contact with his large, turquoise tunic, metal kilt and furred boots.

“Busy,” he said, after a long moment’s silence.

He still had blueprints laid out across his desk in the forge. He could have gone and tried to sleep in there, clinging onto the whisps of the nice evening you had had.

Hiccup was more a do-er than an organizer. He was having a hard time trying to figure out how to organize the pipes. If they ever clogged…The lower tunnels were prone to flash flooding when it rained.

Maybe he just needed to make more space, do some excavation, give the rainwater time to pool off.

But he’d been spending a lot of time with his Dad recently.

He was still upset with his Dad, though he wasn’t sure the large man realized it.

He remembered Fireworm island, when his Dad had played pick-up, scrutinizing you the whole time in a way that made you so obviously uncomfortable. And he looked positively incensed as he did it.

He definitely remembered before that, when he’d gone asking you questions about responsibility and after when he and Hiccup had been eating dinner over the fire and his Dad had some questions to ask and words to say about you then.

He was going to chase you away before Hiccup could get a word out about how he really felt. That wasn’t funny or fond; he hadn’t been involved enough in Hiccup’s life to care, or to judge.

He shouldn’t judge you at all, anyhow. He didn’t know you; not at all.

Hiccup liked you a lot.

He didn’t want to rough you up like the other Vikings did to each other and he didn’t want his Dad sizing you up the whole time you were around as if you were the last, tiny piece of meat on a stick.

He didn’t want his Dad to waste your time when he wasn’t even sure if you liked him.

Hiccup grimaced.

Stoick looked down at his son, face impassive, though for him, impassive meant stormy, “You missed family dinner.”

A spear or, as it felt the most like -a jolt, a sudden itch of irritation made itself known, jabbing through his gut, to his heart.

He knew that.

He didn’t want to say anything, but the, “Yeah,” came unbidden.

He shifted, not really feeling the cold as anything more than a passing breeze.

The fur lining the neck of his vest tickled his nape, the tufts that used to stand fluffy on top of it matted and uncomfortable. They didn’t bother him enough for him to replace it, yet.

“Hiccup,” His father said sternly, in a tone that made Hiccup rile, “From now on, I expect you to-”

“Well, unless you and Gobber start making out, I don’t think we’re much of a family,” Hiccup regretted it nearly the moment he said it, but he kept his jaw stubbornly set, glaring outwards, keeping his eyes painfully focused on a vague discolored roof. Was it painted?

It was too dark to tell, all the houses the same shade of muddy blue in the dark.

It was times like these he wished he had a mother instead of a Dad.

He’d spent many nights eating dinner on his lonesome with no problem, and so had his Dad. And they’d both been fine.

Hiccup wished his Dad would leave so he had more time to ogle off into the village. Or that he would step away far enough for him to complain about his Dad to himself in relative silence.

“You like… the girl,” Stoick spoke again, finally, “Were you following her?”

Hiccup was reminded quickly of the talke they had at dinner before and wrinkled his nose, cheek twitching and he fought down a disgruntled glower.

“I can… I can help,” Stoick spoke again, resting his hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. Hiccup was hit with another spike of irritation at the idea. He didn’t want to admit it but he was sure his Dad knew, and he knew that Hiccup knew exactly what he was referring to, “But these things have always been… difficult.”

His Dad’s hand was meaty and thick, warm not in a comfortable way, but in a palm sweat sort of way, which he could feel even through his fur vest.

He might’ve felt proud another time, to have his father do something that would usually be symbolic of his pride, but.

He didn’t like it.

“Then don’t,” Hiccup snapped again, though his tone of voice was sort of questioning, which perhaps made it sound just a bit more snarky. Hiccup threw his arms wide as he spoke and then dropped them again, “I wasn’t following her and I’m fine on my own. I don’t want your help, if it means you’ll just be glaring at her the whole time.”

He was sure that really didn’t win him -Hiccup or Stoick- any brownie points. It definitely didn’t win his Dad any with Hiccup, not that that mattered.

He wasn’t sure exactly why his Dad was doing this; there really didn’t seem to be a point. What was there for him to vet?

His Dad sighed heavily, “You’re not… friends?”

Hiccup looked down, straining and grabbed his collar to look on the part of his shirt on the inside by his beck.

There it was.

There was a bead half hidden under his collar where the twine keeping his collar closed looped into one of the few purposeful holes in his tunic, the string emerging facing outwards, towards the world, on the other side.

The wooden one.

It pressed against his collarbone uncomfortably, pressed gently closer to his chest by the fabric, but he didn’t care.

He let go of his collar frustratedly and he tried to come up with an answer for his Dad.

“We’ve been friends. Acquaintances, ” Hiccup insisted, clenching his jaw a bit harder than he perhaps had to afterwards.

The tension between the two was palpable, and like a clogged pipe, and as it usually did, Hiccup was certain it was bound to explode soon.

He wished his Dad would get the message, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, the same way he was sure Toothless’ would when he was frustrated if he had any.

Just as Hiccup expected things to hit a mild and subtle crescendo and as he expected to meet face to face with the mildest version of his father’s temper, Stoick spoke again.

“...I’m sorry.”

Hiccup was startled, “What?”

His father wasn’t one for apologies. Even after he’d tamed Toothless, he’d never gotten an apology. No, just an ‘I’m proud,’ though for him, that was all they needed.

Stoick sighed exhaustively, then spoke gruffly, yet slowly as if choosing his words with caution, the same way he did during a dispute with the other villagers, instead of in the commanding way he spoke to Hiccup, “I’m… I apologize. For how I behaved, earlier.”

Like most things, all the other words that needed passing between them went unsaid, but as it went since the Red Death, Hiccup got the message anyways.

His Dad started listening instead of standing immovably, commanding Hiccup more than he ever opened his ears, which was never. For the most part.

But, something tickled at the back of his mind, and with exhaustive clarity, he came to a sort of realization.

The way he said it, it kind of reminded him of the few times he’d let Gobber coach him on what to say, and the few times he’d let Gobber reenact his ideal family make-up scenario; Which, of course, Hiccup himself had never put much stock in.

Hiccup remembered all the times he’d taken advice from his mentor; when he was a kid, putting eggs in his shoes to deter trolls, Gobber telling him to drop his socks in the forge furnace because they’d be fine, just cleaner after; using Yak for everything…. Hiccup was pretty sure the whole yak thing was a hoax.

“It’s alright, Dad,” Hiccup said reluctantly though not without honesty. He was still too sour to apologize, which was one thing he and his Dad usually had in common, at least when it came to each other.

He had no idea how it started, but they were both equally as stubborn, and he had a hard time feeling sorry right then, anyways.

Flirting, dating advice form Gobber when he was still into Astrid, which never worked, friend-making advice, dad-talking-to advice, which seemed to be the only kind of advice Hiccup could take from him without it blowing up in his face, not that he’d ever actually tried it yet.

It was just the principle of it; things usually ended up going wrong anyways the moment Gobber opened his mouth, something Hiccup seemed to pick up from him just the same.

This had Gobber written all over it. And Hiccup was sour at the fact that it was beginning to work.

“Still,” Hiccup said, slouching and grumbling petulantly, though he was slightly pleased at being on the other end of thai conversation for once, “...You should stop taking advice from Gobber.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to keep your legs from giving out.

You propped yourself against the cool side of another hut, deep in Berk’s village, trying to keep quiet in case there were any Vikings inside sleeping, as if you were trying to creep around a set of thin tripwires.

Your hands were shaking as you went over the events of the last few hours in your mind as you stumbled through the village, face heated.

The vial, you pulled gently from your waist wrappings. It was glowing slightly where some of the water had soaked into the cork stopper

#httyd #how to train your dragon #x reader #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #hiccup x reader #httyd imagine #fem reader #female reader

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