#And I sometimes feel like he thinks that’s him doing it right or getting away with it… but I find it kind of cringe sometimes

[d3vilcvntz]

(top male reader x older bottom character)

being a sugar baby to an older man but you're the top >>>

you're so much younger and so much smaller than him. he's literally towering above you whenever you guys are together. people will always assume that he's the top in your relationship.

you are not even struggling with money, you're doing this just because you can. i mean, who doesn't want a handsome man taking care of you and pampering you with money everyday ?

you met him when you were scrolling through a dating app, seeing his profile that barely shows his face. he did messaged you first, asking to meet up if you're free and you agreed. you lowkey expected someone ugly to come but you don't even care at this point, anything for a thousand dollars i guess. you were so glad that you were wrong when you actually saw him face to face. for someone his age, he's really attractive.

you guys constantly meet up after that, just going on dates anytime you're both free. he paid for everything though, you did offered to pay sometimes but he always refused it. it was just casual until you both went drinking one day, getting so drunk that he ended up getting pounded by you that night. you were scared that everything will end here and you'll never see him again

but the next day, he offered you a position. you'll be his personal dildo and he'll pamper you with money everyday. this is like the best offer you've ever received. sex with someone as attractive as him and getting paid at the same time ? fuck yeah

at this point, most of your friends knew about this relationship as you literally started wearing expensive clothes and saying that you're busy anytime your friends asked to hangout. they sometimes asked the reasons why you can't hangout with them and you'll just says that you have something important to do at night. you weren't exactly lying though

pushing his head into the pillow, grabbing his hips so roughly that it leave marks behind. his hole tightly clamped into your cock, you leaned closer to him "it's so funny how everyone think you're the top" you whispered to his ear "when you're literally getting fucked like a whore everynight" you continued, pulling your cock out of his hole.

he turns to look at you right away, whimpering, feeling empty as his hole clenched on nothing "please...don't pull it out" he begged so sweetly, tears running down his face. you smiled at him, grabbing his arm to turned his body to you so you can see him completely. it caught him off guard as you'll always do it from behind "i wanna see your face while i ruined you tonight" you said, your hand reached out and touched his face, wiping his tears away. leaning towards him to kiss his swollen lips

you slide your cock inside of him again, pulling away from the kiss and slowly speeding up your pace. his hands grabbed the sheets, mouth agape with sweets sounds coming out of it. his poor useless cock bouncing everytime you thrusts into him, just leaking precum all over his stomach "i..want to- ah! cum.. i want to cum~!" he repeated, looking at your face for approval. you smiled at him, nodding your head as your hand reached out to touch his cock. teasing the tip before pumping it roughly

he came first, his eyes roll back as the white liquid spurt all over his stomach and your hand. you slammed your cock so deep inside of him as you release your load in him.

falling asleep and waking up the next day to him being gone from your side. only leaving money on the nightstand. you sighed and took the money. sitting on the edge of the bed, getting ready to go through your day like usual. dont worry, you'll see him again tonight.

[alchemistc]

She's not ...entirely sure this is a good idea.

Even as she raises her hand to knock she's second guessing herself.

The thing is - the thing is there aren't a lot of people in her life who don't take one look at her and make assumptions. She's petite, she's blonde, her face is eerily symmetrical.

When people see her, they think they know her.

Cap is great. The sort of man she wishes she'd known more of, growing up. The kind of man who stood in front of the entire crew and doled out cleaning duties and cooking duties to his men and didn't blink an eye handing her inventory, but pulled aside a guy six years into the job to inform him that if he made a snide comment about having to do Mona's job again he'd be looking for a new station. Respectfully.

The kind of man who let his crew cut loose and created a kind of family behind those bay doors, but didn't take their shit when they got out of hand

The kind of man who looked at her and just saw another firefighter.

Cap is great.

It's just...

Well, the guys don't go to Cap for advice, and she knows once upon a time that kind of hurt his feelings, but this feels like one of those things his husband is better equipped to handle.

("It's because he's older, right?" Cap had asked once, failing miserably at holding in a pout while the team around him demolished the roast he'd obviously spent hours prepping the night before.

Fred had still had half a loaf of bread in his mouth when he explained that talking to their boss about their sex lives just felt like an HR nightmare.

"So you go to my boyfriend instead?")

Mona's still considering turning heel and leaving the way she came when she hears whistling around the side of the house, and before she can make a break for it, Cap's husband is rounding the corner of the porch, winding his hands in a grease rag, and he's catching sight of her, raising a brow, slowing his steps.

He must see the panicked look in her eye.

"I can turn back around and pretend you were never here," he murmurs, the slightest hint of a smile on his face, and Mona feels every ounce of flight just seep from her bones.

Yeah. Okay. She gets why the guys all think he's the one to go to when they've royally fucked something up.

There's an ease to him, a gentleness that she knows for a fact was hard fought.

"No, I..."

The brow ticks up a little more.

"I just found a new sour Evan won't touch with a ten foot pole, if you're gonna be here a minute," Tommy says, and any resistance left vanishes. Mona's been to enough of Cap's barbecues to know his husband always has the best beer in the county.

"Yeah, okay."

Tommy crosses the length of the porch and glances glumly at his greasy hands. "You mind grabbing the door? Evan throws a fit every time I leave fingerprints behind."

She's interrupting his day, she realizes. He's a weird sort of semi-retired - flies for the county sometimes during wildfire season, flips classic cars from their huge ass garage around the side of the house, spends a month teaching courses to new pilots every year out of state and it's always the crankiest they ever get to see Cap. People charter his chopper, sometimes, although lately it seems like he only keeps the thing around so he can take Cap up to watch spectacular sunsets because they're the most sickeningly perfect couple she's ever met.

Mona grabs the door. Shuffles in ahead of him when he shows no signs of moving, and makes her way down the hall to the kitchen because she's been here enough times by now not to feel as weird about how welcoming they both were right away.

He uses his rag to pull open the sink cabinet and grab the heavy duty soap from underneath to wash his hands.

The scent rolls over her in waves, throwing her back about fifteen years to her parents tiny little apartment over the shop, her father's rough and callused hands soaking under shitty water pressure, the grease under his fingernails he could never quite scrape clean.

Tommy tips a chin at the fridge. "Grab me one, too? Bottle openers on the side."

There's an ease to the way he says it, like this is a normal occurrence, like Mona's ever stepped foot across the threshold for anything that wasn't a station-wide get together. She supposes for him it probably is. At least a few of the guys act like he's their dad, wandering into the house without even bothering to knock, gathering around him when he shows up at the station like lost little puppies.

He's used to it.

He hums his thank you when she sets one of the bottles on the island beside him, and Mona glances around to distract herself while he's drying his hands.

A couple dozen pictures of Cap and Tommy, in various stages of their lives.

The fridge is plastered with pictures. A couple she recognizes as Cap's sister and brother-in-law, two adorable kids at their knees. A guy standing next to a kid wearing a cap and gown and leaning on two crutches. An older man she's lovingly heard Cap refer to as basically his dad - the reason they eat better at work than anyone has the right to. A couple she'd seen at the wedding, standing with a kid she remembers Cap staring at like he was seeing a ghost. There's so many people that she doesn't know, but - there's the station pictures too. Candids of the boys when they were living in the Captain's house, back when Cap first got here, when she'd still been a year and a half from graduating high school and didn't have a fucking clue what she wanted to do with her life. The Christmas that Fred had cursed them with the q-word and Tommy had spent the day in the station kitchen putting together a meal they'd all stuck around to eat after shift despite the exhaustion seeping into their bones, all of A shift crammed together around a tiny wobbly table to squeeze into the picture.

She gets stuck on the picture of the two of them in hard hats, building what she's pretty sure is the wrap around porch she's snuck a few cigarettes on when the house gets a little overwhelming. There's something about the way they're looking at each other that makes her want to cry, a little.

Fuck.

Damnit.

Tommy leans over to tap the picture with a grin. "We had a blowout fight the night before our buddy took this picture," he says, the deep grooves of his smile stretched wide across his face. "I'd left my job and sold my house six months earlier to chase him across the country and he was convinced if he didn't find a way to turn every half-thought-out desire of mine into a reality that I was gonna vanish in the night. He bought the lumber without telling me and I came home to him and his best friend ripping out the stairs to the front door."

Mona's instantly drawn in.

He makes them sound like a train wreck.

If she's got the math right, that was her senior year. She remembers seeing them around town and thinking they were annoyingly sweet. She remembers her mom baking Tommy a casserole for the excuse of getting all the gossip about the Captain's mysterious paramour so she had the upper hand at her book club that weekend.

Tommy taps another. The two of them under a pergola, the expressions on their faces so disgustingly smitten Mona remembers wanting to blow a raspberry in the middle of the ceremony. She'd been so convinced she'd never let herself be so fucking dependent on another person for her happiness.

"He kept it a secret that he'd invited my father to the wedding until the night before. I spent most of my night with a punching bag instead of Evan." He points out another photo from the wedding. "The photographer tried to murder me when she saw my knuckles. Evan could barely fit the ring over my finger."

"Who snitched?" Mona asks, narrowing her eyes, and Tommy grins, huffs a laugh. He gestures vaguely at her face.

"You've got the look," he tells her, which doesn't really explain a whole lot. "And none of Evan's crew ever makes their first visit anything but love life issues."

"It could be something else," Mona argues, gesturing with her beer, and one of his brows ticks up. "It's not, but it could be."

"You want something to eat? Evan's been experimenting with cakes again, and the red velvet white chocolate escaped the discards."

"Is my so called look that bad?"

He grins. "Mostly I'm looking for an excuse for cake before noon."

Christ, he's good at this. It's actually a little eerie, how quickly he's set her at ease. It's been over a year and the guys still call her prickly when they think she can't hear them, but she never calls them out on it because they're not wrong. It takes her forever to warm up to people.

"Is that how this usually works? You butter us up with Cap's food and get us to spill our guts?"

He's already digging plates from a cabinet next to the stove. She can't see his expression, but she can picture the grin on his face. "Usually they raid my fridge and put their feet up on my coffee table before I've fully registered that they're here. It's sort of a novelty to get to act like a host in my own home."

That checks out, if she's being honest. They're all a bunch of rabid animals who've been emboldened by Cap's open door policy and his infectious smile and his incredibly hot and talented husband. She's never quite sure if the guys want to be him or screw him - not that Tommy's ever looked twice at anyone who wasn't Cap.

"I think I'm broken," Mona admits, the words coming out in a rush, her eyes on the dutch oven tucked under one of the wide kitchen windows.

Tommy slides a slice of fucking delicious looking cake her way and takes a swig of his beer. Waits.

Mona reaches for the fork and spills her guts.

---

"Oh, hey Mo," Cap says, stumbling his way over the threshold, eyes lighting on his husband and his expression going gooey.

Tommy broke into the rack of Banquet's an hour ago and Mona's pretty sure she's one with the couch. It's a good couch. When she'd told Tommy so twenty minutes ago there'd been a gleam in his eye she didn't understand.

She's still a little too buzzed to worry about the fact that she's oozing into the cushions and emotionally wrecked. She hasn't cried in front of another human being in at least six years. Tommy's probably a wizard, or something.

"Everything good?" Cap asks, and she knows that they've got a sort of agreement - unless Tommy thinks something is gonna affect the work, whatever Tommy talks about with them doesn't reach Cap's ears.

"Men," Mona huffs, and Cap pauses, shoots another look into the living room.

"Yeah. Men."

"No Cap. Men," she repeats, and he nods, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Oh. Men," he enunciates, and Mona feels the scowl on her face grow wider when the two of them share a sappy look. It's super fucking inconvenient to be surrounded by the proof of true fucking love when she's trying to convince herself she's already too jaded to find it. "If you wanna stay for dinner I can tell you the story of the time Tommy tried to leave me because he thought he could make my decisions for me."

Even Tommy's scowl is sappy as hell. It's gross. Shes having a hard time convincing herself it's not the best thing she's ever seen.

She tips her neck against the back of the couch to glance up at him. "Who snitched?"

Cap's laugh filters through the room, and right across from her, where the whole world and Mona can see, Tommy's expression goes warm and vulnerable, like the sound has soothed a few decades of wounds. "Word of advice? Never leave Harry with a secret and a crowded room."

[wqnwoos]

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

as part of the don’t hate, litigate! collab hosted by the wonderful @haologram

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x f!reader

⇢ genre: angst, fluff, exes!au, lawyer!au

⇢ wc: 5.6k

⇢ warnings: minor alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks

⇢ a/n: early happy new year!! this is my gift to u all <3 thank u to @haologram for hosting this collab and for just being alive. and thank you SOO much to ally @lovetaroandtaemin and em @gyuswhore for beta'ing i appreciate u both endlessly 💗

SOMETIMES IT TRULY feels like God, or the stars in your skies, or whatever the hell is controlling your fate down on this measly earth, hates you.

Sometimes it truly feels like this indefinite being is determined to deal you the worst set of cards, and this – this trumps all. Being stuck in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend sounds like the beginning of a shitty romcom, except it’s not. It’s your life, and it’s been your life for the past eight minutes, since the metal box you stepped in ground to a creaky, noisy halt halfway between the sixth and seventh floor. 

And it takes eight minutes before Soonyoung sighs resignedly. “Are you just going to ignore me forever?” 

Forever, you think, is your least favourite word. There were a lot of things you thought you’d have forever, and one of them is standing right next to you.

You swallow thickly. Your reply comes measured and clipped. “For as long as possible.”

When he speaks next, you can hear the attempt at a forced smile in his tone. “Well, you kinda just failed.”

You stay silent. If anyone had told you five years ago that Kwon Soonyoung would be begging to talk to you and you’d be ignoring him, you would have called them crazy; and yet, here you are. Ignoring him like your sanity depends on it, because actually, it does. So for the past eight minutes – nine now, but who’s counting? – you’ve barely spoken a word. You’re both stuck; the recovery team can’t make it for two hours at least; and God hates you, basically.

Soonyoung’s trying to make the most of it, and you’re not letting him.

He says your name, ever so softly. “Really, though. How – how have you been?”

It’s weird, going from years of no contact to working together. It’s been a year since Soonyoung joined your company, but it hasn’t become any easier. Not when he’s such an open book, so fucking easy for you to read. Every time you cross paths, he gets this look in his eyes – sad puppy, you’ve nicknamed it. Now is no different.

“I’ve been okay,” you say finally, stiltedly. You’ve never been able to resist that face, and you’re pretty sure he knows it too. “What about you?”

The silence is painful, but the way he says fine stings a little bit more. You know when he’s lying, and he never used to do that to you.

“So…” He shifts his weight awkwardly, huffing out an uncomfortable laugh as he gazes intently at his shoes. “This is weird, right?”

You match him with an equally uncomfortable smile. “The weirdest.”

“Our longest conversation after forever,” he says. “But I wasn’t expecting it to go like this.”

You cock your head to the side, fixing him with a questioning gaze. All hopes of ignoring him are sailing out the hypothetical window. “How were you expecting it to go?”

Soonyoung looks up at you with one of those embarrassed, endearing smiles. “Better.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then – “You know, Jeonghan calls you the one that got away.” 

He’s always had a habit of dropping things like that on you; things that leave you a little winded.

“That makes it sound like I escaped,” you say, with an ease you don’t feel.

Clearly, Soonyoung doesn’t feel it either — he exhales heavily. “Maybe you did. Escape, I mean.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes almost owlish in your surprise; “You’re not serious.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue haphazardly, “Soonyoung, that’s not — there wasn’t anything to escape from.” 

Your ex-boyfriend looks miserable. Avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his shoes with a dejected expression he can’t properly disguise; even throughout the three years of your relationship, you rarely saw him like this. He looks…

Heartbroken, your mind suggests.

“I’m serious,” you insist again, pushing the thought out of your mind. “You weren’t a bad boyfriend, Soonyoung.”

He snorts then. “Okay, we both know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” 

“If we had, like, a counter of who fucked up however many times, I would leave you in the dust.”

You don’t know how to tell him this might even be half of it. This weird pedestal he puts you on – it’s not even guilt-tripping. You’ve seen that, but never from him; Soonyoung just truly, sincerely feels bad. Whenever you look back on your relationship, which is more often than you’d care to admit, it’s plain as day. He truly, sincerely feels that he has never deserved you. Like you’re something out of this world, out of his world. 

“Wow.” Soonyoung huffs out the one word, and it’s half a laugh, half admiration. “You are so out of my league.”

“Stop,” you whine, pushing his shoulder lightly. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

“Well, not everyone gets to date the prettiest girl in law school,” he retorts quickly, lifting his brows. “Not sure why I of all people get to, but thank you.”

“Stop it,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and fixing the tie he’s wearing. “You’re gorgeous and you know it. You should know it, at least.”

“Not just that!” he protests quickly. “I just mean… you’re so smart. And good. And kind, and funny, and — ”

“Ah, yes! Of course, Kwon Soonyoung, known famously for being mean and horrible and extremely unfunny,” you say sarcastically, before tugging his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I choose my league, and you’re the only one in it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, slightly breathless.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

There were a lot of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung. You’d started off wonderful: both of you bright, flaming, drawn to each other like magnets. You managed the stresses of law school, graduated together, and lined up jobs – jobs that were miles and miles from each other.`

There were lots of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung, but if you had to pick one, it would be long distance.

“When did we stop trying?”

The question makes you snort. “What, you want a date and a time?”

Soonyoung smiles ruefully, but there’s nothing happy about it. It’s more of a painful grimace. That’s always been the way with you both: you deflect, he feels. He doesn’t hide the way you do, not from anyone. And for a few years, he was the only one who you didn’t hide from. 

Maybe that’s what has you opening your mouth again. “I could probably give you one. A date, I mean.”

Soonyoung hugs his knees to his chest, eyes searching your face. You can read him so well it physically makes you ache. The hint of uncertainty in his eyes, the twitching of his fingers – he’s nervous. He’s torn between wanting to know what you have to say and the strong sneaking premonition that it might hurt. “Go on,” he says finally, just as you knew he would. 

Honestly, you don’t have an exact date. Things fell apart slowly, and then all at once. A toppling tower – leaning, leaning, leaning, until it crashed. 

“There were probably a few things,” you say, softly. “My birthday, for a start.”

He winces reflexively. “That…” he begins, and then breathes out, shutting his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that.”

“I mean, in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to reassure him, even if it's true. You forgave him almost immediately.

“Shit.” 

Soonyoung’s first eloquent word when he walks into the apartment only means you become sure of what you already suspected. He takes in the half-eaten cake on the table, candles blown out and tossed to the side, the scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor, the cards; you take in his face. And you know, as quick and as simple as that – he forgot. 

Some small part of you had been holding a sneaking hope that maybe this was just an elaborate attempt at a surprise. You’d told him once, months and months ago, that you didn’t think ignoring people on their birthday to surprise them later was a very nice thing to do. But you’d rather he forgot that than your entire birthday.

His eyes meet yours, both of you frozen to your places. Him at the doorway, you at the table. The distance between you isn’t more than a few metres, but suddenly it feels like an engulfing abyss. Still, even from the other side, you can feel the guilt pouring out of him. 

“Shit,” he says again, before rushing his words out. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

You haven’t cried all day. You haven’t let yourself, but this has your eyes brimming over before you can control it.

“I’m going to bed,” you say finally, hugging yourself tightly, making yourself smaller. The apartment is warm, but you suddenly feel freezing. And despite your best efforts, there’s a waver in your voice, verging on a crack. “I’m tired.” 

You glance over the remains of your birthday party, one that you plastered a fake, painful smile on the whole way through, and then you turn to leave. 

“Baby, wait,” he implores quickly, and takes a step towards you — you mirror it immediately with a step back, and it makes him pause, his expression falling even further. “Baby.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.” Your voice is obviously shaking now. “Not today. Maybe — maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to hear his excuses, his promises, but today, you’re allowed to be upset. You’ll let yourself have today, at the very least.

He’d driven hours to see you that day, but he’d still forgotten why he was there. You hadn’t really celebrated your birthday before you met him. Soonyoung was the one who made it a big deal, back when you first started dating, and even now, there’s a sharp pang in your chest when you remember how hurt you were that day.

“You made up for it tenfold,” you remind him now, because it’s true. He made the rest of the week practically a utopia, once you banned him from apologising. And he’d been so busy at work, so incredibly tired the whole month before, and you could understand. Both that he upset you, and that it was an innocent mistake. And you’ve never seen more sincere apologies than those that came from Soonyoung.

He looks grim, shakes his head, but doesn’t say any more. Probably because you’ve had this conversation a few times already, both of you too stubborn to give in. 

“Keep going,” he says, then, looking at you head on. “What else?”

All of a sudden, you don’t want to talk about what else. All of a sudden, you’re annoyed with him, his stupid face, this stupid elevator. “Do we have to do this?” Your voice has switched from somewhat reassuring to harsh – for want of a better word, angry. It makes his brown eyes a little round with surprise, his mouth parting a little.

“What?”

“What else and what if have been on my mind for three years, Soonyoung,” you say acidly. “Forgive me if I don’t really want to talk about it to your face.”

Again, his mouth opens a little bit, stays open as he tries to form words. Until he gives up, seals his lips and nods. “Alright. Okay. That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine!” you cry out, only more angry that he won’t argue back. You’re lawyers, it’s what you do. And just to be petty, you add — “Besides, I bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about this anyway.”

Finally, his passive poker face drops, and he looks a little confused. “My what?”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth, but it’s too late to back down. “Your girlfriend. You know, that girl from accounting.”

“The girl fr— You mean Rachel?” Soonyoung gapes at you, and something in you bridles, until he continues. “Mrs Choi, who's married to her wife and adopting a kid next year?”

Well, now you feel stupid as fuck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he continues, and if you weren’t afraid to look at him right now, you’d swear he was hiding a smirk.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Why are we even talking about this?” you snap, irritated and embarrassed.

He still sounds smug. “You brought it up.”

“You sit with her every lunch hour,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “I just assumed.”

“Well, there’s nothing there. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried! I don’t care who you date, Soonyoung!”

He looks a little taken aback, blinking once or twice, cockiness gone without a trace. “Wow,” he says, finally. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in his voice. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name since — ”

He cuts himself off, but you complete the sentence in your head — three years ago. Three years since you packed up and walked out of his life. It feels like a decade ago; it feels like last week. You’d been so sure that you wouldn’t see his face again after that, that it was a decided end of a full four years of your life. Until last year, when he’d waltzed straight back into your life, this time at your workplace.

“This is the new hire.” Your boss is speaking, but you’re still finishing up the last sentence on the document you’re working on, and you listen absently as he fires a couple instructions — “Jeon, you’ll show him around. Filing system, get him logged on, the works.”

You look up then, to cast Wonwoo a knowing smile, because he always gets lumped with showing around the newbies, but halfway to making eye contact with your friend, you catch the familiar tilt of a jaw, the soft lines of a nose you know so well.

You’ve seen Soonyoung in a hundred people since you left him. You’re always looking over your shoulder at the bus stop, at the grocery store, at the library, finding a tiny piece of him in everyone and everything, a tiny piece that lodges itself tight and sharp into your throat until you take a second look, until you see unfamiliar eyes or too dark hair or shorter legs. Until you find something to make you swallow, exhale, and keep walking.

Now, your second look doesn’t yield anything unfamiliar. Except maybe his hair, gone from blonde to black, but everything else — everything else. It’s him, and he looks just as shocked to see you as you are to see him. There’s a heavy moment that seems only heavy to the two of you, everyone else still talking, the boss still giving instructions, but you and Soonyoung are looking at each other, dumbfounded, and all you can think about is the distinct taste of bile in your throat and the tie he’s wearing is the one you got him for his birthday.

Your initial plan is to avoid him. He foils that plan within two hours, cornering you in the break room, whispering urgently, “I had no idea you worked here, I swear I’m not, like, following you or – ”

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, and you just pin him with a blank stare. 

“I could quit.”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the sentence. “I’m not so butthurt that I can’t be a professional.”

“Right,” Soonyoung nods, breathing out a little. His lips are chapped. He never used to wear lip balm, just used to borrow yours. You hate yourself a little for remembering that.

The memory almost makes your lips twist with an sardonic smile. “I was so pissed when you showed up here.”

You can see his half smile, rueful and charming, through your peripheral vision. “I felt so bad about it, you know. But you just seemed annoyed when I saw you in the break room, so I figured you weren’t… mad or upset or anything.”

“I went straight from the break room to cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes,” you admit truthfully. “I had to tell Wonwoo I had curry for breakfast.”

“You cried?”

You scowl. “I’m not saying it to be pitied, Soonyoung. I’m just saying, I’m not, like, some heartless jerk with no feelings. Of course I was upset.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, vehemently. “Of course I know that.” He hesitates, and then continues, words practically inching out of him. “It’s not really my place to ask, but… you and Wonwoo… are you guys…?”

“You’re right,” you say, and press your cheek onto your knees to fix him with your eyes. “It’s not your business. But that’d be hypocritical of me, so… no. No, we’re just friends. I’m friends with his girlfriend too, Cam, she works at the plant shop down the road.”

Soonyoung tilts his head back, lets out one of those breathy laughs that aren’t really laughs. “It’s so weird that you have new friends now.”

“Thanks,” you say, dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like that! I just mean I’m so used to – like, it used to be our friends, you know what I mean?”

“Not since three years ago,” you say with false lightness, because when you lost Soonyoung, you lost the friends he brought you too. You catch the glint of pity in his eyes again, and scoff. “It’s not a big deal. They were your friends first.”

Frowning, he speaks again. “First doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to them either. Seungkwan said you were the one who stopped answering their calls.”

It’s true, and the feeling still burns a little, because Seungkwan and Jeonghan had called so many times. Even Vernon called a couple times, and you weren’t even that close to him, but Soonyoung has always attracted good people. Like calls to like. Maybe that’s why you ended up leaving.

“I was trying to make it easier,” you say bluntly., “for them to choose you.”

Your ex-boyfriend clicks his tongue, rakes a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not about sides, ___, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it felt like it at the time, alright?” Your words come out louder than you mean them to, and you pause, trying to quell your defensiveness. 

Soonyoung raises his hands in half-hearted surrender. “Alright. Alright.”

Something in your stomach feels acidic. Leaning your head back against the cool wall of the elevator, you manage to meet his eyes apologetically. “How – how are they, though? Seungkwan and everyone?”

Graciously, he ignores your quick show of temper. “They’re good. Seungkwan’s working freelance photography now. Jeonghan still hates his job, but keeps getting promoted anyway.”

Jeonghan. You told him you thought you were going to break up before you even told Soonyoung. You wonder if he remembers it, because that night is seared into your memory – New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

You’re much drunker than you ever intended to be when you finally find a place to sit in the cramped apartment, waved over by a sympathetic looking Jeonghan. He pats your head affectionately as you groan. 

“Feeling alright?”

“No,” you say elaborately.

Jeonghan never pries, which is probably what makes people tell him everything. He only raises his eyebrows at you, a hint of scepticism toying with his smile.

You look away, eyes drawn immediately to your boyfriend, laughing in the middle of the kitchen. Throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, looking so fucking happy; when you see him like this, your heart always feels so incredibly warm and so incredibly full. 

Except today, there’s something else intertwining it, something similar to dread, and it causes the faint smile on your face to fade a little.

Jeonghan sees it, of course, and when you look back at him, his eyebrows only raise higher. 

You sink further into that horrible, looming feeling. “Jeonghan.”

“___.”

“I think I’m going to break up with him this year.”

If you didn’t know Jeonghan as well as you do, you’d think the information hadn’t affected him at all; his features remain completely impassive, but you catch the flash of surprise in his eyes. He stays quiet for a long time, the silence between you filled with thumping bass and indistinct conversation, until finally, he asks the only question there is to ask. “Why?”

It’s ridiculous, how one word can bring you to the verge of tears. But that one word holds so much weight – why would you break up with him? Why would you, when you’ve pictured a future with him a thousand times over? 

Why would you leave the best thing that ever happened to you?

You blink back the tears, and Jeonghan waits.

His voice is soft, but you still hear him under the din of the party. “Is this about your birthday?”

You shake your head quickly. “No.” You stop. “Maybe. It’s – there’s just – little stupid things.”

“Little things add up,” Jeonghan says gently. You hate how he’s already understanding.

“Sometimes – ” You swallow thickly. “Sometimes I just feel so far away from him.”

You don’t have to explain that you don’t mean physically. Because that’s part of it, but it’s not all of it, but without you saying that, Jeonghan knows. You barely notice when he takes your plastic red cup from your hands, setting it on the table next to him. “And I know he loves me, and he’d never hurt me on purpose, and – he’s been so good to me, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan only hums, waits for you to continue. And you do, the alcohol only pushing more words out of your mouth. “The distance,” you say, “is killing us.” You rub furiously at your eyes. “No matter how hard we try, Jeonghan, it’s not working, and I feel like – I’m the only one who can see that. He’s ignoring it, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Jeonghan hesitates for a second, looking torn, more torn than you’ve ever seen him look. “Do you still love him?”

Tears blur your vision again, but don’t quite escape this time. “I don’t know how to stop.”

When you kiss Soonyoung after the countdown, your cheeks are wet.

“Long distance.”

“What?”

“You asked what else,” you say, picking at your nails. “I think it was the distance. I think that’s what – you know. Broke us up.”

Soonyoung has that look in his eyes, the one where he wants to argue but knows he’s going to lose, knows that you’re right. He breathes out, licks his lips and tries to speak. “We tried so hard.”

It’s not even a counter-argument. You agree with him, even. The two of you were brilliant at long distance, until you weren’t. Hours-long video calls, surprise weekend visits, staying over for the holidays, until it all started collapsing. Weekly movie nights kept getting postponed. Visits had to decrease in number. You were missing each other’s calls – if one of you wasn’t working late, the other always was. It was like the entire universe was working against you both, and suddenly, you felt like a burden rather than a lover, and Soonyoung would probably say the same. It’s hard not to feel that way, when you’re celebrating your anniversary over FaceTime and both of you keep dozing off while the other talks.

In a way, Soonyoung is right: you both tried so hard. In a way, he’s so wrong: neither of you tried hard enough.

Towards the end of it all, you were too tired to fight. Both of you were. The breakup was a quiet affair, mostly. You brought it up first, standing in the kitchen of Soonyoung’s apartment after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls.

“Soonyoung?”

“Babe, I told you, it’s the third cupboard from the left,” he calls, but he’s rounding the corner to his kitchen anyway. He stops in his tracks when he sees your face, smile fading, and for a second, time freezes.

“Soonyoung,” you say again, quieter.

And he knows. “Don’t,” he says, faintly, but there’s no weight behind it, because he knows.

Tears are already brimming your eyes, and you’re wrapping your arms around yourself, shaking your head. “I can’t,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. I can’t end it. I can’t keep going.

The picture before him is enough for Soonyoung, and any defence, any fight he still had in him (because he’s always been the more tenacious) drains. He gives in, same as you. 

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that’ll haunt you for years to come, a clashing harmony of gentle and damning. “Okay.”

You try to formulate words. You fail. All that you can say is “Soonyoung.” before you trail off. 

You don’t finish. He gives you a tired, forced smile, says something about, “We had a good run, didn’t we?”, but you’re too busy trying to wrench the tears back into your eyes to focus properly. Your efforts are in vain, of course, tears slipping down your cheeks hot and heavy, no matter how much you try to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you say tearfully, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry.”

After that, he only helps you load your bags into your car and says thank you when you give him the house keys. He does everything so quietly, so methodically, so defeatedly. It’s like he’s just lost a war he’s been fighting for far too long.

It turns out that in the end, four years can be reduced down to this: two cardboard boxes, three bin bags, and two broken hearts.

It’s your fault, in technical terms. You finished this. You’re the one who said the words, or almost said them, the one who spelled out what was so obviously ignored. More than once, because you’d tried this before, six months ago. Soonyoung was the one who fought back. He’d said no, of course, that first time. He’d said no with tears in his eyes, like it was a surprise to him, like he couldn’t see it the way you saw it — that you were on two very different paths. 

Soonyoung didn’t believe in following diverging paths, he believed in forcing yourself straight ahead hand-in-hand, come hell or high water. He believed in it, until he didn’t, and then he let you go.

When it’s time for you to leave, he accepts the hug you can’t help but fling on him just before you step in the car. Both of your arms around each other, fitting into place like you have a hundred times before, but so much tighter and so much briefer this time. Soonyoung clings to you like he’s never going to see you again, because he isn’t. You cling to him like this is the last time you’ll ever hug him, because it is.

And then both of you are pulling away, laughing awkwardly at the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt, and then you’re getting in your car and he’s waving you off and it’s over, just like that.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” There’s an acerbic quality to Soonyoung’s laugh as he continues. “We broke up because of distance, and here we fucking are.”

There’s a metre and a half between you two.

“Maybe it was a dumb reason,” you say. Voicing the thought that’s tormented you since the day you drove away. Because maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a temporary rough patch, and if you’d stayed, if you’d fought a little more and a little longer, you’d still have Soonyoung.

But you didn’t, and you don’t.

There’s a heavy expression on Soonyoung’s face, a strange mix of anger and confusion and guilt. “Maybe,” he says, at last. There’s the vaguest trace of bitterness, the little tiny sting that reminds you again that you’re the one who called it quits. 

“It felt like the weight of the world at the time,” you say ashamedly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second.

Soonyoung takes the chance and scoots closer to you, sitting against the wall with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. (How easy it would be to just rest your head there, as you’ve done a thousand times before.) “It can’t have been easy,” he says, patting your hand with his own. Warm and familiar in its unfamiliarity, which is when you realise you’ve misread him, for once – he’s not bitter. He’s empathetic.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Soonyoung continues softly, rubbing his eyes, “but God, I wish you’d just talked to me. Actually — I wish we’d talked to each other.”

“Yes, well,” you say dryly, wondering if he’s going to catch your reference, “I’ve always had a problem with communication.”

He catches it; it makes him pause, lift up his head, give you a tiny smile.

It takes you a minute to register that the seat across from you has been occupied. When you do look up, you realise Soonyoung’s mouth has been moving since he sat down, and you haven’t heard a word of it. Also, somewhere between the class you guys shared two days ago and his presence in the library this morning, his hair’s gone from a discreet dark brown to a particularly indiscreet blond.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, taking out your earphones and setting down your pen. “What?”

“I said – do you have a problem with communication or something?” Despite the nature of his words, he’s practically beaming at you.

You blink at him, bewildered. “I mean… maybe? But — what?”

He holds up his phone. “Project,” he explains elaborately. “I’ve been texting, and I didn’t get a reply, and then I saw you over here, so I thought I’d ask.”

You frown, grabbing your phone. “I didn’t get any texts.”

Soonyoung mirrors your expression, tapping at his screen, and you’re struck by how much the blond suits him. As did the brown. As did the black he had a semester ago. Not that you’ve been keeping track, but it’s hard to not notice someone like Soonyoung. Even if the first time you talked to him was two days ago to organise the project you’ve been paired up for — you know him. Of him, at least.

He swivels his screen round to face you, showing you a contact with your name and what you quickly realise is almost your number. You smile a little awkwardly, tapping the last digit. “That’s meant to be a seven. You’ve got an eight.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, “that explains it. Who the hell have I been texting about litigation then?”

Something about his expression and his tone is so comical it makes you laugh, which surprises him a little – he glances up at you with a blatantly admiring smile, and he taps the edge of the desk. “Your eyes light up when you laugh, did you know?” And as quickly as he says it, he moves on, gesturing to your phone. “I’ll text you about the project, okay?”

He’s like a hurricane, and you’re trying your best to keep up. “Okay,” you agree confusedly, still hot-faced from the sudden compliment. “Yes. That’s — yes.”

As he gets up to leave again, he shoots you another one of those blinding, dazzling smiles, and sticks his hand out. “We’re friends now, right?”

His question sounds childishly sweet, and you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than agree. 

Your one little reference sets you both off. You spend the next two hours talking and talking and talking, every other sentence beginning with “Remember when…”, as the two of you dredge up the long-buried memories of four long years spent together.

Soonyoung talks about the massive crush he had on you before you even got paired up for the project. You talk about how you never believed him, even when he did ask you out – it took three tries before you understood how serious he was. And then you remember the time Soonyoung sprinted from campus to his accommodation and back just to get you the calculator you forgot for your exam – and the time you both went to a frat party and ended up playing the most intense game of UNO in the bathroom with Vernon, which ended in a drunk Soonyoung trying to flush the cards down the toilet. 

He talks about the surprise party you threw for his birthday, and you talk about the time he tried to make you pancakes for National Girlfriend Day and failed horribly. You ate them anyway.

You don’t, however, talk about other things, even if you remember them. You remember Soonyoung kissing your forehead every morning he woke up next to you. You remember him buying your favourite flowers for your favourite vase every week. You remember coming home after a long day to food already delivered and paid for when he was working hours and hours away. You remember being so incredibly in love that it made you giddy and so in love it made you calm. And you don’t talk about it, just store it away somewhere as a reminder of what love is meant to feel like. If four years with Soonyoung brought you anything, it’s that: it taught you how to love and be loved.

When the recovery team finally arrives, you leave the elevator feeling like a new person. It doesn’t hurt when you look at Soonyoung anymore, there’s only a vague, warm fondness. And he can look you in the eye now, which he does. He smiles at you, sticks out his hand the same way he did all those years ago.

“We’re friends now, right?”

an / AHHH!!!!!! i know this fic is only like 5k but it took a lot out of me so i’d love to hear your thoughts. literally any thoughts. i wanted this fic to be longer but it happened this way and. what can i do. i may be the author but im NOT in control. it’s not a fic i’m 100% proud of but i think it’ll still hold a special place in my heart!!!! i love an angsty exes au.

anyway — this will be my last fic this year!!! see you all in 2025 and thank you so much for all the notes and all the reblogs and all the wonderful conversations this year i love you

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon

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[moody-alcoholic]

Kidnapped

John Price x reader CW: You read the title right? break in, kidnapping, drugging, canon typical violence.

You always thought John was joking when he told you, you might have to hide from people out to get him. He’s a soldier after all, not a crook. He’s out there doing his bit for queen and country, saving lives and fighting the bad guys.

It’s not like in the movies where there’s drugs or you’re on the run, he hasn’t broken the law. You live a simple life; you work, you cook, shop, keep the house clean. The only difference between you and any other person you know is your husband sometimes disappears for weeks at a time. Months if you’re unlucky.  

There’s missed birthdays and anniversaries, contact can be hard when he’s away. You fill your time by working overtime or hanging out with friends so when he’s home you can dedicate all your time to him. 

So you thought it was him when the slam of a door jolts you from your sleep. You open your eyes, picking up your phone to check the time. It’s almost 2am, not an unusual time for him to get back after a long deployment. 

But something is different, something is wrong. 

John is not the type of person to sneak through your house, he’s not the type of person to worry about not making noise. Whoever closed the door is walking through your house in silence. There’s no heavy drop of a duffle bag, no bounce of kicked off boots. No clank of keys in the bowl by the door. 

It’s so silent you can hear your own heartbeat picking up in your chest. 

Maybe it was the wind, maybe you forgot to close a window? Then you hear the creek on the steps, the pause in the intruder's stride. This is an old house with old floors. 

John told you want to do, he prepped you for this exact situation but somehow in the panic of the moment your mind is drawing a blank. Maybe you should pretend to be asleep, maybe then they will leave you alone. 

No, something tells you to move. You grab your phone slipping off your bed onto the floor. In the basement there’s a storm room, although living in the UK you don’t have much use for it, John refurbished it to a panic room. He keeps his ‘not-so-legal’ weapons in there, only you and him know the code. 

You’re forgetting everything he taught you, all you can think about is making sure you don’t lose your phone and making it to the garage. You pull yourself up to your feet, your hands are shaking as you make it to the door. You crack it open holding your breath. 

“I think we need to go up a floor.” 

“Ugh, it’s going to be a pain to get her out of here.”

It’s two people, and they’re clearly after you. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You wait until you hear them start up the next flight before sneaking down to the ground floor. You can feel tears well up in your eyes. 

This can’t be happening, why are people after you? What did John do? 

You make it into the kitchen, closing the door behind you. You make sure to hold the handle down so there is no audible click before you let it go. Maybe you should run, just call the police. John told you not to though. Call John, get to the safe room.

It takes you two attempts to open the contacts app on your phone. Your hands are shaking, your fingers feel numb. Eventually you manage to click on his number bringing the phone up to your ear as the call rings out. You make it over to the backdoor that leads into the garage. 

“Come on, come on, John pick up.” You whisper hearing the shake in your voice, as you fumble for the back door key on the rack. It feels like you’re making too much noise. 

The call goes to the answerphone. “Fuck, John.” Frustration boils in you, why is he not picking up?

You find the key. The frustration is replaced with relief as you fumble pressing it into the keyhole. 

You dial his number again as you go into the garage, you can see the false wall of tools John hid the door behind. You’re rushing towards it as you pull the facade back revealing the slim door, into the meter-by-meter room. 

“Hey!” You turn seeing a figure in the dark you don’t recognise.

You forgot to lock the kitchen door. 

You throw yourself into the space. It’s too late someone grabs your arm. You scream and fight as they pull you back. Your body falls to the floor, you drop the phone. 

“NO!” you scream as a hand claps round your mouth. There’s another person now they’re shouting at each other, at you. You kick, and flail as hands grip you, fingers digging into your skin. Tears stream down your face, you feel a sharp slap across your cheek. 

The hand leaves your mouth and you scream as loud as you can. Even in your ears the scream sounds foreign. It’s real fear, you’re screaming for your life.

A wet rag is placed over your nose and mouth. It smells rancid, after a few breaths your head starts to swim. The second pair of hands grip your ankles. Suddenly you don’t have the strength to fight. Adrenaline pulses through you, you try to dig your heels into the ground. 

For a second you free one of your legs slamming your foot flat on the ground.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” 

An arm comes round your neck squeezing tight. You can’t breathe, you can't suck in air. Your head swims, your body goes limp. You try to squirm but it's no use. Your last though is of John, you hope you haven't let him down.

____

[etheraltides]

Fractured Devotion

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Rafe’s addiction and mounting debts push him to the edge after a threatening encounter with Barry. As the boy you love clings to you for comfort, you must decide how far you’re willing to go to save him.

Warning(s): drug use and addiction, volatile behavior (I mean it’s season one rafe), violence.

You sat on the edge of Rafe’s bed, flipping absently through a magazine you found on his nightstand. It was some glossy publication, all luxury homes and island life aesthetics. You weren’t paying attention to the words. Instead, you listened to the faint echoes of muffled voices downstairs.

Rafe was arguing with his dad again.

It had been a year since you’d started dating him, but it felt like you’d spent half of that time comforting him after some blow-up with Ward. Lately, though, it was getting worse. The fights were louder, angrier, and left Rafe spiraling into moods you struggled to pull him out of.

You adjusted the strap of your sundress, feeling a prickle of unease. You’d noticed how his behavior had changed over the past few weeks – more erratic, more aggressive. He was drinking more, using more. And when you tried to talk to him about it, he brushed it off with a smirk and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“He’s just so…ungrateful, you know?” Rafe’s voice carried through the door as he stormed into the room, slamming it behind him. His chest rose and fell with barely-contained rage, his blue eyes sharp and angry.

You looked up, setting the magazine aside. “Rafe, what happened?”

He raked a hand through his messy blonde hair, pacing the room like a caged animal. “Sarah,” he spat, as if her name tasted bitter. “That little traitor.”

Your brows knitted in concern. “What did she do?”

“She’s siding with them. With John B and those Pogue losers. She’s supposed to be my sister, our family, but she’s out there, screwing around with him instead of standing by us.” He stopped pacing and turned to you, his expression hardening. “Do you even know what that’s like? To have your own blood turn on you?”

You didn’t know how to answer, so you stood and reached for his hand. “Rafe, calm down. She’s just a kid. Maybe she doesn’t—”

“Don’t defend her!” he snapped, pulling away from your touch. “She’s tearing this family apart, and Dad just lets her do it. Like she’s perfect and I’m…”

His voice trailed off, but the look in his eyes – the self-loathing barely hidden under the anger – made your chest ache.

“You’re not a failure, Rafe.” you said softly, stepping closer. “You’re just—”

“What?” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Go ahead, say it. I’m just what, (Y/N)? A mess? A junkie? A disappointment?”

“No.” you insisted, but he was already spiraling.

Rafe’s hand shot out, knocking a lamp off the bedside table. It crashed to the floor, the bulb shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. You flinched, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I do everything for him,” Rafe said, his voice rising. “I do everything he asks – everything he needs – and it’s never enough. Sarah can screw off to Pogueland but all Dad sees is me. The screw-up. The kid who can’t get it right.”

“Rafe…” Your voice trembled as you watched him punch the wall, his knuckles splitting against the drywall. You’d never seen him this unhinged before.

“I’m the one holding everything together!” he shouted, ignoring the blood dripping from his hand. “I’m the one doing the dirty work, making sure this family doesn’t fall apart. And for what? So I can listen to his voice in my head, telling me I’m worthless?”

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “Sometimes I think he’s right. Maybe I am just…broken.”

Your heart broke at the sight of him. You wanted to reach out, to pull him into your arms and tell him everything would be okay. But you weren’t sure if he’d let you, or if he’d push you away like he always did when he felt too vulnerable.

“You’re not broken, Rafe.” you said, sitting beside him. “You’re just hurting. And I want to help you, but you have to let me in.”

For a moment, he looked at you like he wanted to believe you. But then the mask of cocky indifference slid back into place. He stood, grabbing his jacket.

“Where are you going?” you asked, panic rising in your chest.

“Out.” he said curtly. “Don’t wait up.”

The door slammed open with a loud crash, startling you out of your thoughts. Rafe stumbled in, his silhouette outlined by the dim hallway light. He was a mess. His shirt clung to his damp skin, his hair was disheveled, and his pupils were blown wide, a wild, unhinged energy radiating off him.

“Rafe?” you called hesitantly, standing from the bed. The moment your voice broke the silence, his gaze snapped to you, sharp and glassy.

“What are you still doing here?” he muttered, slurring his words slightly. “I thought you’d leave. Everyone leaves.”

“I wasn’t going to leave” you said softly, keeping your tone steady despite the unease creeping up your spine. “What happened? Where were you?”

He ignored your question, pacing the room erratically, his hands tugging at his hair. “Barry.”he spat, the name dripping with venom. “That piece of shit thinks he can threaten me. Me!”

The name sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the rumors about Barry, but Rafe had always brushed off your questions, assuring you it wasn’t serious. Now, though, the weight of his words pressed heavily on your chest.

“Rafe, what do you mean he threatened you?” you asked, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

He stopped pacing and turned to you, his expression wild. “What’s going on?” he repeated mockingly. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. I owe Barry money – a lot of money – and now he’s acting like I’m his bitch or something. Like I’m just some loser who can’t handle my business.”

Your stomach dropped. “How much money, Rafe?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“How much?” you pressed, your voice trembling.

“Does it matter?” he snapped, his anger flaring. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t need you or anyone else to swoop in and save me, alright?”

You took a step back, shocked by the venom in his tone. But then you saw it – the fear buried beneath his anger, the shame flickering in his eyes. He wasn’t just angry. He was scared.

“Rafe.” you said carefully, “how much do you owe him?”

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Ten grand, alright?” he finally muttered, his voice barely audible.

You felt like the floor had been ripped out from under you. Ten thousand dollars. That wasn’t just a debt – it was a noose tightening around his neck.

“Rafe…” you began, but he cut you off, his voice rising again.

“I’ll figure it out, okay? I always do. Barry doesn’t scare me. He’s just a lowlife who thinks he’s bigger than he is.”

“Raphael, stop.” You stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. He tensed under your touch, but you didn’t let go. “Let me help you.”

“What?” he barked, his laugh bitter and sharp. “You want to help me? With what, Y/N? You gonna go have a chat with Barry? Maybe flash your pretty tits and make him forget I owe him ten grand?”

“Don’t!” you said firmly, refusing to back down. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m trying to help you, Rafe.”

“Help me?” he repeated, pulling away from you. “You don’t get it. This isn’t something you can just fix with your stupid optimism and your little good-girl act.”

“I can pay it.” you said suddenly, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

Rafe froze, his wild eyes locking onto yours. “What did you just say?”

“I’ll pay him.” you said again, your voice steadier this time. “I have savings. I’ll pay Barry, and you can pay me back when you’re ready.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of Rafe’s ragged breathing. Then he exploded.

“Are you insane?” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “You think I’m going to let you do that? Let you clean up my mess like I’m some kind of charity case?”

“I’m not doing it to embarrass you, Rafe,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm. “I’m doing it because I care about you. Because I don’t want Barry coming after you – or worse.”

“Worse?” he repeated, his voice dropping dangerously low. “What do you think he’s gonna do, huh? You think he’s gonna kill me? Barry’s all talk. He’s nothing.”

“Then why are you so scared?” you shot back, your frustration bubbling over. “Why are you pacing and yelling and breaking things if it’s not a big deal?”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, his face twisted with anger and something else –something raw and vulnerable. “Because I can’t lose you.” he finally said, his voice breaking. “Because if you get involved in this, Barry’s not just coming after me. He’s coming after you, too.”

You took a shaky breath, your heart aching at the pain in his voice. “He won’t come after me because I’ll pay him, silly”

For a long moment, he just stood there, his shoulders slumped, his hands trembling. Then, slowly, he sank to the floor, his back against the wall. His head fell into his hands, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m gonna fix this, okay?” he ran a hand through his hair, his words muffled.

You knelt beside him, your hand gently brushing his. “Then let me help you.” you said softly. “Not just with the money – with all of it. But you have to let me in, Rafe. You have to trust me. I’m not your enemy here.”

He looked at you, his blue eyes glassy with unshed tears, his lips trembling as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and pulled you toward him, his hands gripping your waist tightly, almost desperately.

His lips crashed against yours in a bruising, frantic kiss. It wasn’t soft or sweet – it was raw, messy, and full of need. His fingers dug into your sides as his mouth moved against yours, the kiss a mix of desperation and hunger. He kissed you like you were the only thing anchoring him, like he was drowning and you were his lifeline.

You gasped against his lips, your hands instinctively reaching up to tangle in his hair. His body pressed against yours, his movements erratic and uncoordinated, but his need for you was undeniable.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths ragged. “Shit. I don’t deserve you.” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

“No, you don’t.” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

For the first time that night, he let out a shaky laugh – a sound filled with both relief and sadness. He kissed you again, softer this time but no less intense, as if trying to convince himself that you were real.

[fast-burn]

sloppy seconds, landoscar + mark webber or tbh whoever

yeah i'm Down To Clown with mark webber being in this!!

kink list here

XXX

"No way," Lando blurts when he shoves his hand down the back of Oscar's shorts and finds him already hot, wet, and open. "Did you start without me?"

"Something like that," Oscar demurs, eyes flicking down and away. Lando wonders, not for the first time, what the fuck is up with his long, light brown eyelashes. Every time he looks at them fluttering against the thin, lilac skin below Oscar's eyes, it's like mental. He has girl eyelashes, honest.

"Couldn't wait, huh?" Asks Lando because he really can't stop to ponder how pretty Oscar is when he's got his middle two fingers hooked right into Oscar's bum.

Oscar kisses him instead of answering, which is alright actually. Lando likes making out more than actual sex sometimes. When you're kissing someone they usually hold you close, all snuggly, so it's double the niceness. Lando licks Oscar's tongue and behind his teeth, and uses his hand snagged in Oscar's arse to pull their groins flush together. It's absolutely mint. Lando could stay like this forever, except he does kind of want to get off. His cock is throbbing in his sweatpants, eager up against the solid line of Oscar's erection.

Lando wiggles his fingers inside Oscar, sort of digging around in there. He's really wet. It's some weird kind of lube, a different texture than Oscar's usual. Lando breaks their kiss and pulls his fingers out, curious.

It's definitely not lube.

"Osc, what is this?" Lando blurts, but it's pretty obvious that it's jizz.

Decently fresh jizz.

"You said it was okay," Oscar says, voice going really quiet, hackles up. Lando hates when he does that. It took forever to get Oscar to relax and be a weirdo around him.

"Yeah, of course it's okay. But I thought we'd maybe talk about it first."

Truth is that Lando wanted to know what kind of blokes Oscar would go for if it was truly open season. There was some competitive part of him that wanted Oscar to go looking for someone supplemental but still come crawling back to Lando, because Lando was the best. He figured Oscar would be into other shy little nerds.

"It came out of the blue, that's all," says Oscar, starting to try and wiggle out of there, so Lando tightens his arm around Oscar's shoulders. "Wasn't much time to run it by you."

"So who was it?"

Oscar goes very still. He looks away again. He mutters something.

"Say again?" Lando asks.

"It was Mark," Oscar confesses, barely above a church mouse whisper.

"Webber?" Lando blurts, makes it sound like Wibbah by accident because he's a cunt and can't help himself.

"Sorry," Oscar mumbles, and Lando kisses him because he can hear the shame, the regret. He never wants Oscar to feel bad about anything unless it's because he came second in the WDC to Lando.

And Lando is kind of upset, but not because Webber is way too old, or because he's Oscar's mentor, or because Webber is not even that hot. Lando's pissed because--technically--Mark is better than Lando. On a purely win-based statistic. So there's only one solution: fuck Webber's come out of Oscar.

"Don't be sorry. It's so hot," Lando lies, because ew he doesn't really want to think about Webber's wrinkly old dick. He's like married. And retired. Gross.

Oscar starts to melt back into Lando's arms. "Yeah? You don't mind?"

"Not if you don't mind me taking my sloppy seconds," Lando says, unbuttoning Oscar's shorts and pushing them down his thighs.

"You're such a perv," Oscar says, wrinkling his cute fucking nose, but Lando can tell that he's not seriously complaining, because he follows up with: "Don't worry about prepping me, mate. You can just slide right in."

Oscar bends over the end of Lando's hotel bed eagerly. He's actually the perfect height for Lando, which is crazy Cinderella's-slipper shit, even if the position is kind of hell on his back and he'll have to slip out of Oscar later to do physio stuff on the floor. Oscar's hole does look used. It's hot pink and swollen. Lando feels another spike of irritation looking at it, so he puckers his lips and spits on it. Oscar shivers.

He's right, though. No prep necessary. Lando thrusts in with hardly any trouble, and Oscar moans, then grunts like Lando heard him once on the massage table, all guttural and loud. Webber's jizz makes a creamy streak up the shaft of Lando's cock when he pulls out. Bad manners, isn't it? To neglect a condom when fucking someone else's man.

Or is Lando fucking Webber's man? Technically Webber had Oscar first, but not like this, Lando is pretty sure. Maybe Webber fucked Oscar because he's jealous that Lando got inside him. Maybe he was all pissed-off because Lando planted his flag in Oscar's hole and took his gay-virginity.

Well, tough shit. Lando is going to be a champion and Webber has one foot in the grave, practically. Lando is going to fuck Oscar just right.

"That feel good?" Lando asks, barely stopping himself from adding baby on the end. They don't do pet-names. That would be a slippery slope for sure.

"Uh-huh," Oscar says. "Feels like you. So good--the best."

Lando might as well be ten feet tall. He's glowing like those big tree-things in Singapore, lit up from the inside and all the way up. Webber's come is smearing around Oscar's hole, Webber is the one who made him all loose, but he's not the one making Oscar groan and whimper now. He's not the one making Oscar say Gonna come Lando, please, please, you're making me come, oh-- Because Lando is the best. Get absolutely wasted, you geriatric old prick.

[boobav]

fluff ☁️ with curly

A thousand pretty stars hover above you, below you, all around you. Every inch of infinite darkness embroidered with twinkling lights.

If only there was a window.

A big window, framed ornately with curling silver and sparkling jewels. A planet or two far off, reminding you of home, of the promise of earth. You dream quietly of soil and dirt. Of clouds and pouring rain. Mundanity. It's so overlooked when you have it. When you hold simplicity in your hands, you disregard it. Then, when it's gone, you beg for its return. Never pleased. Never-

"Can't sleep?" A voice comes from behind, cuts through the air and your thoughts with ease as though they were one. Curly.

You hum. "No. Somehow I ended up back here, staring at the screen."

His footsteps sound out loud in the silence as he makes his way to your side, then hovers for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. He motions to the spot beside you on the couch.

"May I?"

"'Course. You're the captain, after all."

"Well," he sits down with a huff. Your knees touch, and the two of you flinch away on instinct. A glance is shared as an apology, but you both run from it. "I wouldn't want to be an intrusive captain. I don't think anyone would appreciate that."

"How responsible." Your eyes remain trained on the fake night sky, the screen that works only to make your yearning harsher. The room seems infinitely warmer with the captain here. There's space between you, but clearly not enough. "I'm sure Pony Express is... proud."

The shift of his hips draws your attention. He leans back, puts his hands up on the couch in an attempt to get comfortable. He looks anything but.

"I don't think the word proud has ever crossed their mind, to be honest."

There's a pause, a jittery quiet, and then he looks to you. His face illuminated by the ships nighttime blue and the fake moon. You hate how quickly your insides melt.

"And do you- does that bother you?"

His eyes dart down, and away.

"What? If Polle's proud of me or not?" Curly tries to laugh, but seems too tired for it.

"No, I mean," you struggle to grasp the right words, the right way of approaching what you really want to talk about. "Does it bother you that no one's proud? That nobody really... cares, or even knows that we're out here?"

His gaze returns to you. From the corner of your vision you can see, see how he watches your every twitch with unearthly interest, see how he takes his time to commit even the curve of your nose to memory. At least, it makes you feel better to imagine he's doing such.

"I don't know. Sometimes. But you should keep your head up, right? Think about the people who do care, like me- the crew." He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but it leaves quickly, too warm, too out of place.

"I really don't think Swansea would think twice if I disappeared off this ship, captain."

He laughs properly this time. The sound alone almost shatters the walls you've built, the high inhibitions your position calls for. You find yourself shuffling just an inch closer to his warmth regardless. The sun, smothered and hidden by metal, yet visible just for you.

"Well, maybe. But I would. More than twice, actually, I'd probably..." he clears his throat, "probably think a few times. You know, think about where you've gone."

Now comes your turn to stare. The gentle blue light on his warm features, the red creeping up his thick neck, his hair falling perfectly over his face. Every movement you make now is deliberate, awfully so, each inching move towards him a desperate crawl through dirt. Your knee nudges his again. This time, neither of you move.

"When we're back on earth, what do you wanna do?" You ask. He shifts uncomfortably.

"Get a nice dinner somewhere, maybe. There's this one place I used to love but... I haven't been there in ages. I'm sure they've forgotten me by now. You?"

"Go on a hike in the rain. Breath in some fresh air. Pet a dog, buy groceries. Everything I can't do up here I guess."

He fixes his eyes on you now, clenches the fist that's fallen to his lap.

"Would you..." he pauses, "would you, by any chance, need some help with that?"

"With... breathing?"

He blinks. "No, I meant- would you-"

"Like to go on a date when we're back?" The words spill from your lips, molten and hot. You regret them instantly, curse yourself for pushing so far, but the look in his eye changes your mind. A gentle glimmer of hope, of surprise, of hesitation.

"Uh, yeah. I'd take you on one now if I could but we're in the middle of space and I'm, well- I'm your captain. I don't want you to... feel pressured."

You smile. His expression is uncharacteristically timid. It fits strangely onto his strong features, runs along his nose to leave muddy footprints. With another push against the tides of your hesitation, you reach over, pull his clenched hand into yours. He sighs from the contact, sighs again when you run your thumb along his knuckles.

"Good thing we're getting fired after this, I guess. You won't have to worry about the captain thing anymore."

He leans his head against your shoulder. Your other hand wraps around him, kneads through his hair as if you'd done this a thousand times before. Maybe you have in some other, distant life. But with how fast your heart is beating now, how hot your skin feels at every touch, that life must have been centuries ago.

"What then? I take lead of another ship? The pays good, but... there's so many things I wanted to do before I put myself in this loop. Now, they're just empty boxes on a bucket list." He looks up through his lashes, embarrassed yet emboldened by his vulnerability. By your acceptance of his vulnerability. "Sorry. I shouldn't just dump that on you."

"It's okay. You're in a difficult position. We all are." You weave your fingers through his thick hair, crumble at every small noise that leaves his throat. The bags under his eyes are getting darker, you notice. "We'll do one thing at a time."

"Right. Yeah," Curly sits up, "but the first thing's dinner, alright?"

His smile is contagious. The sweetest disease in the galaxy.

"Alright."

[plaidos]

I have no particular dog in this fight as I'm not a GF superfan or anything, but I would like to question a bit of your analysis.

I think you're right that the version of GF where Dipper is transmasc makes Mabel's canonical actions transphobic.

I would like to question the insinuation that those same actions would've been "normal sibling rivalry" (?!) were Dipper closeted transfem or even cismasc, as opposed to "worst sister ever" (!?) behavior. Especially if we're going with transfem Dipper, those incidents of bullying remind me much more of patterns of bullying against transfeminine people, and intersex people CAMAB (such as myself) that I've personally witnessed/experienced.

Also, to the idea that Mabel being transphobic fundamentally changes her character in some way. Like, sometimes characters we're supposed to like hold a bigoted attitude which they will unlearn over the course of the story. Sokka from Avatar and Weiss from RWBY come to mind. Mabel being one of those characters doesn't fundamentally change her storyline or arc.

you’re right, Mabel’s actions and teasings are still mean with a transphobic undercurrent — even if Dipper is a dyadic cis boy, to be honest. but she’s also a twelve year old born in 1999. i too have received the kind of bullying associated with the way Mabel acts towards Dipper about his gender, but i’ve also had similarly “jokes” from loved ones who didn’t realise how shitty they were being because they didn’t have the political framework to analyse what is fucked up about it.

but if we’re reading Dipper as transmasc, it’s like… everybody he knows is accepting enough of his identity to gender him correctly, but they’re still totally willing to say things to him that you would categorically know are bigoted even at that age. like a twelve year old cisgender girl who knows about trans people and respects their existence might not realise how needlessly callous she is being when she teases her (seemingly) cisgender brother for having “girly” interests, but that same cisgender girl would probably be able to identify that her openly transgender brother wouldn’t want to wear makeup and that it would be incredibly fucked up to make him. i’m not saying it’s “right” but Mabel needs to actively Be A Transphobe (rather than just having some twelve year old cis girl ideas about gender & masculinity) to treat Dipper the way she treats him if he is openly transmasculine, but I feel like there’s more of a plausible deniability. i feel like the Mabel we see in the show is a couple years away from being like “wow, that was spectacularly mean of me, i hope that didn’t have an effect on Dipper’s self worth”

i feel like if (in the crazy alternate universe where this is possible) there were an episode where Dipper came out as transfem after feeling hurt by Mabel’s jokes she would be really torn up about it. she’d say something like “i’m really sorry, i didn’t know you felt so strongly about gender… i thought we were just joking around but i should be paying more attention to how you feel, Dipper…. wait, maybe you don’t want to be called Dipper any more. Oh no I AM a bigot!!!” and then Soos would come in and be like “heheh. total hatecrime dude” and then we’d cut to Bill being like “i don’t care what gender you are pine tree… i’m gonna get that GIRL if it’s the last thing I do” except girl would be obviously ADR’d over in Alex Hirsch’s normal voice with his live action mouth over Bill’s animated mouth

also transfeminine Dipper has just always made more sense. the big argument was that he uses a nickname instead of his birth name which he keeps a secret. and that would make sense if Dipper had a girl’s name, but Dipper’s birth name is “Mason”. so he actually is choosing to not use a male name and instead use something gender neutral, even though he really loves matching with his twin sister & having matching names is a family tradition — so he probably has a pretty big reason to not use it, considering he still doesn’t even with all the reasons he has to.

[saphiccarma]

- Sweet Thing Pt.3

pt.2

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - And sometimes, you don't think Rio and Agatha are all that bad, like when they comfort you after a nightmare. Other times they are the people you hate most.

Warnings: kinda sexual content (not really?), lil' bit of gore, side character death (kinda)

A/N: When I say i spent an hour searching for some sort of mermaid anatomy.... also i have started to slowly develop and entire freaking lore for sirens in this au sooooo good for me Reblogs and comments make me happy :>

The water swirled around you, powerful and familiar. You were home. Elation burst in your chest and you tried to swim forward. Key word: tried. Seaweed held you in place, keeping you firmly trapped and unable to move. Your home was so close. It was right there. That little cave you lived in with your parents. Where you braided your sisters' hair and wrestled with your brothers. The safe place where your mother tended to any wounds you could while exploring and your father would fondly tell stories of his youth.

It was right there.

Movement in the corner of your eye forced you to look away and you did so reluctantly. Something dark lurked between the different structures, other homes and coral. It could easily have been a bigger fish or a turtle, but you knew it was something else. Eyes narrowing, you gasped at what you saw. Perhaps the largest shark you had ever seen, a great white that weaved through the gaps in the coral and was heading straight for your home.

You opened your mouth to shout a warning, but nothing came out. Your mother passed through the doorway of your house as the shark got nearer. It swam with intent, getting closer and closer to your home without moving. Tail flicking frantically, you tried to propel yourself forward, find a way to save your mother. And then you saw another small little figure. It was your sister. She was only a few years old, just learning how to talk, and she trailed after your mother with a toy in her hands. The toy was something you had found for her, a shell shaped in an odd way that she adored because it looked like a fish. She always tried to catch the fish.

Tears welled in your eyes, and you could feel it mingling with the salt water. For the briefest of moments, your sister glanced in your direction, her hair drifting in a small braid and her head tilted curiously. Hope filled you as you thought she noticed you, but then she shrugged and turned around to follow your mother. The shark swam closer, and you swore there was dark intent in its eyes. Beady eyes that were trained on your little sister. She was too innocent. Too small. She didn’t deserve to die. Not like this. She deserved to live a long life where she found someone to be happy with and had her own kids. Not to die by a stupid shark.

Where was your father? You looked around for him, he was never far, not while your sister was still so young, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was always there to protect you. To keep you and your siblings safe, no matter what, even if it hurt him. But he wasn’t there. One moment you were scanning for your father and then the next you were screaming, one filled with pure pain and shock, as the shark bit down on your sister's tail. Her voice was shrill as she shrieked, tiny body thrashing around in the shark's hold, but her attempts did nothing. With one solid bite, her tail was gone. Blood flooded the water around her.

Your mother rushed forward, grabbing at your sister who was crying, staring at her tail in shock and terror. It was bloodied, the end ruined and torn. The shark didn't waste a moment before surging forward again. You were forced to watch as it ate your sister, swallowing her small body whole. Shock prevented you from doing anything but stare as your mother sobbed, her body hunched over as she sunk to the floor of your home. You tried to call out to her, tell her to move before she met a similar fate. Even if it worked, the shark got to her first, biting her head off in one swift chomp.

And finally, you could move, and you surged forward, bolting through the water. Once it caught sight of you, for some reason the shark swam away, blood trailing out of its mouth. You cradled your mother in your arms, her neck spewing blood out and onto you, but you hardly cared.

That was all you saw before your vision went black.

A shriek died in your throat as you jolted upright in bed. Sweat beaded down your forehead as your hands fisted into the bed sheets and panic kept you locked in place. Your breathing was heavy as the images flashed in your mind, your sister with her tail bitten off and your mother's head following. They replayed over and over as you stared into the darkness. It was all you could see. Your body trembled violently. The sun slowly began to rise behind you, the light shimmering faintly through the window, but you couldn't focus on that.

Your sister. Her blood, flowing out into the water, red mingling with clear blue. Her little scream echoed sharpy throughout the sea. You would hear that sound forever. Then followed by your mother. Her head - her kind face that had looked at you with so much adoration, so much love and tender care - was just gone in the blink of an eye. You hardly noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks, a constant flow, and the heaving of your chest as sobs racked your entire body.

"Y/N?" Agatha's groggy voice didn't even reach your ears as your knees came up to your chest. You rocked back and forth. All that you could process was your dream. They couldn't be dead, right? There was no way. It was just a dream.

A hand landed on your arm, and you flinched away, your back hitting the wall, and a feral hiss leaving you. For once, Agatha didn't berate you for it. Maybe it was the crazed look in your eyes and the sweat that dripped down your face. Or maybe the way your body shook as if there was an earthquake. Rio was standing behind Agatha who sat on the edge of your bed. You whimpered as the older woman scooched closer and you tried to move further back.

"Stay back!" you cried, hardly recognizing the woman in front of you. Your sister. A shark. Blood. Your mother. Agatha wasn't there. Rio wasn't there. They were out of the question. To you, they weren't even here. You were still underwater, stuck in place, blood everywhere. Your teeth slotted out and you hissed at Agatha once again, your mind clouded with distress.

Rio tapped Agatha's shoulder lightly before she sat close to you. Her movements were slow giving you time to react and she ignored your distressed sounds, noises of defense that were meant to keep her away. She only hushed you softly instead of leaving you alone like you wished. Curling her fingers around your shoulder, Rio tugged you close. For a moment, you struggled as she held you close to her chest, earthy scent flooding your nose.

For a brief moment, you struggled against her chest, your protests loud. She made that hushing noise again her hand stroking your hair softly and running down to your back. Slowly, your movements stilled, and cries quieted. Rio mimicked your rocking motion from before as she held you in her lap, her touch oddly comforting. And as time passed on all visions of your mother and sister's death faded into the back of your mind. They were still there, still present, but quieter now.

She shifted so that the two of you were leaning against the wall, and your legs bracketed Rio's waist and you buried your head into her neck. Her arms were wrapped around you, and you felt like a little seahorse, tail wrapped around its father's. And then Agatha started to hum softly, the tune lighter than you had ever associated with her. That, combined with Rio's fingers gently tangling through your hair and tracing down your spine, it lulled all the loud thoughts.

Once again, your vision went black, but this time you felt a bit more at peace.

^___________^

Fingers prodded around your scales, rubbing against them and pulling them back. You hissed every now and then, only stopping when Agatha glared at you from the corner, her eyes sharp and daring you to do it again. Each time you met her with a harsh look of your own. To which Agatha would only smirk and scoff a little as if you were a child. In turn Rio pushed down harder on your scales and drawing another annoyed sound out of you. It kept repeating.

You were laid out on her desk, tail dangling over the side, and the wood digging into your skin. Agatha had swiped everything off and placed you on the surface with a surprisingly gentle touch. Then she promptly demanded for you to turn into your "fish" form, and it took some threatening, followed by sweet praises, for you to do so. Turns out Rio wanted to examine your tail, a first, and it wasn't like you had any choice. Rio tapped on your scales once again, her nails scraping on the smooth surface.

For an odd reason, her touch warmed your scales which were normally cool to the touch. That was another thing you learned was that it was often warmer on the ship than in the ocean. The water down there was cold, freezing if you went deep enough, and you nearly hated the heat of the human land.

"Turn over," Rio's words weren't negotiable, even as much as you wanted to, and her hands turning you over only reinforced her command. Her nails dug into your waist, Agatha's shirt ridden up slightly on your skin, and she flipped you over. It was your cheeks turn to dig into the harsh wood and if your scales weren't there to protect you, then you were sure there would be splinters in there. Running her fingers down your spine, Rio stopped right above where scales met skin.

You shivered beneath her touch. Faintly, you heard Agatha getting up from her chair in the corner and her boots hitting the floor smoothly, but you were too focused on Rio as she trailed down. She hummed above you, her fingers pressing lightly. Your hand came to clamp over your lips to muffle an embarrassing sound when Rio's fingers reached your sensitive spot. Scales covered your reproductive system, only opened when given proper stimulation - it was part of the mating process. You could feel heat pool in the pit of your stomach and blood rush to your face.

A hand grasped your own, gently pulling it away, and you could feel the scales on your cheek turn an embarrassing shade of green. Agatha chuckled. She held your hand in her eyes, sapphire eyes shimmering with amusement as she took in the odd coloring that ran over your scales.

"Your scales change color?" she asked, almost perplexed, but also dripping delight, "Aww are you embarrassed?" Her tone was the embodiment of teasing, a single eyebrow raised in faux question.

Every light spotting of scales on your upper half was now tinted pale green, a common sign of embarrassment amongst siren folk. Your scales would change color to match strong emotions, a light pink being happiness, or deep blue being sorrow. Although the shades varied between each and everyone, the general concept was the same. And right now, you felt like something small, merely a toy to them, nothing of value, just something that they could play with. A subject.

You had half a mind to curl your teeth at Agatha and snarl, but you stopped yourself, well more like Rio stopped you. Her fingers pushed down right near your entrance. You could feel your scales loosening beneath her touch and her nails dug beneath them. Unwillingly, you whimpered slightly and Agatha's small smirk grew.

"Is someone sensitive there?" She cooed, her tone mocking. You hated it. You hated your body for reacting this way to Rio's touch. This type of reaction was meant to be reserved for your mate, not the pirates who had kidnapped you and forced you to be on this ship. Agatha gripped your chin, squeezing your mouth open, and her thumb brushed against your lower lip. Your fins twitched nervously. As much as you loathed to admit it, you enjoyed it.

Scales loosening further, slowly revealing your entrance, you could hear Rio let out a surprised gasp. The two pirates exchanged a look over your head and the one above you poked at your entrance. An obnoxiously loud noise escaped you, unable to seal your mouth shut with how tightly Agatha was gripping your chin.

Before Rio could dip her fingers any further in, the boat rocked harshly and there was a deafening sound that echoed. You squeaked and could feel your scales tighten just like your muscles locked up and tensed beneath the humans' touch. Agatha stood abruptly and you were grateful for her nails to be gone from your face. There was hardly a moment between the boom and now before Agatha and Rio were both rushing out the door.

The former turned around, fixing you with a stern look, "Stay here. Turn back into a human and stay that way until we come back, understand?"

You wanted to protest but there was no time before you heard the telltale click of the lock. Panic surged through you and you turned yourself around, sitting up on the desk. Your tail turned into legs, leaving your lower half bare, but you didn't care as you scrambled for the door. Frantically, your hands wrapped around the handle, but it didn't budge as you tugged. Footsteps pounded above deck, and you could hear frantic shouts and Billy's panicked voice above all of them. Agatha gave sharp orders, her voice recognizable even though you could hardly make it out, and Rio's soft steps that were just barely audible, the quietest of them all.

You couldn't stop the amounting worry in your stomach when you heard more people board the ship, not at all sounding friendly based on the harsh shouts. Heart beating loudly in your chest, you scrambled back into the corner of the room when you could tell someone was coming down the stairs. Covering your mouth in an attempt to hide your distressed breaths, you waited with increasing anxiety as doors were slammed open followed by thudding steps.

Somehow, you had half enough thought to grab Agatha's dagger from where it sat next to you. She had left it on her chair. The weapon shook in your grip as you kept yourself pressed into the corner, but it was better than nothing. Even if you didn't know how to use it properly. All you had seen was Rio twirling it between her fingers or Lillia preparing food with a knife or Billy using one occasionally or Agatha when she nicked your cheek to teach you a lesson. But you had never actually held one yourself.

The door handle jiggled, and your breath caught your throat. You hoped whoever it was would leave, think this room had nothing in it, but you didn't have such luck. Something hit the door, hard, and you jumped slightly. It happened again. And then once more before the door was kicked open, a man storming in. He had scruffy hair that ran over his face and covered his eyes, dark ones that locked onto you. Fright clouded any rational thought as he made his way over to you.

You scrambled to your feet, swinging the dagger around rather pathetically. It did nothing but make it easier for him. He grabbed your wrist as you tried to hit him, and you shrieked when he tugged you close. The knife clattered the floor and out of your grip. Thrashing around, you kicked your feet and tried to get out of his grip. It did nothing as his strong arms, muscles flexing against you, held you close and dragged you out of the room.

He seemed to get tired of dragging you because he swung you over his shoulder in a similar way to when Rio did it. And while you hated it the first time you hated it even more when it happened again. Your fists hit his back over and over and you were proud to hear him wince at least once. Still, he did not let go as he carried you out and above deck. Although you didn't know human customs very well, you could hear the distinct sound of fighting. Swords clashing and Billy's hurt cry that made your heart hurt. Rushed and garbled orders shouted over the heat of the fight.

You craned your neck to try and catch a glimpse and instead you caught Agatha's eye. Her blue eyes were flashing with anger, but once she saw you it changed to something almost like concern. Then you did something you never thought you would do. You cried to her for help.

"Agatha!" You thrust your hand out, reaching for her as if she could reach you from all the way across the ship. She blinked slowly for a moment, processing your words before slamming the blunt of her sword into her opponent’s stomach. She raced towards you, but it was no use. Most of the enemy pirates had retreated to cover the man carrying you, and they held your crew at bay while you were hauled onto the opposing ship. Frightened tears welled in your eyes and your struggles increased tenfold.

Rio looked ready to murder every single person who stood in her way, and she would have if not for the plank lifting and the ship begging to sail away. You heard Agatha shout orders for someone to get moving, but it was too late. This ship was smaller, faster, and was already zipping away. Despair and pure terror, unfiltered terror with no hope in sight, flooded your system as you watched Agatha's ship slowly disappear from view.

Taglist: @vigilante24ish

[luvyeni]

🥮… ( drabble ) ̨ give me a chance ! ୨୧ 一 황현진 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ hyunjin showing you his new haircut ヾ

boyfriend!hyunjin・ reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・ ‎ wc ・ ‎0.6k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

request. buzzcut hyune drabble? 🤤

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 i hope you like it <3 !!!

standing in your kitchen; washing the dishes while you waited for hyunjin to get back from whatever he was doing — so unaware of what was to walk through your front door.

hyunjin walked through the front door; smiling at the sight in front of him, you were dancing around to his solo song in one of his shirts; he was in love. running his fingers through his newly buzzed hair like muscle memory. “baby.”

he sat his bag down; taking his shoes off before making his way into the kitchen. “baby.” he said in sing songy voice; shaking his head because you were so deaf sometimes. he finally came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you. “oh my god!” you jumped in shock. “you didn’t hear me?” he placed his chin on your shoulder. “no the music was too loud.” you reached over to turn the volume down.

“where did you go so suddenly?” you turned around to face your man, your jaw dropping. “you like?” he smiled. “i sent you off with long black hair.” you brought me your hands to his head. “you don’t like it?”

like it? you fucking loved it. “no i love it, it’s just new.” you said, rubbing his head, he sighed feeling your fingers on his scalp. “i don’t have anything to tug at anymore, but i definitely can get used to this.” you giggled as he kissed your neck, pulling away looking at you with lust in his eyes. “here i am wanting to show you my new hair and you’re thinking naughty.” his hands traveling down to your waist , lifting you onto the counter. “hyune what are you doing?”

“what does it look like princess?” he pushed the shirt up to your waist; kissing the inside of your thighs. “gonna eat your pretty little pussy.” you moaned out as he kissed your cunt through your panties. “hyunjin.” he chuckled, pulling them to the side. “such a pretty pussy; so tasty.” before you say anything your words were caught in your throat by him licking a fat stripe up your slip. “oh-oh fuck.”

he began to devour you like it was his last meal, licking and sucking your folds; his hands tight around your thighs. “hyune.” you moaned , your hands flying to his head like muscle memory. “fuck that feels so good.” pushing his head further in between your legs. “fuck keep going , m’ gonna cum.” your head was thrown back against the cabinet; nails digging into his head — which probably hurt like a bitch , but knowing your boyfriend he was getting a kick out of it. “h-hyune.”

he replaced his lips with one of his long fingers; curling it inside you; a lazy smirk stained his lips, that were covered in you. “you gonna cum baby?” you nodded profusely. “fu-fuck yes , please let me cum , please.” you sobbed out. “fuck look at you begging for so prettily.” he chuckled; your man was already fine , but this new haircut just made him extra fine — and you didn’t even know that was possible. “cum for me , cream my fingers.” his voice was so seductive and that was all you needed , before your legs were wrapping around his forearm and you were cumming , shaking in his hold. “that’s it , make a mess on my fingers.”

he used his thumb to rub little circles on your clit to further the orgasm. “so pretty baby.” he pulled his fingers from outside of you, bringing them to his plump lips. “you taste so fucking good princess.” he never forgot to give you a loving kiss on your forehead. “see i know you would find away to hold on to my head , although it kinda hurts.” you giggled. “you wouldn’t be hard as rock right now if you didn’t like it.” you could feel him , pressed against you. he nodded agreeing, grinding against you , you moaned out. “you’re right about that princess.”

“i want you to keep gripping my head while my cock is breeding your pretty pussy.”

©️LUVYENI

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[11:14 pm]

(cw: f!reader, alcohol consumption, smoking, sexual conversations, reformed fuckboy Jae)

a/n: this is set BEFORE Jae and Sweetheart are an official couple. Think a couple weeks after wtfbf/very early days of them being together like still official but no titles… also I’m really proud of the recent angst! Go me!!

You were still getting used to these frat parties. Now that you and fratboy!Jaehyun were together, you tried to make it a point to be here to… support him? No, he didn’t need support. You just wanted to be around him… even if he constantly smelled like beer and there were too many people around you. You weren’t the biggest fan of these parties, but you were still so lost in the sweet, lovey-dovey haze that you would do anything for Jaehyun at this point.

He had his arm around your shoulders while you both made conversation with the group of guys around you. Yuta was telling you about how he’d dyed his hair red and made a mess in the bathroom while Johnny and Jaehyun laughed about something stupid. The can in his hand was empty and the cup in your hand was half empty, the jungle juice was too strong this time and you didn’t like it. You wouldn’t say that of course, not wanting to offend these guys that had, so far, welcomed you to the group with open arms.

“I’ll go get you another one,” you told Jaehyun after Yuta had wandered off to smoke outside. He smiled at you, pressing a kiss to your temple before you wandered to the kitchen.

It was a mess as it usually was during parties, bottles covered every surface, the floor was sticky, crushed chips littered the floor and the counters, and the fridge was stocked with various cans of alcohol. You grabbed one of Jaehyun’s go to beers and cracked it open, wiping the excess that splashed onto your hand on your jeans.

You made your way back to Jaehyun who you could see was throwing his head back with a laugh. He’s so handsome when he laughed. Well, all the time actually.

“God, he’s hot.” Your brows furrowed, did you say that out loud?

“You should totally try to get him back!” You heard. Right… so you hadn’t been the one to call him hot.

“I mean he’s been kind of taken by some girl, and I’m a total girl’s girl, but sometimes I just miss him, you know?” The first girl sighs dreamily.

“You miss him in your pants more like!” Her friend snorts.

“Well if you knew the things that man was capable of you’d miss him too. Ugh! He used to do this thing with his tongue! It made me come like right away!”

You felt sick, like you had to take a very hot shower and scrub your skin until this disgusting feeling was gone. You knew his reputation- of course you did. It was one of the first things Kira had told you about him, that he was known for sleeping around.

Since you’d been together, he’d never given you reason to believe he was still seeing other people. He’d never even so much as looked at other girls. The guy he was with you made you just kind of… forget that he was a playboy before he was with you. And what a reminder this was. It was like a slap in the face.

You trudged back to Jaehyun, forcing the beer into his hand with a faraway look in your eye. How many girls here could say they slept with him? How many of them were as recent as the day you met him? How many of them were staring at you with envy? How many of them knew things about him that you hadn’t even thought of? Well, not seriously.

“Tell me what you’re thinking of, sweet girl,” Jaehyun told you, his hot breath fanning over your ear.

The next words poured out of your lips before you could stop them, “how many girls have you slept with here?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth in shock from your own words. Johnny’s eyes widened while he motioned to the other guys to back away slowly. Jaehyun’s eyes didn’t leave your face, studying you with his brow furrowed.

He stayed silent, as he gripped your wrist and dragged you upstairs. The same girl as before nudged her friend with her elbow and you could hear, “lucky girl. We know what’s going to happen.”

You wanted to gag. You wanted to scream. Disgusting! It was gross! You felt dirty.

The door to Jaehyun’s dorm clicks shut and he turns to you with a serious look in his eye, “what are you trying to get at with that question, sweets? What do either of us gain from me answering that? Do you think I’m cheating on you? Is that what you’re really trying to ask me here? Because I’m not! You’re the only girl I’ve even looked at since we started hanging out. I only like you!”

You feel your breathing speed up and your throat tighten, “and I believe you! I know you like me, but that doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t always like this. You haven’t been in a committed relationship—or situationship— for a long time!”

“Just because we don’t have titles doesn’t mean this is a fucking situationship. You mean more to me than some cheap fuck and you know that!” Jaehyun exclaims angrily.

“So the other girls here were cheap fucks!? The girl I just heard talking about you doing something with your tongue that made her come instantly? The girl I heard last week that described your dick with entirely too much detail? Or the other girl that was telling her friend about how she licked that birthmark on your neck and bit it until you came? How do you think all these stories make me think of you? The way you talk about them?”

“What do you want me to say?! I can’t control what they say! I’m not going to apologize for what I did before I even knew who you were! If you’re calling me a slut just say that!” Jaehyun yells with exasperation, throwing his arms out.

“I didn’t say that! I’m not asking you to apologize! Ugh! You’re not listening to me!” You argue, tears beginning to stream down your face with frustration and helplessness, you just can’t put your thoughts and feelings into the right words the way you want. “I just— Jaehyun I like you. I really like you. I come to these parties because you want me here, I come to the frat house whenever you want me to, I force myself to be in situations I don’t particularly like because I like being around you. When I’m in these situations I end up hear things about you that I don’t like.”

Jaehyun sighs tiredly, dragging a hand down his face, “I’m sorry you hear these things, sweets, I really am, but I can’t control what people say about me. If I could, then I’d make sure you never heard about any of these encounters ever. I’m not that guy anymore.” He cups your cheek, wiping away your tears with his thumb, “I promise you, you’re the only girl for me and I mean that shit. I’m serious about you, sweet girl, you make me want to be better. You bring out a side to me that I haven’t seen in a while, a side that I missed. Only you bring it out of me.”

You can feel yourself melting into his warmth, leaning into his touch, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I wasn’t trying to slut shame you or call you out or anything like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry I got so heated in the first place. Look, I know about my reputation, alright? Hell, I lived it and I can tell you it’s true. Those girls don’t know me like you, I never wanted them to. But I really am trying for you, sweetheart. I’m trying really hard to be the guy you deserve and I’m really sorry you had to hear that nasty shit. Next time, just tell me and I’ll have them kicked out alright?” Jaehyun tells you, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, “in a couple weeks we’ll be old news and everyone will forget.”

You sigh tiredly, your rush of heightened emotions come crashing down to leave you feeling exhausted. Somehow you find it in yourself to flash him a smile and jokingly push his shoulder, “you better pull some new tricks out of your sleeve when we finally sleep together, and I want to see that tongue thing!”

Jaehyun laughs deeply, pulling you onto his bed while tugging you into his tight embrace, “whatever you want, sweetheart, whatever you want.” And he means it. Just like you find yourself doing things that are out of your comfort zone, he finds himself doing the same. He would have never gotten through this argument with anyone else, but with you he did. And if making things work with you means that he has to forget ever even glancing at anyone he’s slept with, then he’d do it. He’d do it happily. He thinks, rather happily, that he’d do anything for you.

[welp-back-on-my-bs]

Welcome to the fucked up mind of Star!

Today, I'm going into Ren theory crafting because I don't got ideas for Haru and Towa tbh even though I love them both.

Soooo~ two theories i got that can kind of be tied together for the boyyyy.

Ren and Major Depressive Disorder.

Ren is quite irritable, as we can tell by the fact he doesn't put up with any of Haru's shit. He just wants to hide in his room, watch some b horror, and play his mobile games.

He is also quite hopeless. He doesn't believe in just about anything, it seems, and is extremely cynical about the world and those around him.

We don't know Ren before Darkwick or his demon pact, so we can't say for certain that he has ever drifted away from anything he was passionate about.

Look at me in the eyes and tell me that Ren has energy to even do the bare minimum.

And there are some other things that we would just need to get a bit more into his head about, but we can't exactly do that. Even though we do get other characters' perspectives sometimes.

Ren and Truama

So, from chapter 3, we already know that Ren doesn't have a good relationship with water. He actively avoids the water habitat in Jabberwock and clearly seems scared about going into the water later on in that chapter. He does it because he HAS to, and that's it.

Ren has also probably experienced harassment, bullying, or even sa. He has probably looked into what his rights are and vehemently puts that up to be able to defend himself from anything bad that could ever happen to him again.

I've seen this scene read as Ren is getting fluterd because he touched MC.

Whitch, makes sense, but let's expand on that. He is someone who often and clearly states his physical boundaries often. Here, he oversteps that on reflex. He probably feels guilty and like a hypocrite for doing so here.

Physical toutch could, in some way, be connected to a trauma.

Maybe even his stigma now that I think of it, it's probably different from Subaru's, but maybe he is an empath where he feels other people's feelings when he touches them and major depression is the setback to being an empath.

Mmm, name breakdown, too, because that would be funnn

Shiranami = white + wave

A wave of purity? A tidal wave? Idk

Ren = lotus = purity, enlightenment, and spiritual growth

So this feels like foreshadowing to Ren's character development, where he hoepfully continues to bond with anomalies and want to care for them on his own instead of obligation/forced to.

[cringe--is--dead]

꧁✬◦°⋆⋆°◦. 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓸𝓮 ◦°⋆⋆°◦✬꧂

꧁✬◦°⋆⋆°◦. 𝓚𝓮𝓷𝓶𝓪 𝔁 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 ◦°⋆⋆°◦✬꧂

A/N: I got sick, sorry these are all gonna be so late.

At the team's holiday party, you and your boyfriend do your best to avoid his best friend, who seems way too determined to get you two trapped under the mistletoe for you first kiss.

This wasn't the first time you and Kenma had been invited somewhere as a couple, yet from the way his team fawned over the two of you, you'd have thought it was.

It wasn't always bad, sometimes it was sweet; Yaku teased the two of you sure, but he noticed whenever you or your boyfriend were uncomfortable and backed off, Kai simply made sweet remarks about how you two complimented each other well, short phrases that had both you and Kenma beat red.

Kuroo, to no ones surprise, was the worst.

When you two first told him you were dating he thought it was some type of prank; you and Kenma had been pining over each other to him for so long he had grown hopeless. Turns out, late-night video game sessions can do a lot of good.

That being said, this was you first holiday party as a couple, and for almost 90% of the time thus far you two were avoiding said team captain.

It wasn't a big "high school party", there was no spiked eggnog or blasting music. Yamamoto tried and got told off rather humorously. There was food, drinks, some weird American Christmas music Kuroo found, ugly sweaters, and presents.

And mistletoe.

"I can't believe him," Kenma looked like he was trying to burrow himself deeper into his sweater, one you had picked out for him, knowing if you didn't, Kuroo would, and that would have been worse.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your eggnog before making a face; it may not be alcoholic but it wasn't great, "Really? This seems exactly like something he would have done."

Kenma paused, before letting out a rather loud sigh, leaning so he was against your shoulder, curling so his body was angled towards you, "It is. That makes it worse. I should have known he'd do this."

You smiled down at him, though he couldn't see you, "He kept us too busy with party favors to even think about his meddling."

"Stupid ploy of his," Your boyfriend muttered, glaring at the wall in front of him.

"Maybe we can turn the tables? Trap him under some mistletoe with someone else. I'm sure if you called Bokuto he'd come over."

Kenma shook his head, "One, I don't need to deal with Kuroo and Bokuto, secondly, Kuroo would think it was funny and it wouldn't work the way you're thinking."

Sighing, you tilted so your head was rested against his, "Damn."

You could feel him nod, "Damn is right."

The music could be heard through the walls, and you only felt a little bad that you and Kenma were hiding in Kuroo's mom's office. You both knew it was only a matter of time before he came searching there for you, but you'd be ready to either shove him out or book it.

"Maybe we can trick Yaku and Lev under the mistletoe," He suggested quietly, "Cause a distraction so big Kuroo forgets about us."

You hummed, "That works until demon-upperclassmen-Yaku torments you at practice."

He groaned, "Might be worth it."

You laughed quietly, setting your cup down, "You know," You started before you could second guess yourself, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves in your stomach, "If it were more private I wouldn't mind kissing you under mistletoe."

You felt him stiffen against you, and for a moment you screamed at yourself mentally, but he relaxed a second later, a quiet huff of laugh coming from him.

"Yeah," He reached across to take one of your hands into his, "Me too. He's only doing this cause... well," He cut himself off, and curiosity got the best of you when he didn't finish his thought.

You pulled away some, looking at him, your hands still connected, "Well what?"

His cheeks were pink, and he was doing his best to avoid eye contact, "I had... mentioned wanting to kiss you. Maybe. But not knowing when. He joked about mistletoe at the party. But I forgot until we showed up."

You think almost everyone was caught by surprise at the sheer amount of mistletoe hanging from doorways.

You waited, giving him time to feel comfortable looking towards you, a small smile on your face, "You know... you could have asked me?" Your voice was soft, teasing, "Considering I'm your girlfriend, not Kuroo."

He huffed, half-annoyed, half-laughing.

"I'm serious, just ask me if I want to kiss you. No mistletoe necessary."

It took a second for him to fully process what you said, and his eyes widened a fraction. He visibly swallowed, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

"Will... can I kiss you?"

The simple question, even if you were expecting it, had butterflies explode in your stomach, your heart fluttering in your chest. Your palms felt embarrassingly sweaty.

"Yes."

You'd, embarrassingly, imagined what your first kiss would be like when you were younger. Entering your teens, it seemed like the biggest deal in the world. You'd have this prince charming of a boyfriend, someone boisterous who took you on spontaneous dates, someone who dipped you under the stars for your first kiss.

No part of you had imagined having your first kiss, hiding away in your friend's mom's office to avoid public humiliation at his goading.

No part of you imagined how it actually felt. All those dreams felt so silly now.

Kenma's lips were warm against yours, your hands still holding one another's. The kiss didn't go any further than this, and it only lasted but a few seconds, but it was enough.

He pulled back first, cheeks far more red than they had been when he asked, and you were sure yours were no better. Despite the anxiety that had been clear on his face, he was smiling, something so soft it made all those nerves disappear as if they'd never been there before.

"Think that was better without the mistletoe," You murmured, and he nodded in agreement.

It was quiet between the two of you for a moment, before--

"There you two are!" Kuroo was standing in the doorway, looking a bit frazzled.

You and Kenma didn't have time to react, but it seemed like Kuroo was too focused on something else to even notice.

"I'm hiding with you, I got Yaku and Lev under the mistletoe and I think--"

"Kuroo Tetsurou!"

[ang3lc]

a little depressed right now. my coping mechanism is to make people cry through writing. enjoy a blurb about pieceofshit!simon x reader

cw: emotional abuse, manipulation, cheating, stream of consciousness blurb, angst (duh)

You remember his birthday like it was yesterday, even though it feels like a lifetime ago. The way he kissed her—warm and familiar, pressing into her like you never existed. You weren’t even a thought in his mind, just a shadow in the background of a scene you had no place in.

It was a second of nothingness for him, but for you, it felt like a year of every mistake you’d ever made. It wasn’t me, you tell yourself, over and over, but it feels like a lie you can’t escape. It wasn’t me. You want to scream it, to tear yourself apart for not being enough for him.

But he’s a winner, right? Simon’s always been a winner. It doesn’t matter what happens, what he does, or how far he goes—he’ll always be the one that gets his way, always the one who walks away unscathed. You wonder, How much more can I give before there’s nothing left to take? You wonder if he’ll notice when you’re wrung dry.

Sometimes, he cries about feeling empty, about needing more, but not from you. Not in the way you needed him. Why is everything about you, Simon? Why does it always have to come back to you?

Even when it’s just the two of you, the silence between you louder than anything he’s ever said, it’s always about him. His anger. His confusion. His need for control. His coldness. His distance. You think you can fix it, but you can’t. You can’t fix him. You can’t fix yourself.

You watch him walk too close to the road, just like you always have. He walks on the edge like he’s daring you to stop him, daring you to save him from an inevitable fate. But you never stop him. You wonder if he even wants to be saved. You wonder if he’s just waiting for you to give up, waiting for you to walk away so he can be the one who lets go first. And God, how much longer can you stand here, loving someone who doesn’t want know how to love you back?

You feel sick when he touches you now. His hands, once so soft, now feel like needles in your skin, pulling at your soul until it’s raw. But you crave it anyway. You crave it because it’s all you have left. You don’t even know if he’s angry with you, if he’s disappointed in you, if you’ve pushed him too far. What did I ever do to make him so fucking angry?

Where’s your heart at, Simon, you want to scream, When your hands are all over me? But you’re scared to ask. Scared to hear the answer. What if it’s true? That he never cared? That you were just something to pass the time, something to fill the silence?

You feel cold, so cold, like he’s already gone and you’re still here, stuck in this room, stuck in this memory, wondering where it all went wrong.

You can’t stop thinking about how he made you believe. He made you believe you were enough. He made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you could fix him. But he was lying. Lying about who he was, who he wanted, and what he needed. He lied to you until you were empty, and now you’re left with nothing but the hollow ache of everything you thought you had with him.

You still hear them in your mind—whispers of promises he made, of the things he swore he’d do, the love he said he’d give you. He claimed his palms would hold a feast, but when he opened them, they held mere crumbs. You licked them clean anyway because you couldn't bite the hand that fed.

The truth is so fucking cruel, isn’t it? Is it something I did? Did I ruin it? You’ve asked yourself that question a thousand times, and you’re no closer to an answer.

Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you’re here and he’s gone.

And you’re still lapping at the crumbs he left on his way out the door. Starving.

mlist

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 79: Oliver's Questions

tw: mind control

Previous > Masterlist

October 1925

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Oliver? May I come in?" It sounded like Emily.

"Sure," he said, not especially in the mood for talking, but wanting to be out of his own head for a moment.

He heard the click of the door unlocking, and Emily pocketed the key as she walked into the room. "Vivian thought maybe it'd be a good idea for me to check on you. How are you doing?"

"I'm managing."

"Have you heard your master -- your former master's voice?"

"No. But I will tell you if I do." The least he could do for Emily and Vivian was to try to resist and let them know right away. Purposefully betraying them after they'd gone through this effort to save him was unthinkable.

"I think I might understand a little about how you feel, you know. Defending Alexander even though he's a monster."

"You do?"

"I mean, Jessica was awful through and through. She robbed me of everything and treated me like a housecat. I'm glad that she's dead. But still, sometimes… I think a part of me misses the certainty." She curled in on herself a bit. "I don't know what I'm going to do now that I'm freed. It's back to nasty jobs that pay peanuts, while trying to find time and energy to make art good enough to sell, I suppose. Struggling every day. I guess it was nice not to struggle for a while, even if it was a terrible situation."

"Yeah," said Oliver. "I understand. I wasn't struggling like you before the vampires, but it still was nice to feel like I had a purpose, even if it was feeding a vampire."

"I think if Jessica had been just a little bit nicer to me, the way Alexander was to you, I would feel a lot more conflicted," she said. "But you know that he didn't really care about you, right? I don't think monsters like that can feel real feelings."

"…Yeah." Even if she were right, it was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

"If Alexander really cared about you, he wouldn't have put you through all of that with his sire. He would have protected you, or stood up to him, or hidden you away, or something. Instead, he told you that he'd never let you free. That's what you said, wasn't it?"

"It is."

She must be right. It wasn't as though Oliver hadn't had that same thought, even while enthralled. His show of being caring was always a convenient lie to keep Oliver happy and docile.

But then, he thought of how tenderly Alexander had cared for him after he was blinded, how he reassured Oliver and soothed him to sleep with his song. He thought of Alexander by his bedside when he was sick, feeding him warm soup and wiping his forehead with a cool washcloth. Small comforts, perhaps, but more than Oliver had before.

"I suppose… a part of me wishes he did actually care about me, and that's why I don't want Vivian to kill him."

"…I get it," said Emily quietly. "I'm sorry I was so harsh on you earlier, but honestly, I do understand. I once had a lover… it's a shameful story, but I guess you've seen me in the lap of a vampire, so it's not like I have any dignity left. I once had a lover who showered me with gifts and affection, and made me feel like I was someone special -- when he was sober and in a good mood. When he wasn't, he was a nightmare. You can probably imagine it. And it took me such a long time to understand that if he truly loved me, he wouldn't treat me that way, not ever. Even when I did, it took me even longer to leave, because I wished he would be someone different, someone who actually cared."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Don't be. Lesson learned."

"You shouldn't have had to go through that to learn a lesson," said Oliver. "But I do understand what you mean. I'm not sure if it's quite the same since Alexander certainly wasn't my lover, just…"

What was Alexander to him, exactly? His friend? His master? Neither of those could really captured the unwavering devotion, the powerful draw he'd felt.

The draw he was feeling even now, knowing how manufactured it was.

Tears sprang to Oliver's eyes as he was overcome by a wave of deep sadness, and although he'd been sad all night, this felt both foreign and strangely familiar, feelings that weren't his own, a sense of loss and melancholy and grief coming from far away, tethering him to…

"Oliver, what is it? You've gone so pale."

"Alexander. I can feel him. I think he's calling to me."

"Oh, no -- I'll go get Vivian right now." Emily rushed from the room.

It wasn't like a song, now. It was comprised of images, emotions. The library, cold and dark, Alexander weeping and calling him back. Oliver tried to push it away -- nothing more than a jailer upset that his inmate escaped. But he couldn't truly believe that, not with Alexander's own emotions clouding his mind.

"Go away," Oliver whispered to the empty room. "Leave me alone. Stop tormenting me with this."

"Emily said you've heard your former master?" Vivian was standing over him with furrowed brow.

"Yes, I'm sure of it. I can feel what he's feeling. It's almost unbearable."

"That's the blood connection." She looked out of the window, where the sky was growing lighter. "The sun will be up soon. If you can endure it until then, the vampire's power will fade when the sun rises. Do you think you could do that?"

"I think so." He didn't seem to really have a choice, not unless he wanted to betray Vivian and go running back to the manor.

"It'd be best if you could stay up for most of the day, to start to get used to a human schedule again. I can find ways to keep you busy and take your mind off things. And then when night comes around, I could give you something to make you sleep, so that you don't have to endure vampires intruding on your mind. How does that sound?"

Oliver nodded. "I don't think I've ever really thanked you for your help. You don't need to do all of this for me."

"It's my job," she said. "Besides, no one else has ever provided me such a treasure trove of information about my sworn enemy. It's been well worth it."

Oliver anxiously watched the sky outside his window, feeling as though the sunrise might never come, as though the vampire's power might endure forever. But of course the sun rose once again, and as Vivian predicted, Alexander's feelings faded away as the sun crested over the buildings.

He was exhausted, but found a second wind of energy helping Jenny prepare breakfast and eating a sizable portion of it himself, along with ample coffee. Emily overslept and dragged herself down the stairs just as they were about to clean up from the meal, pouring and chugging what coffee remained.

After breakfast, Vivian assigned Emily and Jenny chores, in particular taking care of Bobby, an erased thrall unable to care for himself. Oliver was reminded once more of all of the grievous harm of the auction house, even if he himself had escaped the worst treatment. Lily had done those things, and Alexander was more than complicit.

"What would you like me to do, Vivian?" he asked, more than eager for some work to quiet his mind.

"I was hoping you could accompany me to the grocer's and the butcher's, to restock the pantry. It would help to have an extra set of arms to carry back the food."

Oliver looked at Vivian's arms, recalling her struggle with Alexander. She was clearly far stronger than Oliver, and he suspected that needing someone to carry bags was an excuse to make Oliver feel helpful. Regardless, he thought that the fresh air would do him good. "I'd be happy to help."

"Great! Here, there's some spare coats in the closet. See if one fits you."

Soon enough, Oliver was out the door, blinking in the midday sun. He'd had so little sun, especially since he'd been sleeping in Alexander's room instead of his own. People were bustling about on the sidewalk, a mailman was making his way down the street, and all of the shops were open. The leaves were beginning to fall from the trees, but the foliage that was left was drenched in reds and golds. Oliver realized that he hadn't actually been outside during the day since his capture.

"You must have missed this," said Vivian as they walked to the grocery store. "Ordinary human life, I mean."

"I guess I did." In the light of day, it was a lot easier to put the world of vampires behind him as though it were all a bad dream. Under Alexander's spell, he didn't realize how much he had missed being able to simply walk down the street to a shop on a crisp fall day. He thought of sitting in the park among the autumn trees, reading a book and watching the people walk by, as he had liked to do on breaks. How much had the vampires stolen from his mind, to make him forget all of this, to make him content without it!

Even the ordinary grocer's was a delight. He'd always had plenty of food in the manor, and Alexander had bought him whatever he put down on a list, but there was a simple pleasure in looking over the grocer's wares and choosing it all himself. Vivian was mulling over whatever was cheapest or on sale to feed herself and the thralls back in the safehouse, and Oliver trailed along, carrying her purchases and making suggestions.

In the harsh light of day, with a clearer head, it was easier to see the vampires for what they were -- monsters who had stolen his life from him.

And yet, there was still a nagging part of him who felt like he didn't quite belong here, not any more. Not now that he knew that vampires and their establishments were all over the city. Not when he'd been getting so used to being on Alexander's arm, serving him and accompanying him.

He'd been the perfect thrall, supposedly, and although Alexander could have just been saying that to keep Oliver mollified, Oliver really couldn't deny how comfortable he'd felt in the role. Even as he was enjoying a sunny afternoon in the city, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was just playacting as a normal person. Alexander had convinced him so swiftly and so thoroughly that he belonged as a thrall that Oliver feared he might never be able to shake it.

But didn't that mean Vivian was right? Oliver would never be safe as long as Alexander and his sire were out there, beckoning him to return. And even if Oliver himself managed to escape, Alexander would only take some other poor soul and turn him into his slave. Leaving him alive would only be condemning person after person to be ripped away from the world of humans and trapped in the dangerous world of vampires.

The thought of Alexander taking someone else as his thrall made him sick.

If Alexander really was going to spend decades or centuries taking human after human, it would be wrong to leave him alive, wouldn't it? As much as that made rational sense, he couldn't accept it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she said as they carried the groceries home.

"I was thinking about what you said before -- about how you need to kill Alexander. I confess that I still don't like it, not at all, but maybe… maybe it is the right thing to do." His heart ached from betrayal even as he said it, unable to convince himself.

"Thank you. I know it must be a hard thing for you to consider," she said. "I do understand your reluctance, at least a little bit. I did see you in your gilded cage. I saw that he treated you decently."

"He did." Oliver couldn't help but be mortified at the next question he wanted to ask, but he knew he needed to ask it anyway -- the question he'd been turning over and over in his mind since the ritual. "Vivian, you know a lot about vampires, right?"

"I'm not the world's foremost expert or anything, but I like to think I do, or else I'd be dead by now."

"Do you think it's possible -- god, this must sound ridiculous to you. But do you think it's possible for a vampire to care about a person? Not just for their blood, or as a servant, but actually care for them as a friend?"

"No," said Vivian immediately. "Maybe that's not what you want to hear, but no, they can't."

"I thought that's what you'd say."

"I've seen a lot of vampires in my time. Some of them treat their thralls well, like Alexander. Some of them beat their thralls, or chain them to the wall, or erase their minds to make them as helpless as a baby. Some of them don't keep thralls at all, but prey on people they find on the street, or in their places of business. The circumstances are always different, but there's one thing every vampire has in common -- they all prey on innocent people. No matter how gentle a vampire may seem, they still desire human blood above all else, and are driven to keep humans as their possessions."

"I see."

"You were a very prized possession of your master, I don't doubt that. He did value you. But if your happiness were actually his concern, he wouldn't have taken you from your bookshop. He wouldn't have had to hypnotize you into believing you were happy if he could actually make you happy. Don't you think so?"

"I suppose so," said Oliver. "I think you're probably right. It just hurts to realize. I guess a part of me…"

"A part of you what?"

"Never mind." He didn't actually know Vivian that well, and couldn't bring himself to say it, how a part of him wished that someone else in the world actually did care about him. "I suppose I'm also apprehensive, because if I'm to be free of Alexander, what should I do with my life now? That must sound terribly pathetic."

"No, it doesn't. Most thralls aren't sure what to do with themselves once they're freed, especially if they've been enthralled for years, or if they've been under a very deep spell, like you were."

"What do they end up doing?"

"Some of them return to whatever they were doing before they were taken, of course. But for a lot of them, that's not really possible. Being a thrall seems to change them in ways I don't even fully understand. And for those who have spent years or even decades in a vampire's service, the ordinary world of daylight is as foreign as the surface of the moon," she said. "Some of them are so lost that they end up in a madhouse or prison, or worse, find themselves a new vampire master. I can't say hunters look too kindly on thralls who are rescued, only to sell themselves back to the god damned auction house."

"I won't do that," said Oliver, wishing he actually felt as confident as he was trying to sound.

"Good. If you have the stomach for it, and are interested, sometimes former thralls become part of the hunter's guild. You see, one of the things that makes it difficult for thralls to return to their lives is the fact that no one believes them or understands the experience they went through. In the guild, you'd be surrounded by people who know all about vampires and other supernatural creatures."

"Oh, I don't think I could do that. I've never been the slightest bit athletic. I could never fight a vampire, even a weak one."

"You wouldn't have to fight. The hunters get the glory and the spoils, but there's a lot of other work to be done. If you have an education, they could use people capable of doing research."

"Research, hm…" Oliver couldn't deny that that might be a good fit for him, with his expertise in rare and unusual books. He wondered what sort of rare and interesting books the hunter's guild might hold. "Vivian, if you kill Alexander, what would happen to his library?"

"When a vampire is killed, it's customary to split the spoils among the hunter who killed it, the guild in general, and any thralls left behind. We'd each be entitled to a portion of what Alexander owns."

"I see." Even if he could accept that Alexander must die, it felt absolutely ghoulish to talk about splitting up his possessions. "If you were to kill him… do you think you could make sure that his library ends up in good hands? There's an absolute treasure trove of rare information there, one that would take multiple human lifetimes to recreate."

"Of course! I think you'd be uniquely qualified to catalog it. The guild would want their share, but they would be glad to accept an expert's opinion. And I'm only interested in money and things that are easy to sell. I'm not the reading type."

"Maybe… maybe that's something I could do, then." Something to distract from the guilt he felt pre-emptively, both for betraying his vampire master and for being one of the thralls lucky enough to be rescued when he wasn't even sure that he wanted it.

Previous > Masterlist

Thanks for reading! Next week, Vivian and Oliver both lose their patience.

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[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

it's the next best thing - part three (ao3)

part one || part two

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson || ~22k, complete || phone sex || accidental love confessions || there was only one bed || getting together || mutual pining || porn with plot || smut || wet & messy || friends with benefits || oral sex || rimming

This is the final installment of my gift for @eyesofshinigami for @steddieexchange!

Eddie keeps calling, and Steve always answers. He wears a watch now, wants to count down the seconds until he’ll be able to hear Eddie’s voice again.

He doesn’t want to put a name to the thing fluttering around in his chest as the sound of Eddie’s voice filters down the line. Sometimes, Eddie invites him over, and that’s worse somehow. His skin aches to touch, cross any distance Eddie places between them in his bed, on his couch, in his van at the quarry, smoking together and watching the stars.

The phone sex is slowly replaced with the real thing, hands and bodies fumbling together in the darkness of Eddie’s room.

Eddie still calls, always, updating him on the latest Hellfire session, how Corroded Coffin is doing, what he’s been up to all day.

Sometimes Steve comes over, and they don’t even fuck. On those nights, settled in Eddie’s bed, listening to his even breathing, Steve has to remind himself that this is what friends do. It doesn’t mean anything that Eddie sleeps so soundly at his side, and it doesn’t mean anything when he wakes up with Eddie’s arms around him, face nuzzled into Steve’s neck, breaths puffing wetly against his neck, morning wood pressed into Steve’s hip.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Robin asks, head propped up by her hands, arms crossed beneath her head, elbow linked with Steve who’s laying right beside her.

They’ve been camped out in the Buckley’s living room all day, spending one of their rare days off together watching movies and tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. When Robin had missed one too many times, she’d retaliated against Steve by dumping her entire bowl of extra-buttery popcorn atop his head.

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Steve whispers back, not looking away from the Buckley’s popcorn ceiling even as he feels Robin shift at his side.

He feels Robin’s arm slip free from his own, leaving him bereft. But then she’s hovering over him, cupping his cheeks with hands still slippery with butter and staring deeply into his eyes. “That boy is head over heels for you, dingus,” she says, not even blinking. When Steve tries to avert his gaze, she grabs his face more tightly, fingernails digging into skin. “It’s impossible not to be in love with you, okay?”

There’s a knot lodged in his throat as he stares up at the other half of his soul. “You’re not.”

She slaps him lightly, hit gentled even further by her oily palm. “I’m a lesbian,” she hisses, voice quiet like even though they’d gone out hours ago, she’s afraid her parents might hear her. “And you know I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

“I always wanted a sexless marriage,” Steve replies.

“That’s what Eddie’s for.”

Steve shoves her off and wrestles her to the ground. They grapple like children, but Steve’s laughing now, hope bubbling out of him at every seam, like all he’d needed was Robin’s words to be able to picture a future he wants to grow old in.

Steve and Robin, a sexless marriage, and Eddie in his bed, at his side, so intertwined with his life that they’d need a crowbar to pry him out.

Robin wins the wrestling match, forearm against his chest pressing him down into the carpet. Steve’s future’s spooling out in front of him, he can almost taste the too-sweet coffee Eddie would make every morning, the rubbery eggs Eddie and Robin would serve with pride.

“You really think he likes me?” Steve asks, quiet, hopeful, wistful.

Robin snorts and drops down to his chest, rubbing her face against his shirt. “That boy’s in love with you,” she says with so much confidence that Steve almost believes her. “No way in hell he’s just in it for the sex.”

Steve hums but doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say, no way to describe the squirming, writhing feelings lodged beneath his sternum, kicked up into a flurry by Robin’s words. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes tight, burying his nose in her hair, Sandra Dee serenading Danny Zuko on the TV behind them.

The movie plays to its inevitable conclusion: the boy always gets the girl in the movies, and as the credits roll, Steve glances down at his watch.

He jumps up on instinct, sending Robin sprawling on the carpet with a grunt. “The fuck?”

“It’s almost nine!” Steve cries rushing around the Buckley’s living room, picking up his wallet and keys from where they’d fallen out of his pocket. “I missed it!”

“Just call him,” Robin says, propping herself up on her elbows but otherwise not moving from where he’d left her.

“I don’t have his number,” Steve replies, already stuffing his feet into his sneakers, heels crushing the backs as he tries to wedge them on without having to untie them.

Eddie calls him, always. Steve has never called him back, has never had to.

“I do!” Robin calls, but Steve barely hears her, already out of the house and toward his car, ready to break every speed limit in the book to get to the Munson’s trailer in record time.

What will Eddie think? Will he be worried? Will he think Steve forgot about him? Or worse, will he not care at all?

He peels out of the Buckley’s drive and speeds like his life depends on it.

***

For the first time, Steve doesn’t answer when Eddie calls. Keith had hung up on him after confirming that Steve was off that day, and the Harrington house had just rang and rang before kicking him to the answering machine.

He doesn’t leave a message.

Is this the beginning of the end? First a few missed phone calls, and then pretty soon Eddie hasn’t seen Steve in three weeks. Ten years down the line they’ll pass each other in the grocery store and give those polite little head nods that people give when they used to know someone and don’t anymore.

He collapses onto the couch, pulling the blanket from its back to huddle into as his brain ticks away. It’s just—he knows there could be a million reasons Steve didn’t answer. Really, he does. But, this thing they have has always had an expiration date on it, and he can feel that thought curdling in his brain like rotten milk.

When someone knocks on the door, he doesn’t get up.

The knocks get quicker and louder, like whoever’s out there thinks he might not have heard them. Eddie should open the door before they bust it down, but he’s too busy being in his blanket cocoon, wallowing in his tragic, unrequited feelings.

When the door opens, he freezes.

Footsteps sound into the room, sounding loud against the carpet. Who just walks into someone else’s home when they don’t answer? A robber? But, no, they wouldn’t knock, would they?

“Eddie?”

He bolts up, peering over the back of the couch, blanket still around his shoulders. There, Steve Harrington stands, hair all fucked up like he’d been running his hands through it, eyes trained unerringly on Eddie where he sits, stupefied.

Steve’s wearing the same goddamn sweats as the first time he’d come over, with a cutoff Bowie shirt that has Buckley written all over it, cut short enough that Eddie can see his happy trail, and just the hint of his belly button.

“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, and it’s only as his voice scratches out of his throat that he realizes he must’ve been crying.

Steve must realize at the exact same time because he says, “have you been crying?” as he takes three quick strides to hover over Eddie, grabbing his cheeks in both hands and rubbing the tacky tear stains off his skin. Eddie averts his gaze, glancing down so he doesn’t have to look at Steve’s imploring face, but that puts him looking directly at his hairy stomach and that’s no better.

Even now, Eddie wants to lick it.

“No,” Eddie says, not looking up until Steve moves one of his hands to below Eddie’s chin and forces his face up.

“Why have you been crying?” Steve asks quietly.

Eddie swallows. It’s loud in the quiet of the living room, no background noise to mask the sound. “You didn’t answer,” he says, and it feels telling, somehow. Like Steve will hear the confession lurking beneath the words.

Steve sighs and sinks down to his knees, putting his face just below Eddie’s, the couch creating a barrier between them that aches like an open wound. “I was at Robin’s,” Steve says, still holding Eddie’s chin gently. “I lost track of time.”

There’s an apology lurking beneath the simple words, and suddenly, Eddie’s so fucking tired of the way they talk around each other, neither saying what they actually mean. “I thought maybe you were done with me,” Eddie says, voice rasping, unused to saying the honest truth.

“No,” Steve blurts, eyes wider than Eddie’s ever seen them. He crowds into Eddie’s space as much as he can with the couch in the way. “Never Eddie, I love you.”

While Eddie’s entire world shifts and rearranges with those words, he sees the exact moment Steve realizes what he just said. His face blanches, eyes widening even further, so much white showing on the edges of that beautiful brown until he sinks down on his heels, wrenching his hands free of Eddie so he can use them to cover his own face.

Eddie stares at him, words ringing in his head. I love you, I love you, I love you. Eddie’s never heard them before, not in this setting, from someone who isn’t Uncle Wayne. The feeling bursts through him, a supernova of light that has him leaning precariously over the back of the couch to yank Steve’s hands off of his face so he can stare into his wide, startled, beautiful eyes, as he asks, “do you really?”

Before Steve even has a chance to answer, Eddie’s leaned too far and toppled off of the couch, sending them both sprawling into the carpet. His elbow smacks into the ground and he doesn’t even care, too busy crawling onto Steve’s supine form and kissing anywhere he can reach. “Really, Stevie?” he asks between each press of lips. “Do you?”

“Yes?” Steve replies, sounding so unsure that Eddie can’t help what he does next.

For the first time, Eddie presses his lips into Steve’s and takes what he’s wanted all along: everything Steve will give him.

***

Steve’s head aches dully from where it smacked against the floor, but he doesn’t care. Eddie’s lips are soft against his. Steve lays on the Munson’s dirty carpet, unmoving with shock as Eddie presses gentle kiss after gentle kiss into Steve’s unresponsive lips. His eyes are open as he stares up at the shadows Eddie’s lashes create on his cheeks, elongated in the dim slanting light filtering across him from the floor ramp in the corner of the living room. 

There’s a dreamy quality to Steve’s thoughts as they tumble around his brain—he’s already mourning the moment he wakes up.

It feels like dying when Eddie pulls back, eyes open now, and mouth frowning down at him. “Sorry, did I misread that?” he asks, squinting down at Steve. “It’s just, you said—and I thought—shit, I’m sorry!”

It’s as Eddie starts to get up, scrambling out of his lap like it’s radioactive, that Steve begins to realize that he’s in the Munson’s living room, awake and aflame with an aching want as the man he loves clambers off of him because Steve didn’t kiss him back.

He didn’t kiss him back.

“No!” Steve cries, too loud in the quiet of the room, arms reaching behind Eddie’s back and yanking him down. Eddie’s bony hips bite into his skin, but Steve doesn’t care. “No, you didn’t—just, what’s happening, man?”

Eddie stops trying to escape, palms big and sure against Steve’s chest as he props himself up, squinting down at Steve in blatant confusion. “Well, first you said you loved me,” Eddie replies, tapping one of his fingers against Steve’s sternum like he’s counting out the order of events for him. “I said it, too, and then you didn’t kiss me back, so I’m lost here… man.”

Eddie’s mouth twists wryly as he tacks on the last word, mockingly amused by Steve the way he always is. Steve notices the smile, he notices everything about Eddie, but his mind’s too caught on Eddie’s words to appreciate it.

“You didn’t,” Steve replies, something unrecognizable in his voice—wonder, maybe. Awe. Eddie’s got a little confused furrow between his brows, so Steve reaches out to smooth it out. “You love me?”

Eddie’s eyes blow wide, brows going up until his forehead’s all crinkled up. “I didn’t?” It’s a question, but Eddie’s already nodding before Steve gets a chance to answer, sharp enough to knock Steve’s hand off from between his eyes. Steve trails it down, settling fingertips lightly against Eddie’s cheekbone, thumb rubbing reverently against his jawline.

Eddie leans forward, fingers trailing up over his chest, over his neck, big hands cupping the expanse of both Steve’s cheeks as he leans down, close enough that all Steve can see is the dark brown expanses of Eddie’s eyes.

“Steve Harrington,” he says, voice solemn. Steve’s gaze flickers back and forth, trying to read every little thought that flits behind those beautiful eyes. “I love you.”

Steve sucks in a breath, and it lodges there, somewhere deep in his lungs. The silence hangs between them, charged with enough electricity to restart his heart.

“…man,” Eddie tacks on again, and Steve chokes on a laugh, breath rushing out of him as Eddie grins, every one of his teeth on display.

“You’re the fucking worst,” Steve whispers as he drags Eddie down, any reply he might have gotten trapped between their mouths.

It’s all teeth at first, Eddie laughing into the kiss until Steve sucks Eddie’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites down hard enough to make him gasp. Steve takes the invitation that’s given, swiping his tongue shallowly into Eddie’s panting mouth just to listen to him whine.

The sound activates something in Steve—something dark that just wants to take. Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder hard enough to knock him off Steve’s lap and onto his side on the carpet. He keeps shoving until Eddie’s on his back, pupils blown, hair in a fucked up halo around his head as he looks up at Steve reverently, as if he’s the one that’s divine.

He wastes no time crawling over Eddie’s body, pushing at his knees until his legs are spread wide, kept open by Steve’s weight settling between them.

Eddie, always easy, is already gasping and writhing beneath him, humping up against Steve erratically, desperately trying to get any pressure against the bulge in his jeans. Steve leans back far enough that he can press his forearm into Eddie’s hips, hard enough to still his movements.

Eddie whines, bucking against his hold. Steve waits, watching his needy face twist into something torturous as Eddie realizes that Steve’s not budging. His eyes are scrunched closed hard enough that stars must be bursting beneath his lids. Winded and petulant, finally, Eddie stills.

Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, until Eddie opens his eyes, lashes wet as he looks up at Steve. He opens his mouth to speak, but clicks it back shut when Steve digs his fingernails gently into Eddie’s hip.

“The fucking worst,” Steve says again.

Eddie swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. Steve wants to tip Eddie’s chin up, bite against that spot, suck on it until Eddie begs him to stop.

But then Steve flicks his eyes back up at Eddie’s face, and he gets caught on his lips. His mouth’s slick with spit, bottom lip plumped from Steve sucking on it. When Eddie’s tongue darts out and wets them further, Steve’s lost.

He’s powerless to resist removing his hold from Eddie’s hips, letting their bodies slide back together so he can kiss Eddie’s wanting mouth. Eddie writhes against him again, hips rabbiting up. Steve wants to press him back into the carpet, keep his stupid fucking handcuff belt from clacking with his movements, but he can’t bring himself to stop kissing Eddie’s lips long enough to achieve it.

He settles for delving into Eddie’s mouth with his tongue, shoving it far enough back that Eddie chokes on it. He goes slack beneath him, mouth open wide, practically begging Steve to go deeper. He can feel Eddie’s erratic heartbeat from where his hand is cradling his neck, thumb pressed hard into his pulse point.

Only when he feels like he’s about to pass out does Steve leans back far enough to catch his breath. They’re both panting into each other’s open mouths. There’s a tremor running through Eddie’s entire body as he gazes up at Steve, eyes half mast.

“Steve,” he pleads, asking for something with just his eyes.

Steve rubs his neck, soothing him like a lame horse as he asks, “what do you need, baby?”

Eddie’s eyes shut, and he shudders as the term of endearment leaves Steve’s mouth. Steve keeps rubbing his skin, smoothing over acne scars and freckles alike as he waits for Eddie’s brain to come back online.

He opens his eyes, pupils blown all to shit as he looks up at Steve, still silent, still begging.

“What do you need?” Steve asks again.

Eddie swallows, cheeks darkening from a lustful pink to a painful-looking red as he finally, blessedly answers. “In my mouth?” he asks. When all Steve does is continue to rub his neck, he clarifies, blush traveling from the apples of his cheeks all the way to his ears. “Your dick in my—in my mouth.”

Steve leans down to kiss his cheek, the blood pooling beneath Eddie’s skin warm against his lips. “Anything you want,” Steve murmurs against his skin. “Thank you for telling me.”

Eddie shudders, dick twitching against Steve’s from the confines of his pants, but he doesn’t otherwise move as he waits to find out what Steve will do.

What he does is scramble back, too far gone to play it cool any longer as he shoves his sweatpants down just far enough that his painfully hard cock springs free. At the sight of Steve bared before him, Eddie bucks against him again, trying to knock him off. Steve sits down hard, settling his full weight on Eddie, pinning him to the carpet.

Eddie melts, stilling as he looks up at Steve like he’s something precious. It hits Steve straight in the sternum, that look—lust intertwined so inexorably with love that Steve can’t figure out where one ends and the other begins.

No one’s ever looked at him that way before.

Eddie waits beneath him, suddenly a font of patience as he waits for Steve to rise above the tide of emotion, cock still hard in the warm air of the Munson’s living room. The tide swallows him up—Steve lets it, nothing but love in his voice as he grabs his hard length, scoots up Eddie’s supine form, and nudges at his chin until his mouth drops open, warm breaths puffing against where he’s most sensitive.

“Open up,” Steve murmurs, hand moving from his chin, caressing up to his smooth cheek as he slides into Eddie’s warm, open heat.

***

Steve’s weight is pinning Eddie down into the carpet, hand firm enough against his face that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get more than the tip of Steve’s dick into his mouth. He’d lost all sense of time somewhere between Steve telling Eddie he loved him and sliding himself into Eddie, but it feels like hours have passed with Steve shallowly thrusting into his mouth.

Eddie sucks on the head, trying to get a little more, aching to be filled. He whines when Steve pulls back out, pace unhurried as his thighs flex against Eddie’s ribs, barely pressing himself back inside. Eddie moans, low enough in his throat that his tongue vibrates against the head of Steve’s dick. Steve jerks, thrusts in deeper with a grunt. 

Steve’s cock’s deep enough that he’s choking on it, mind blank as he gasps for air. “Fuck, your mouth,” Steve mutters as he shifts back, almost pulling himself free entirely.

That’s the idea, Eddie tries to say, words coming out unintelligibly garbled around Steve’s length. The vibrations must feel good because Steve thrusts in again, harder this time, head barely breaching the back of his throat. Eddie whines, scrabbling unseeingly for Steve’s hips, trying to keep him there, so deep that Eddie’s lips are pressed against his pubes.

It doesn’t work, Eddie’s grip is too weak to stop Steve from pulling back as Eddie cries futilely on his cock. But this time, while Eddie sucks hard at the head of Steve’s dick, he thrusts in again, fast enough that it almost hurts.

He does it again. And again. And again, until Eddie’s hands go lax, lost to the sensations playing against his tongue. He swirls it around Steve’s shaft, memorizing the musky taste of his warm skin, senses overwhelmed as he loses all sense of reality.

Steve’s all-consuming, eating up Eddie’s remaining higher brain functions until he can only think in monosyllabic words like more, and fuck, and come. He’s harder than he’s been in his life, dick painfully pressed into the confines of his still-buttoned jeans as he humps up into the air, desperate.

Steve shifts his hand from Eddie’s cheek and into his hair, gripping his tangled tresses to yank his head up, craning his neck uncomfortably as he pushes himself impossibly deeper. Eddie gags, jaw straining around the girth of Steve’s cock, light headed from oxygen deprivation.

Steve pulls out, letting go of the hold on his hair suddenly enough that Eddie’s head thunks into the carpet, eyes staring unseeingly up at the ceiling until Steve’s own worried face blocks it out. 

“You okay?” he asks, hands brushing gently against his cheeks, trailing over his neck and down beneath the collar of his shirt like he’s looking for wounds.

“Why’d you stop?” Eddie asks, the sound of his own gravely voice sending another wave of lust through him that has his hips twitching, neck straining to get Steve back in his mouth. “Please, please, please.”

“You’re crying, baby,” Steve whispers, hands still too soft against him.

Eddie blinks, only then noticing the burn of his eyes, the way his eyelashes are clumping together. “Want it,” Eddie begs, voice fucked. “Please.”

Steve stares at him for another endless second, unblinking. Eddie watches something unfathomable shift behind Steve’s eyes, understanding dawning into something darker, as Steve scrambles back just enough that he can lick the tacky tears off of Eddie’s cheeks and out of his lashes once Eddie closes his eyes.

Then Steve’s tongue is back in Eddie’s mouth, wetter than before like Steve had let saliva pool in the back of his throat before feeding it to him. His tongue fucks into his mouth, licking so far into him that he must be able to taste his own precome at the back of Eddie’s throat. Steve doesn’t stop when Eddie chokes. Eddie wants more.

As if hearing his thoughts, Steve pulls back, ignoring Eddie’s bereft whining as he straddles his ribs again, sure fingers gathering up Eddie’s hair tenderly at the back of his skull before clenching his fist, pulling against the hair follicles hard enough that Eddie’s eyes start watering.

Steve doesn’t hesitate this time as he fucks into Eddie’s mouth, yanking Eddie’s face up and down in time with his thrusts, using him for his own satisfaction.

He’s never been more turned on in his life.

His own hips are twitching, desperate for anything as Steve thrusts again, and again, and again, forcing Eddie to take what he’s given.

As Steve’s thrusts grow sloppy, he lowers Eddie’s head to the carpet, letting go of his hair entirely to grind himself against Eddie’s face. He’s deeper than he’s ever been, the entire head of his cock in Eddie’s throat, devolving into a dirty grind, barely thrusting like he can’t bear to part from the warm clutch of Eddie’s body even for a second.

Eddie’s so lightheaded that spots are bursting behind his eyes, and his throats convulsing as he gags against the intrusion. 

It’s loud in the quiet of the living room, the dirty wet sound of Steve’s cock pushing itself into Eddie’s throat, forcing him to take all that he has to give until he’s gagging, that sound somehow just as wet, just as lewd. Eddie can’t hear anything else, ears muffled by the press of Steve’s thighs against his ears. 

His brain’s gone numb, oxygen deprived and fucked stupid as Steve, takes, and takes, and takes until Eddie’s crying with it. 

Steve doesn’t stop—Eddie doesn’t want him to. He’s hardly been touched, and yet he damn-near feels like he might come just from the musty taste on his tongue.

He wants to die with Steve Harrington’s cock down his throat.

But when Steve’s dick starts twitching, he pulls it out, ignoring Eddie’s begging as he strips it, tip close enough to Eddie’s mouth that he can almost taste it. He opens his mouth, ravenous for anything Steve will give him.

“Please,” Eddie asks, and like that’s all he’d been waiting for, Steve’s cock pulses and spills, creamy white liquid painting itself all over Eddie’s face.

He milks himself through it, waiting until every drop has been spilled before he lets go of his spent cock and uses his fingers to spread the mess around Eddie’s face, scooping up come and tears alike and feeding them into Eddie’s panting, open mouth.

Eddie closes his mouth around the intrusion and sucks.

“What do you need?”

***

Eddie’s sucking on his fingers, eyes closed, tongue sliding sensually between them like he can’t bear to miss a drop of the come Steve had fed into his mouth. Steve’s soft cock gives a valiant twitch where it’s drooping between his legs. If he hadn’t just come harder than he had in his entire life, this would be enough to send him over the edge.

“Eddie,” Steve says, pulling his fingers free and using both hands to grab Eddie’s sticky cheeks, waiting until his hazy eyes open to ask again, “what do you need?”

Eddie’s twitching beneath him, hips rolling like all he wants is to fuck something, but when he finally speaks, he says, “fuck me,” with enough need that it comes out as a command.

Steve’s dick twitches again before slumping pitifully back into itself.

“I just came,” Steve says, feeling orgasm dumb and almost as desperate as Eddie. Eddie closes his eyes again, sniffs like he’s going to fucking cry, he’s so horny. Steve pets at his cheek, suddenly desperate to give him anything he wants.

Steve tucks himself back into his sweats, sliding off Eddie, entire body shaky as he kneels between his raised knees, hands trembling against the handcuff clasp of his belt. The handcuffs clacking against each other is loud as it echoes through the room. “This fucking belt,” Steve mutters, fingers fumbling to get it open. “So fucking loud over the phone, Eddie, you have no fucking idea.”

Eddie groans, hips twitching, making undoing said belt even harder, but when Steve’s gaze snaps up, Eddie’s mouth is hanging open, lips still covered in Steve’s own spend. He stares, gobsmacked by the sight of him once more—the mess he’s made of him. But, when Eddie’s hips twitch again, Steve trails his gaze back down, flicking his wrist just right to unclasp the stupid belt.

“Do you know how fucking crazy it made me,” Steve demands, belt clacking loudly as he shoves it out of the way, fingers shaking against the button of his jeans.

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie replies, voice gravelly and wrecked. Steve wants to pour honey down his throat, soothe the ache before fucking that rasp right back into his mouth all over again. “Those fucking sweatpants, Harrington?”

Steve looks down at his own sweatpants, perplexed. They’re stained with grease on one of his hips, and loose enough to be unflattering. “What—”

“You look so soft,” Eddie cuts in, “want to slide my hand into your pants while you make fucking breakfast.”

The image hits Steve in the chest—him at the stove, Eddie behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder peering into the pan as he slips his hand beneath the waistband of Steve’s sweats, stroking him as he scrambles their eggs.

“Fuck,” Steve says, desperate as he flicks the button on Eddie’s jeans open, yanking them and Eddie’s underwear down together.

Eddie’s dick’s harder than Steve’s ever seen it, tip purple and already leaking like just Steve looking at it is almost enough to send him over the edge. It looks damn-near painful, pointing directly up at the ceiling, waiting for Steve to touch it.

“That’s the idea,” Eddie replies, grinning when Steve looks back up at his face.

It takes a second for Steve to place that as an answer to his expletive, and when he does, he bends down, licking one long stripe up Eddie’s cock just to hear him cry before hooking his arms under Eddie’s knees and shoving them up, practically bending Eddie in half as he makes himself at home between Eddie’s legs.

“What are you—” Steve licks over Eddie’s hole, making Eddie’s question trail off into a startled moan.

When no further questions come his way, Steve adjusts, letting go of Eddie’s legs so they settle over his shoulders, and licks at him again, this time with more purpose, wriggling his way inside the tight heat of Eddie’s body as he twitches.

“Holy shit.”

Steve hums in reply, gratified when the vibration makes Eddie’s entire body jolt like he’s been electrocuted. He does it again, worming his tongue in deeper, the fit tight enough to almost hurt.

He pulls back. “No, no, please,” Eddie begs, voice going quiet and breathing turning erratic as Steve spits on his hole once, twice, three times, thumbs pulling him open enough that the saliva sinks into him. “Shit.”

Steve licks into him again, drawing back just far enough to suck at his rim hard until Eddie shouts. Eddie contracts then loosens, Steve sinking his tongue into him, deeper this time. Eddie’s squirming like he’s not sure whether he wants to move closer or twitch away in overstimulation. Steve doesn’t give him a choice, uses one arm to hold against Eddie’s bent thighs, pressing him into the carpet to keep him still.

His other hand finds its way between them, pointer finger pushing into Eddie’s hole, skin tugging against skin until Steve spits into him and sinks it in smoothly past the first knuckle. Eddie shouts again, entire body vibrating as Steve fucks into him with his finger, torturously slow.

“Good?” Steve asks, finger never stopping its movement as he leans back to survey his spoils. Eddie’s dicks even harder now, and he’s writhing, head shaking back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open as he pants for breath. “Eddie?”

When he still doesn’t answer, Steve stills his finger where it’s still stuffed inside Eddie’s body, watching as his whole face crumples in on itself. “Eddie,” Steve says again, voice commanding enough that Eddie opens his eyes, tears clinging to his lashes as he peers down at Steve between his legs, gaze hazy and unfocused. “Still good?”

Eddie nods hard enough that his neck cracks. “Don’t stop,” he begs.

Steve doesn’t have to be told twice. He moves his finger again, thrusting with more force as he leans back down, licking around the intrusion with enough pressure that his tongue sinks in right alongside it.

He adds his middle finger, licking between them as he pushes them in deep and then curls them, finding the spot inside Eddie’s body that makes him beg to stop, beg for more, cry for anything.

Eddie’s been hard since before he got Steve’s cock in his mouth, long before Steve had begun finger fucking him in earnest, so he’s not surprised when it only takes a few more thrusts at that spot inside him for Eddie to smack his shoulder hard in warning.

“Steve, Steve, I’m gonna—”

Steve fucks in his fingers harder, hand cramping as he pounds into Eddie’s body even as he clenches around him, mouth suctioning at the side of his rim as he fucks Eddie through it. He keeps it up as Eddie’s legs settle more firmly against Steve, hand dropping bonelessly to the carpet, body going pliant around Steve’s breaching fingers.

Steve leans back, gently removing his fingers and easing Eddie’s boneless legs to the floor. When Steve finally catches sight of his cock, he groans at the sight of the mess Eddie’s made. It’s in his pubes, on his shirt, pooling on his own fucking neck.

He lays over Eddie’s lax body, uncaring of the mess he’s making of his own clothes as he scoops some of the come from Eddie’s neck and slips it into Eddie’s open mouth, waiting for him to suck it clean from his fingers before pulling it free.

He presses his lips to Eddie’s, absurdly gentle for the debauchery now covering Eddie. Steve doesn’t care, so full of love he’s fit to burst. Eddie kisses him back, just as soft, opening up for Steve like a sunflower toward the light.

Steve keeps kissing him, never wants to stop even as his lungs constrict with the need to breathe. When he finally is forced to pull back for air, he keeps his forehead pressed to Eddie’s breathing in the same air that Eddie’s panting out.

They stay like that for a long time.

Eddie’s pliant when Steve finally pulls him up off the floor, and ushers him into the bathroom. He’s quiet when Steve strips him down, pushing him into the shower to clean them both up with soft hands, Eddie half-asleep against his shoulder.

Steve dries him off and brushes his hair while he’s seated on the toilet seat, eyes closed. Eddie leans into each touch like a cat being stroked, soft even in the fluorescent lights of the Munson’s small bathroom. 

“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs, pulling him to standing and wrapping a towel around him before leading him through the dark trailer and into his own bedroom.

He digs through Eddie’s discarded clothes until he finds them both clean boxers to change into. Steve ignores Eddie’s little questioning hum as he leaves the bedroom to fetch a glass of water, coming back as quickly as he can.

Eddie’s still standing where he left him, at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on the door. But, when Steve hands him the water, he drinks, wincing as the cold water hits his throat. It must hurt, but he drinks it down. 

Steve takes the empty cup back, leaving it on the desk to tuck them both into Eddie’s cold bed, warming his sheets up with their combined body heat. 

Steve doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s dark, and there’s sleep pulling at him, made more appealing by the warmth of Eddie’s body beneath his hands, heads sharing the same pillow.

“Did you mean it?” Steve whispers, can’t help it with Eddie warm and pliant beside him. “You weren’t just horny?”

Eddie’s eyes are soft in the light filtering in from the window, mouth quirked in amusement as he replies, “I’m always horny.” His hands are gentle as he caresses Steve’s eyebrow, cheekbone, jaw. “But I meant it.” Steve waits, breathless and hopeful for Eddie to say it again.

“I love you.”

Steve tucks his face into Eddie’s neck, kissing the skin he finds there. “Love you, too.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around him, pulling him impossibly closer, hidden away in the safe haven of Eddie’s bedroom, swaddled in worn-soft sheets.

***

For once, Steve’s still in bed when Eddie wakes up. His arm’s slung around Eddie’s waist, a warm brand pushing him into the mattress, and their legs are tangled between them, knees pressed against one another. It’s warm, cozy where the trailer’s usually chilly on a winter morning.

Steve’s head is on the same pillow as Eddie’s, close enough that he can count every one of his eyelashes, breath puffing gently against Eddie’s cheek. He stares at him bathed in the morning light filtering in through his closed curtains, breathless.

He wants to reach out, touch him softly. It takes him a minute to remember that he can.

Steve groans when Eddie’s hand cups his cheek, a small disgruntled sound as he scrunches up his nose in his sleep. Eddie soothes at his jaw with his thumb, enamored. It takes a few brushes against his skin for Steve’s eyes to blink open, still hazy, barely awake. 

When he catches sight of Eddie, he smiles like it’s a reflex, small and sleepy. Eddie leans forward, breaching the scant inches separating them to press his lips to Steve’s gently, mouth open and wet. Steve hums and kisses back, lips just as soft.

It takes a few long moments for Eddie to get his fill and lean back, heart constricting in his chest with the breadth of his feelings when he catches sight of the little smile still on Steve’s face.

“Your mouth tastes like ass,” he says, still smiling all soft and warm even as Eddie sputters.

“Your mouth tastes like ass,” Eddie retorts, jabbing him in the chest when all he does is laugh, voice still sleep-rough. “After all, it wasn’t me who…”

When he trails off, Steve’s grin sharpens, grows fangs as he leans closer to Eddie, their noses brushing as he continues where Eddie left off. “Had a tongue up someone’s asshole.”

He moves reflexively, shoving Steve hard enough to send him tumbling off the edge of the bed, disappearing from sight. He stares at the now-vacant spot beside him for a long moment before scrambling forward on the mattress, peering over the edge. Steve’s splayed out on the carpet, half in a pile of Eddie’s dirty laundry, eyes wide as he stares up at Eddie.

“Shit, sorry, I panicked!” Eddie cries, reaching down toward Steve’s prone body to help him up.

Steve’s fingers wrap around his wrist and he yanks, sending Eddie tumbling off the bed right after him, landing half on top of him as he cackles.

“What the fuck?” Eddie asks, but Steve’s got his arms wrapped around him again, pulling him into his bare chest, and it’s hard to maintain any level of disgruntlement with all that bodily contact.

“Sorry, baby,” he soothes, fingers brushing through Eddie’s hair until he melts into him fully, letting his head settle in the crook of Steve’s neck. “Just wanted you close to me.”

Eddie huffs, but kisses the warm skin beneath his lips. “Smooth talker,” he mutters like it’s a complaint, and not the main reason they’d even gotten this far. If it wasn’t for Steve and his smooth fucking words, Eddie would’ve never moved past cheesy pick-up lines and desperately frequent phone calls. 

Before Eddie can think of something suitably clever to say, there’s a knock on Eddie’s closed bedroom door, and Wayne calls, “boys, breakfast.”

“Coming!” Eddie calls back, even as Steve goes stiff and unyielding beneath him. He plants his hands on Steve’s pectorals, levering himself up enough to peer down into Steve’s spooked face. “You okay?”

Steve swallows, throat clicking dryly as he nods unconvincingly. Eddie stares him down, waiting for the truth to spill out of his stupid, perfect lips. “What if he doesn’t like me?” Steve blurts, face immediately pinking as Eddie stares down at him, gobsmacked.

“Wayne?” Eddie demands, sitting up so he can get a better look at Steve’s expression, knees bracketing his hips. “He loves you.”

“But that was before,” Steve replies, leaning up on his bent elbows, forearms straining beneath his weight as he tilts closer to Eddie, whispering like he’s afraid Wayne’s got his ear pressed up against the door. “Before we started dating.”  

Eddie can’t help the way he grins when that word leaves Steve’s mouth. It’s just—love is one thing, but dating? Dating implies things that Eddie’s been trying desperately not to want. It’s dinner together, and holding hands covertly at the movies, and parking up at the quarry to look at the stars. 

There are actions involved in dating, a future laid out before him if only he’s brave enough to grasp it. Eddie bends his neck down, pressing one quick kiss to Steve’s cheek, afraid that if he goes for the lips, they won’t emerge from this room until breakfast has long since gone cold.

Steve stays on the ground as Eddie jumps up, invigorated, and begins rifling through his drawers for suitable clothing. He pulls on his own change of clothes first, taking the time to pull on jeans and his belt now that he knows it drives Steve crazy.

“Hate to break it to you, Stevie,” Eddie says, throwing a clean shirt toward him with enough accuracy that it blankets his face entirely, “but Wayne definitely already thought we were dating.”

He throws a pair of sweats at him too and saunters out of the room, closing the door on the sound of Steve’s sputtering.

He hits the head, and by the time he leaves the bathroom, Steve’s already sitting at the table, looking sleep-rumpled and warm as he talks with Wayne.

“—stay here much more, and I’ll have half a mind to charge ya rent,” Wayne’s saying as Eddie slides into his seat at the table.

Steve’s smiling as he reaches out, linking his fingers with Eddie’s beneath the table before settling it on the top, for all the world to see. “I can live with that,” he says, squeezing Eddie’s hand, eyes twinkling blindingly at him.

Eddie blushes, and looks down at his plate, already piled with fluffy pancakes. He eats with his left hand, still clutching Steve’s with his right, getting syrup all over in his hair, but it’s worth it for the way Steve’s thumb keeps rubbing against his own. 

Wayne doesn't comment, but Eddie catches him eyeing their hands, something parental and pleased in the way he asks Steve about who he’s rooting for in the latest sportsball tournament. 

He never lets go of Eddie’s hand. 

The phone doesn’t ring until they’re standing side by side at the sink, Eddie washing as Steve dries, the water running cold thanks to Wayne’s morning shower. He hands the plate he’s working on over to Steve and grabs the receiver with soapy hands.

“Yello,” Eddie says, looking over at Steve just to watch him roll his eyes.

“He better be with you,” Robin’s stern voice crackles down the line. “Because no one’s answering at his house, and if he went off to die in the woods or something because you broke his heart—”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Eddie interrupts, unsurprised when Robin talks right over him.

“—I’ll never forgive you, Eddie Munson.”

He waits just long enough to make sure she’s done berating him before turning to Steve, “it’s for you, dear.”

Steve sets the plate he was drying on the rack, and takes the phone from Eddie’s hands.

“Robin?” he asks, somehow so in-tune with his long lost younger twin that he knows it's her even before she’s spoken. Eddie loves them both so fucking much. 

As he goes to finish the dishes alone, he keeps an ear open to Steve’s side of the conversation.

“Sorry, Bobby, I got distracted.” Eddie grins, movements slow as he washes the soap off a mug, unwilling to miss any of the conversation that he can catch. “Yeah, yeah, you were right,” Steve says, sounding exasperated before he drops his voice even lower. But, Steve’s always been a shit whisperer, and Eddie still hears it. “He does like me.”

Eddie grins as he dries the last mug before turning around, bracing his back against the counter as he watches Steve speak to his best friend. He looks soft in Eddie’s borrowed sweatpants, hair going every which way after he’d gone to sleep with it still wet last night. 

Eddie wants to keep him forever. And, as Steve hangs up the phone and pushes into Eddie’s space like he belongs there, it hits him suddenly that he might get to. Maybe, if Eddie’s really lucky, Steve might even want him to. 

“I’ve gotta head to work soon,” Steve murmurs, crowding Eddie into the cupboard and pressing their lips together gently. “But, I’ll see you later?”

For the first time since this whole thing started, he sounds nervous. Hopeful, like there’s any chance at all of Eddie declining. “Whenever you want,” Eddie replies, cupping his face and staring into his eyes. “Any time, any place, I’m yours, baby.”

Steve beams, happy and in love, as he leans forward to press one final kiss against Eddie’s lips, and then he’s gone.

He buzzes for the rest of the day, always on the cusp of rushing out the door to surprise Steve during his shift. But, if calling too soon after the first date is taboo, turning up at their place of work is even worse. What’s the protocol if you’ve been having sex for months and only just put a label on it?

Their usual call system has presumably gone to shit. Steve hadn’t mentioned it, and Eddie was too nervous to ask. They’re dating now, all the previous rules of their relationship overwritten, no matter how he’ll miss Steve every night at eight p.m., the association baked straight into his DNA.

But, Steve hadn’t asked him to call, and Eddie doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, so he sits, and he stews, and he waits to hear from Steve, hoping “later” actually translates to “soon.”

Eddie already misses him.

Still, he’s hovering by the phone as the hour hand on the clock creeks closer and closer to eight. He’s not going to call. He won’t. But just as the hand ticks over, the phone rings. 

Eddie rushes to answer, fingers fumbling enough that he drops the receiver and has to dive for it, cracking his knees on the ground. He barely notices the pain as he presses the phone to the side of his face, buzzing with a sickening mix of desperation and excitement. 

“Hello?” he says, embarrassingly breathless as he waits for something besides static to crackle down the line.

“What are you wearing?” Steve asks, voice suggestive and sly.

Eddie grins.

And, that's it! I hope you all enjoyed it! As always, thanks to @queenie-ofthe-void for their wonderful beta editing, and also for encouraging me in getting out of my comfort zone with this one. I couldn't do it without you <3<3<3