#Floral Stab

[tallovines]

THAT LITTLE THINGY HAS BEEN GOING AROUND TWITTER, AND I FOUND IT SO FUNNY THAT I COULDN’T JUST *NOT* DO IT AS THEM HEHEHE ^ . ^

(original under cut!!!)

[luna-the-shark4254]

Blows them both up!!!

[non-requestable]

@monigote001 @tallovines hi guys

[floral-atom-collective]

I need to chill out more often

[the-needle-witch]

Today I did this magnolia wreath on a new friend, Indigo, as my half of a tattoo trade!!

[gojosconsort]

OMG I love your writinggg

I'd kill to see a husband Kento who's holding himself during dinner to not just ruin his poor and overly sensitive and innocent wife in front of the poor salad in the dinner table lmao

Have a great day/night/evening! ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔσ”

“so, how’s your day?” you ask your HUSBAND!KENTO, voice all soft and perky, twirling your fork through the salad like you’re not fucking tearing him apart. the dining room glows under the chandelier, that bowl of lettuce and tomatoes sitting there, untouched. kento stabs a cherry tomato with too much force, popping it as he keeps his hands busy while he pictures shoving his cock down your throat, spit dripping all over the table.

“fine,” he says, chewing slow to focus on something—anything—but the way you smile, all innocent in that floral dress hugging your curves just right. his slacks tighten, and he shifts, the chair creaking under him while he fusses with his napkin, picturing bending you over right here, ripping that dress up, fucking you ‘til you scream. he clears his throat, loud and rough, but it’s useless against the thought of pinning you down and fucking you raw.

you take a bite, lips parting, a slick of dressing catching the light, and he spears his plate again, scraping hard, thinking about pinning you down, marking that smooth throat ‘til you’re hoarse. “you sure you’re okay, honey?” you ask, tilting your head, eyes wide and sweet. that dress shifts, flashing collarbone, and he grips the fork tighter, knuckles whitening as he sees himself biting it.

“Just tired,” he mutters, a weak lie as he shoves another bite in his mouth to stop himself from lunging across the table. you nod, buying it, and keep eating, brushing your lips with those delicate fingers while he imagines those wrists in his firm grip behind your back up, pounding you from behind ‘til you’re sobbing—and he nearly chokes. the table’s solid. he knows it’d hold.

he adjusts his tie, fumbling for control, and chugs his water, but it’s pointless against the heat pooling in him while he imagines spreading you wide right here, fucking you ‘til the plates rattle. “—and then she says the deadline’s next week, but i think—” your voice fades to static as you ramble, and he stares at your throat bobbing with each swallow. he’s lost in thoughts of gagging you with his tie, filling you ‘til you’re dripping his seed all over the floor.

“kento?” you frown, pausing with that soft worry, and he exhales hard through his nose, setting his fork down with eerie calm, the clink sharp in the quiet. he’s losing it, hands itching to grab you, ruin you.

“finish your salad,” he says, low and tight, standing and stalking around the table while he thinks about flipping you over, tying you up, making you beg ‘til he’s buried in you. his hand grazes your shoulder—you shiver, and he feels the threads of his restraint snap one by one. “then we’re done here.”

the salad could wait—he couldn’t.

[tallovines]

A LITTLE DRAWING BASED ON THIS POST :3

[green-butterfly-writes]

Little Thief (Part 2)

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

Summary: Red Hood has a new informant, and nobody likes it. Two of the bats meet them. It’s not what they expected.

Trigger Warning for starvation and animal/child abuse. Read at your own risk.

Also, there is angst, but I promise it will get better soon 💚

I'm Dyslexic, and don't have a beta, so spelling mistakes are likely to happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red Hood had a new informant. One he would not name. And nobody liked it. This mystery individual had given him the location of Cobblepot’s new scheme a month ago, a warning about a big bank robbery two weeks later, and a tip to look into what the Black Mask was doing five days ago. It was good information, but Batman (being paranoid as he was) didn’t trust it, and neither did anyone else. It was likely a trap, but Jason protected his informant with such passion that nobody could get anything out of him. At least, not until today.

Jason was out of commission for a week, and Gotham was in deep trouble. The Joker had broken out of Arkham and despite thoroughly examining every inch of every abandoned or rundown theme park, amusement center, and playground in Gotham, they hadn’t found a trace. It took a mix of bribery, black mail, threat of bodily harm and a significant amount of painkillers for Jason to agree to give them instructions on how to get the information they wanted. Which is how they ended up on a random rooftop with a bag of fast food.

~~~

Two figures made an unwelcome arrival at your designated meeting place. Instead of a single pair of feet softly falling on to the roof, and the air being filled with the familiar scent of sweat, gunpowder, and campfire cologne mixing with deep fried chicken, the wind sent a wave of overpowering floral detergent, mint shampoo, and citrus no-tear soap to assault your senses. The sounds of two individuals landing harshly on the roof stabbed at your sensitive ears, and even though the moonlight glowing from behind them obscured their appearances, you could price together who had intruded upon your night.

They both scanned the roof from their vantage point, and you crouched closer to the ground and leaned against the brick box that functioned as an access point to the roof, hoping the shadows would hide you long enough to make an escape plan. 

After seeming to confirm there was no human in sight, the taller of the two figures turned to examine the surrounding buildings, and the smaller crossed his arm over his chest and huffed.

“I don’t trust this,” the smaller one petulantly mumbled, quite enough you weren’t sure the man behind him could have heard, “Everything about this is suspicious, the secrecy, the location, the set up… who trades information for a burger of all things.”

“I heard you the first seven times Robin,” the taller of the two answered, dropping a familiar looking paper bag on the ground before arching into a handstand, “but this is the best — and currently the only — shot we got.” The words hung in the air for a moment before he added, “and it’s not a burger, Jay was very particular about that”

The boy huffed in frustration and looked ready to lose his temper, but with the cargo confirmed as food, your plans of a quick quiet escape were all but abandoned. Even with the smaller one — Robin — facing away momentarily to glare at his upside down companion, the temptation of food was just too strong. You hadn’t seen Red Hood in three days, nor had you eaten in just as many, and your stomach ached with need. Under better circumstances you could have dove between the two and stolen away with the food, but the past several days had been brutal, and every movement hurt. You opted to stay where you were, in hopes a better opening may present itself.

The taller of the two righted himself to his feet, and looked around at the surrounding building again, before lifting one hand to his ear, “you sure we got the right place? I don’t see anyone… no I checked, I’m sure. What do you want us to do,  just wait around? For what?! Yes… Yes! I understand that, but is this really — no, I promise. And who’s fault is that?…” he spoke heredity and harshly, and with all the standard Gotham street noise closer than it could be, it took you a moment to register the mumbling of another voice. You scooted closer in hopes of hearing the other side of the conversation, but due to a mix of pain and exhaustion, you stumbled, disturbing some of the debris around you, and while the taller of the two remained seemingly oblivious to your presence, Robin’s piercing eyes locked on you your location, still obscured in the shadows.

He grabbed hold of the sword on his back, and confidently stepped forward. You hesitated for a moment, before carefully extracting yourself from the dark, staying close to the ground in hopes of seeming as small as possible. Robin froze for a moment upon first impression, though his face was unreadable. He slowly sheathed his sword, and in turn you rose from the ground to stand. He took a soft step forwards, and you did not back away. He took another slow step towards you, lowering himself slightly, trying to appear less frightening, and in turn you made a small shuffle forward. By this point Nightwing had fallen silent, watching your careful dance with his companion. A delicate back and forth until you were three feet apart.

“What are you doing here thalabun?” he asked softly, more rhetorical than anything. You weren't sure how to answer the boy, how to explain your relationship with crime ally's guardian, so you stayed there, looking at him, examining is spiky hair and soft skin, familiarizing yourself with the citrusy smell that wafted off him, listening to his faint, controlled, rithmic breaths. 

“Give me the bag,” his voice was sharp and stern again, head aimed at his elder.

“No way,” came a swift response, “we need it for the informant, remember?”

“I'll only take a little, look at it!” Robin exclaimed gesturing to you, “plus we've been here for almost twenty minutes. I don’t think they’re coming.”

Nightwing seemed to mull it over, carefully examining you, before picking up the bag and launching it at a waiting Robin. Robin unwrapped the chicken sandwich, and pulled off a piece of the patty, tossing it at your feet, where you quickly lapped it up. Nightwing wandered over to where his partner was sitting on the ground and dropped beside him.

“Ok Robin. What's next? The informant is a no-show, and we still need to find the joker. Where else could he be?” they both sat in silence considering the question, pondering what — or rather where — they missed. A small, strangled ‘yip’ echoed into the damp cold of the night, and both vigilanties snapped their attention back to the fox. It yipped again, tail wagging, as if to say ask me. 

“You wouldn't happen to know where the joker is, would you?” Nightwing asked, almost sarcastically. He got a yip in response, and a head bob that resembled a nod. That made him pause…

“You do?” he repeated, beginning to doubt his vision and sanity. But as if to assure him of both, the creature repeated the gesture. “Could you show us?”

That… was a bit more difficult. Your body hurt and you were tired, three days of no food, little sleep, and constant harassment from kids, store owners, and wild animals alike had taken a toll. But you wanted to help. To be useful. At least to pay back the kind souls for feeding you, but also because doing good felt nice. And very little seemed to feel nice these days. So you summoned what strength you had, and launched yourself at them, leaping between, and landing on the hard floor with surprising grace. You pushed all your energy, all your hope, and strength, and thankfulness, into your legs so that they would go, go, GO!

You made it just short of the edge of the roof before your legs gave out and you were consumed. By darkens. By pain. Your back hurt, burning with every cut and bruise you had ever received. Your legs stung and ached. Your stomach clawed at your flesh begging to be filled or released from its prison. You were surrounded by darkness. Deep and unending, it was cold and quiet, yet all too loud, swallowing you, leaving you with nothing but pain. Everything hurt. So, so much. And you were alone, with no one to treat your wounds or hug your suffering heart. There was no warmth to reach for, no soft blankets or squishy stuffed animals. Just you, alone, cold, and in pain.

Two small, steady hands buried themselves beneath you, before carefully leaning you against something soft and sturdy. A kind hand shifted to run from the top of your head to the base of your tail, before repeating the motion. It was soothing, inside and out. Slowly the pain alleviated, and your breathing evened out. The dizzy feeling lifted, and you summoned all of your will power to crack open your eyes just a bit. You were met with the soft concern of Robin, worry visible even though the mask he wore. Robin’s steady breathing softly lifted you ever so slightly, and you focused to match his breathing: in and out, in and out. He smelled clean and strongly of oranges. It reminded you of the girls home you had lived in for six months before it was shut down for feeding the kids expired food. It was not a good place, but it was kinder than many others. You had missed the smell. 

“How about I carry you and you point to where we need to go?” he recommended softly, still running his hand down your spine. You basked in his warmth and soft touch for a moment longer, trying to regain your strength, before shifting in his hold and pointing at Gotham’s skyline. 

“That way?” You briefly nodded in confirmation, and both boys launched themselves off the roof and into the night air.

You had never seen Gotham from this perspective. Sure you climbed up fire escapes, and sat atop many buildings, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like soaring through the air, skyscrapers flying by. The way the wind licked freely at your hair reminded you for a moment of a trip you had taken with your mother long ago. She was driving on an empty dirt road, heading to the beach. The air was sunny and warm, the breeze swayed the trees in a methodical way, and your mother had let you stick your whole upper torso out the window. Distant street noises brought you back to reality, and looking down you saw the cars and people, they reminded you of Mr. Knox’s toy train display, the one that nobody but him was ever allowed to touch. They all looked so small from here. 

Eventually you all landed outside a junkyard with a broken front gate. You led them inside, between piles of broken cars and rubbish, around the sharp metal and spilled oil, all the way to a faded, rusty, ice cream truck. Its hood was dented, the paint was chipped, and it was missing its two back tires, but a distinctive, infuriating, familiar laugh radiated from the inside.

The two vigilantes exchanged a look, before Nightwing turned to you and held out a crinkled paper bag.

“I guess you were Hood's little informant,” he breathed out. You gladly accepted the payment, and retraced your steps out of the junkyard and into the concrete jungle of Gotham.

Once you were long out of view, and hidden in a grimy abandoned back alley, you softly plopped the bag on the ground. Your food was in a bag and wrapped in foil, you’d need thumbs to get it out. You didn’t like being in human form, not right now. You were skinny in both forms, but without the fur coat being a fox provided, the wind and cold seemed to sink right into your bones. It didn’t help that your small amount of clothing had definitely seen better days. But food is more important than momentary discomfort, so you shift, trading your tail and matted fur for arms and skin. 

You unwrap your chicken sandwich and sink in your teeth. The bread gives way softly, and a delicious crunch sounds as the lettuce brakes away into your mouth. The tomato bleeds its sweet juices onto your tongue, and as your mouth finally closes around the first bite of food you’ve had in days, you realize that by some miracle, despite the hour weight and cold conditions, the center of your crispy, chewy chicken patty was still warm. You barely finish chewing the first mouthful before taking a second, desperate for food and warmth.

You wonder if Red Hood is ok.

Thank you all so much for reading! Let me know what you think 💚

Notes:

Nightwing and Robin intentionally landed loader than they normally would in hopes of alerting the informant they had arrived, since they were expecting a human.

Jason, on the other hand, always tries to be especially quiet when coming to meet you because he knows your ears are sensitive.

'thalabun' is fox in Arabic according to google translate. if this wrong please, please let me know, as I intend to use it with some consistency moving forward.

ALSO!! Illustration

tag list:

@4rachn3

Let me know if you want to be added 💚

[dearlenore]

COCONUT MILK. / A.HOTCHNER / SUMMARY - Aaron can’t look away from your chest …

PAIRING: bimbo!reader x aaron hotchner / w/c: 1.0k / fluff

a/n: sorry for writing about boobs so much in only human and very very gay. also first time writing for Hotch, I write for all characters now btw

You were a vision in glitter.

From your sparkly flip-flops to your floral bikini top that left very little to the imagination, you looked like you belonged on the cover of a beach magazine—or maybe in a pop star’s music video. With oversized sunglasses, glossy lips, and a floppy hat so big it could cause shade envy, you were definitely not blending in.

And yet, walking beside you, in a plain black t-shirt, swim trunks, and a face that screamed “I’d rather be anywhere else”—was Aaron Hotchner.

The contrast between you two was almost hilarious. People were definitely staring. A few whispered. One guy even elbowed his friend and pointed. Hotch didn’t react.

You bounced along the sand with excitement, juggling three oversized tote bags and an obnoxiously pink beach umbrella while sipping from your tumbler like it was a wine glass at brunch.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” you said, stopping suddenly. “This spot is so cute! You can see the water and the people, but we’re like, just far enough not to get splashed. Also, the lighting? Chef’s kiss. Perfect for selfies.”

Hotch blinked behind his sunglasses. “That was a lot of criteria.”

“And yet I delivered,” you grinned.

He took the umbrella from you and stabbed it into the sand with the ease of a man trained in all things practical. You laid out your fluffy beach towel—naturally, it was baby pink with glittery flamingos—and flopped down onto it dramatically like you’d just completed a triathlon.

Hotch sat beside you, crossing his arms, watching the water.

You looked him over shamelessly. “You’re not even sweating. That’s kind of hot.”

He raised an eyebrow, not responding, but his mouth twitched slightly like he was trying very hard not to smile.

You rummaged through your tote bag and pulled out a bottle of shimmery sunscreen. “Alright, Hotch. Time to do your civic duty.”

He glanced at the bottle. “What?”

You turned your back to him, letting your hair fall to the side, revealing smooth skin and the bow tied at the back of your bikini. “My back, please.”

He hesitated for just a moment before taking the bottle. “You own sunscreen with glitter?”

“It’s called Summer Seduction SPF 30, and it works really well,” you said. “Plus it smells like cotton candy and fruit.”

He gave the bottle a skeptical look, then uncapped it. You bit back a smirk.

His hands were warm—firm but gentle as they spread the lotion across your back and shoulders. You hummed in satisfaction, leaning into the touch.

“Mmm… You know, for a stoic FBI unit chief, you’re, like, really good at this.”

“I’ve had to apply sunscreen to Jack more times than I can count,” he replied, tone even.

“You comparing me to a kid?”

“No,” he said. And then after a pause: “Only you ever moaned when I did this.”

You froze mid-breath, then looked over your shoulder, eyes wide. “Aaron!”

A smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth now.

“You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe.”

You turned back around quickly, trying to hide your grin—and your flush. Your heart was fluttering just a little too fast for comfort.

When he finished, he leaned back on his elbows beside you, and you flopped onto your stomach, kicking your feet lazily in the air.

“I brought snacks,” you said after a minute. “And a mini fan. Oh—and cherry lip balm.”

He turned to look at you, and unfortunately—or maybe very fortunately—your cleavage was front and center thanks to the way your bikini fit and how you were leaning forward on your elbows.

His eyes flicked down.

It was quick. Almost imperceptible.

But you saw it.

You said nothing at first. Just smiled and tucked your hair behind your ear, pretending to be oblivious. And then, very sweetly:

“Do you want some lip balm? It tastes really good.”

“I don’t need lip balm.”

“But it’s cherry. Don’t you wanna match me?” you teased, applying it slowly, dragging it across your lips with deliberate slowness.

His jaw tightened. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You smiled innocently. “Doing what, Hotch?”

He turned away, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the slight flush on his ears. Victory.

A little while later, after a few selfies and a brief period of you trying to get him to pose with you (he refused, though he did agree to hold your phone while you posed), you ended up sprawled next to each other on the towel, staring up at the umbrella.

“So,” you said lightly, “be honest. This isn’t that bad, right?”

“It’s… peaceful.”

You smiled. “I’m taking that as a glowing review.”

He tilted his head slightly toward you, his voice quieter. “I like when it’s just us.”

Your heart did a little somersault.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you said dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest, “you keep this up and I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his sunglasses now pushed up onto his head, revealing his eyes. They were dark, serious—but soft, too.

“I do like you.”

Your smile faltered. “Wait. Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

You blinked, thrown off balance. “Okay, but like, I thought I was annoying. You know, glittery. Talkative. High-maintenance?”

“You are.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“But you’re also smart. Kind. Funny. You make me breathe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t do that enough.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your brain short-circuited for a moment. Your glittery tumbler tipped over onto the towel and you barely noticed.

You swallowed. “You’re gonna make me cry and ruin my waterproof mascara, you know that?”

He smiled, reaching out to brush a speck of sand from your cheek. “You’ll survive.”

You cleared your throat, desperate to bring back the playful tone before your heart exploded. “Okay, but, real talk—would you still like me if I got a glittery surfboard?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I could match it to my bikini!”

“No.”

“…What about a glittery boogie board?”

He closed his eyes, like he was begging for patience from the heavens. “Please don’t make me arrest you for crimes against water sports.”

You laughed and leaned your head on his shoulder, sighing happily.

And even though he was probably overheating in his black shirt and completely out of his element, Hotch didn’t move away.

Instead, he brought one hand to rest over yours and gave it a gentle squeeze.

[bullet-prooflove]

Masochist: Jack Abbott x Reader (The Pitt)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty

Jack’s not suicidal, not really.

It may look like that when he’s standing on the edge of the building staring down at the sidewalk but the truth is he’s just trying to get himself to feel something. Anything.

Fear, anger, joy.

He’d welcome any of them after a night in The Pitt. He’s worked hard to compartmentalise, to shut down his emotions so he can do the gruelling shit that needs to be done. The problem with that is regulation because turning them back on…

Well, he hasn’t figured that part out yet.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He curses as a sharp pinch on his ass stabs through the numbness. He turns to see you standing there on the opposite side of the guard rail ready to do it again before he slaps your hand away.

“I’m good! I’m good!” He snaps at you, climbing back over to the safe side of the railing.

“You are now.” You say with a smirk that should piss him off, instead it lightens him because you’ve just brought him back from the brink. Again.

A little snap of pain like that, it’s enough to jumpstart his synapses, get him functioning. He used to do it himself with a rubber band but then he got used to it. Now you surprise him with it, a little pinch on his ass whenever he loses himself to the grind.

He’s a masochist at heart, he told you when you first met. He hasn’t disproven it yet.

“If you weren’t so fucking beautiful…” He mutters, his arm wrapping around your waist he draws you to him. The scent of your perfume floods his system, something light and floral, reminding him of the first bursts of daffodils in the spring. He buries his face into the curve of your throat, drinking it in as he holds you close, savouring the softness of your curves. “Tell me you’re getting off shift so I can take you home and fuck you in our bed.”

This is the other thing that happens when you pinch him, that surge of adrenaline, it gets him hard, makes him wanting and after twelve hours in this hell hole, he’s very wanting.

“Two more hours.” You tell him and he huffs against your throat in displeasure. Your hand winds through his hair, grasping at the roots, tugging as you tilt his head back to meet your gaze. He hisses at the sensation, every single nerve ending in his body lighting up like the Fourth of July. He wasn’t kidding about the masochist thing, he’s always needed a little pain to get him off. “Go home, take a shower and be in bed by the time I get back. I’ll ravage you then.”

“Christ.” He whines, his hands squeezing your hips as you release your grip on his hair. “Why will you never let me fuck you on the roof?”

The sound of helicopter blades sounds in the distance and you both glance up to see the red and white chopper making it’s way towards the helipad you’re standing on.

“That.” You say, pointing at the rescue vehicle. “That is why I don’t let you fuck me on the roof.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[gothamite-rambler]

Slade lifted his face mask, leaning forward slightly as he looked Jason up and down. Stepping back, he muttered to himself.

Slade: Daisy said he was related to Batman. That guy is the same height as Batman. Does he-

He shifted his focus to Jason, pointing at him.

Slade: Do you know Petunia?

Jason sighed and lowered his gun.

Jason: It's Rose. Her name is Rose.

Slade: Oh my God, you’re Jason Todd?! You’re the one defiling my daughter?! No! No! I’d rather it be Nightwing, but you? I’m going to be sick!

Jason (scoffing): Yes, cause you, a pedophile, definitely have the right to disagree with me dating your daughter.

Slade: Dating? Where did I go wrong? All the steps I took to make her a super soldier wasted on a Robin?

Jason: Slade-

Batman having silently listened to the exchange slowly lowered his phone and turned to Jason.

Batman: Who's his daughter?

Jason froze remembering his father was teaming up with him. He avoided eye contact from his father, but this only made Batman step closer to him.

Batman: Hood, he better have another daughter named Petunia that you're with and not the one who stabbed her eye out for that creep!

Slade: Why does everyone word that like it's a bad thing that she proved her loyalty to me? Also for your information Bat jerk, I only have the one daughter... to my knowledge and that's the one your worthless son is fucking!

Jason sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Batman (worry in his voice): Red Hood tell him he's lying so we can leave.

Jason: Batman… Have I ever told you how understanding you've been and that I was dating someone?

Batman (realization dawning): Oh God, he’s telling the truth? No! NO! Rose Wilson? That man’s daughter? Why would you lay with that woman?!

Jason: Oh, like you have room to talk!

Batman: Damn it, my cases are different!

Jason: Yeah you sired a child with said actually evil woman who ignores her daddy issues by still working with her father. I'm with the woman who stopped working with her insane father.

Batman: I'm not with her anymore and don't you bring up Catwoman!

Slade: Hey, man, I get it—my daughter is an idiot, but being with him is dumb even for her.

Jason: Hey, shut your fucking mouth! You will not disrespect her in front of me!

Batman (shouting): Oh dear God, you're defending her? This isn't good. First Nightwing with Starfire and now this!

Jason: You have a son with an assassin. Have several seats! And Slade I will shoot you in your fucking kneecaps if you keep insulting Ravager who goes by Rose!

Slade: Make me, zombie man! Floral has left me disappointed before, but this transgression I will not allow! Her allegiance lies with me, not you!

Jason: Her name isn’t Floral, you're just picking random words that are related to plants! And it's not allegiance, we are a couple! How are you so awful?!

Slade: Because I strive to be the best at everything!

Batman (interrupting Jason): That doesn’t even make any sense. My son is dating Slade's daughter. My son is dating Slade's daughter. Why didn't I bring any alcohol to this?

Batman sighed, the weight of fatherhood pressing down on him, then he calmly cracked his knuckles. Jason sighed wanting to disappear.

Batman: Hood, stay here. I’m going to have a talk with Slade, father to father! Cyclops, let’s talk!

Batman strode over to Slade, while Jason stood by, watching at first. He eventually nodded and texted Rose that their fathers had discovered their secret relationship and were currently fighting.

Jason: Is he defending me, or does he just not like Slade? I’m going to say both. That's sweet of him... I'm going to have to deal with this later.

[helpimstuckposting]

You’re an Idiot, Eddie Munson

Prompt: Sick Fic, Roommates, Idiots to Lovers | Rating: T | Wordcount: 13,765 | AO3 | @steddiebingo

Eddie’s an idiot. He knows he’s an idiot. He was an idiot when he asked Steve to move to Indy with him, despite his massive crush on the man. He was an idiot when he got used to Steve in his space, cooking dinner and being an all-around perfect man. He was an idiot when he started turning people down at the bar he went to on Saturdays, and he was an idiot when he stopped going all together, just so he could join Robin and Steve’s movie nights in her apartment.

He got used to Steve in his space, Steve in his plans, Steve in the kitchen in the mornings making coffee for them both; Steve taking naps on their shitty couch as the sun leaked through the window in the afternoon, bathing him in gold like some kind of coveted Greek statue; Steve laughing on the floor as Robin shoves her hand down his shirt to fetch the popcorn he’d dropped. He got used to Steve in every aspect of his life and he was an idiot for… forgetting.

Every time Steve touched his lower back when he dodged Eddie in the kitchen, every time they walked to get groceries and Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulder, every time Eddie lost himself in the jokes and the teasing and the flirting and Steve didn’t push him away, he forgot that they weren’t… well… together. That this was all just Eddie being caught up in his head. 

Because he’s an idiot.

Of course his delusion couldn’t last forever, he just… you know, hoped. But when Eddie came home from work early to a pair of high heels by the door that were decidedly not his and probably not Steve’s, and some less than savory sounds escaping from the muffled confines of Steve’s room, Eddie couldn’t exactly shove reality away any longer, lest he want to end up in an asylum.

He found himself on Buckley’s doorstep instead, pathetic brown eyes begging entrance.

“Steve brought a girl over?” She asked, rolling her eyes as she dragged him into the apartment.

He nodded miserably, heading straight for her couch and face planting into the cushions. It was a ratty old floral embroidered thing the three of them pulled off the side of the road, dragged up three flights of stairs, and did everything in their power to clean until it was presentable. Robin loved it. It had tears and loose threads and a slightly wobbly back leg and it was perfect. Perfect for catching Eddie’s tears at the moment, but good for other things, too.

Like movie nights where Robin laid her head in Steve’s lap, and Eddie sat on the floor between Steve’s legs as he carded his fingers through Eddie’s hair. He smushed his face further into the couch. Maybe if he suffocated, he’d forget Steve Harrington ever existed.

“Alright, whiny baby, spill,” she demanded, lifting his legs up so she could slip underneath them.

“There’s nothing to spill,” he mumbled into the fabric, not even lifting his head.

“You haven’t told him how you feel yet, have you?”

“Whuh- no!” He shrieked, pulling his face free and almost kneeing her in the gut as he flailed onto his elbows.

“Hey, watch it, Gumby, I have precious organs in there.” Robin shoved at his knobby knees, rubbing at her stomach like he’d stabbed her.

He rolled his eyes, kneeing her again on purpose until she nearly threw him off the couch, electing to sit on his lanky legs instead of risking bodily injury. Eddie grunted, newly immoble and tried to wiggle his way out from under her before giving up and flopping back down in surrender.

“It’s not fair,” he whined, wiggling his legs under her butt.

“It’s unfair because you literally haven’t said anything to him, you moron.”

“Agh!” he clutched at his chest, wounded like he’d been shot through the heart and he was bleeding out over the faded floral fabric. “That’s rich coming from someone who’s never once told a crush how she feels!”

She squawked and squeezed his side, slapping back as he retaliated. There was something healing about a kindergarten slap fight between friends, at least enough to distract him from why he was on her couch in the first place; why he’d left his own apartment in a flurry and practically sprinted to hers, why he’d had a lump in his throat the size of indiana itself. It slowly dissipated as he dodged her hits and light slaps, the sting against his arms, and the creeping numbness in his legs as they remained squished tightly under Robin.

She gave up with a huff, flopping her entire body on top of his. They both breathed heavily, as if they’d run a mile instead of just attacking each other out of nowhere. He revelled in it. Basked in the tightness of his lungs and the reddening skin of his arms. If he thought too much about why he was here, it would all creep back up his throat like an alien poised to burst through his chest.

But he did come here to talk, to vent, to fish for sympathy about his pathetic crush as it tore through him, the visions of what could be happening behind Steve’s closed door running through his head like a repetitive nightmare that wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought about those pointed high heels that were sprawled where his shoes were supposed to be, and whatever gorgeous girl was previously attached to them before weaseling her way into their apartment.

He felt sick.

“Have you ever thought maybe he’s fooling around because he doesn’t know how badly you’re pining over him?” Robin finally mumbled, face buried in his rumpled Metallica t-shirt. He focussed on the weight of her draped over him, grounding him like a layer of blankets, or a shiny shock blanket placed over his shoulders so he didn’t spiral into nothingness as his life burned around him.

“No,” he mumbled. “Why would I think that? It’s just wishful. He’s straight, we both know that. I’m not going to torture myself with ‘what ifs’.”

“Oh? But you’ll torture yourself with bad ‘what ifs’, like ‘what if he gets a girlfriend’ and ‘what if he moves out’ and ‘what if he discovers my big gay loser crush on him’.” She dropped her voice low in imitation, mocking him with every shot to the heart.

He groaned, “Those are different! Those are realistic! Those won’t get my hopes up only to crush them into dust to scatter across the globe like the ashes of my lifeless corpse.”

“Wow,” she said flatly, lifting her head and looking him in the eye with raised, judging eyebrows. “You’re even gayer than I thought you were.”

Eddie squawked, using the last of his energy to lift himself into a sitting position and toss Robin aside. She grunted as she hit the ground, leaping back up to slap him in the chest one more time for good measure.

“This is serious! This is important! This is heartbreak!” he shouted.

“This is desperate,” Robin muttered to herself, plopping back down on the couch. “Listen. I know he hasn’t exactly said it, but I’m not entirely sure Steve is straight in the first place. Sure, he’s only ever slept with women, but…” she softened, sagging into her cushion, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Eds.”

Eddie shook his head, unkempt hair tangling as he rubbed it roughly against the fabric beneath him. “No. Nope. Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true!” she begged, clasping a hand around his ankle and shaking it enthusiastically, wishing she could just shake some sense into his whole body. “What straight boy acts like he does?!”

“I don’t know, Buckley, a nice one?” he shrieked, hands twitching to cover his ears like a child and shout out ‘la, la, la,’ to drown out her hopeful pleading.

“He calls your uncle every week for check-ins! He knows your schedule by heart, and he makes dinner for you every single time your shift goes overtime. He knows your favorite foods, he gets you treats sometimes just because he thought about you. I mean, you literally fall asleep on the couch together all the time!” She was whining now, voice propelling into a shout the more she listed, mind scrambling to lay out every single thing that made Eddie fall in love with Steve in the first place, as if that wasn’t entirely too torturous for Eddie to keep listening to.

“Buck, tell me right now he wouldn’t do all of that for you, too, and I’ll concede,” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest to appear collected, even if he just did it to keep himself from falling apart.

She was quiet. He could see all of her points running through her head, all the moments Steve was generous and kind to everyone he cared about, all the times he did those things for people who weren’t Eddie. She seemed to deflate, just like him as she realized he was just that kind to everyone, and Eddie only got the brunt of it because they lived together. Of course Steve paid attention to him, they spent nearly every moment of the day orbiting each other, that didn’t mean he was special.

“He looks at you the way he used to look at Nancy,” she whispered. Her eyes were pleading, desperate for him to understand even though he couldn’t, he didn’t.

“Buck… I- I want to believe you, I swear I do. God, I want to believe you, but I just can’t,” he pleaded right back, “What happens if I do believe you, and I get my hopes up, and I do what you tell me to and confess and he just… just looks at me. Like he doesn’t know what to say, like he doesn’t know how to turn me down, or he doesn’t know how to talk to me anymore. Because I know he wouldn’t be mean, I know that. But it would be worse to see him not want to turn me down, just because I’m his friend and he feels sorry for me.”

He couldn’t handle it if Steve just looked at him with those wide eyes, mouth agape with words he didn’t know how to say. He didn’t want to watch the conflict in Steve’s eyes as he debated how to let Eddie down gently, how to not hurt his feelings when every single thing he could say would. He didn’t want to flit around the apartment and awkwardly pretend that it was okay, that he was fine, that Steve could be normal around him and everything would be fine, because Eddie didn’t know how to do that.

“So much for not torturing yourself with ‘what ifs’.”

Eddie shook his head. He didn’t understand why she kept pushing, she knew what it was like to pine after a straight person, or presumably straight person. She knew this, the feeling of desperation as she watched from afar, trying to stay sane as the other person dug themselves further and further into her heart like they were carving out a scar that would take years to heal, if at all. She sighed, patting his ankle one more time before she reached for the remote and conceded to ignoring the issue all together. She had tried her hand at persuasion, now it was time for distraction.

They watched a few reruns on TV in silence, until Robin kicked him in the shin, glancing at the clock. “He’ll probably be wondering where you are if you don’t head home soon. It’s been a few hours, I’m sure it’s safe to go back.” She looked sympathetic, her eyes just as wide and sad as he imagined Steve’s would be if he confessed. He nodded, dragging himself from the safety of Robin’s living room. She followed him to the door, sad puppy eyes maintaining their place. He knew she was frustrated with him, too, but she didn’t show that right now as she hugged him goodbye.

“Just think about it, okay?” she parted with and he nodded, if only to placate her. But he did think about it, he thought about nothing else the whole walk back to his apartment as he psyched himself up to see Steve. He knew Robin was right about some things, Steve was an anomaly of a straight man to Eddie. Sometimes, when they were cooking together or cleaning on a Sunday it felt painfully domestic as they shifted around, weaving in and out of each other’s spaces like they’d known nothing else. Sure, sometimes it felt like the smile he gave Eddie was different than the one he gave Robin or the kids, but he also knew that the tension he felt whenever they were close was one-sided, just Eddie unable to look away as Steve went about his own business like a magnet pulling his cheap metal rings toward him with every motion.

He kept thinking about Robin’s list of reasons, of the tug at his heart every time Steve came home with Eddie’s favorite snacks just because he was at the store and saw them — thought of Eddie when he wasn’t there. He tried to tamp down the hope as he remembered the man doing the same exact thing for Robin, or stocking the fridge up with Dustin’s favorites every time the kid mentioned coming to visit. Steve was just like that, Eddie knew. He knew not to get his delusions confused with reality, no matter how much he wanted Robin’s world to be the right one.

When he opened the door to the apartment, he was greeted by the relieving absence of a certain pair of heels, no evidence that they’d even existed in the first place. He chucked off his shoes, kicking them messily into a pile directly where the high heels had been, like some petty dog marking his territory. She wouldn’t even know — neither would Steve — and yet it made him feel just a bit better to see his beat up work boots shedding dirt next to Steve’s keds, where they belonged. There wasn’t a girl invading their space, no perfume floating around for Eddie to choke on as he pretended everything was okay.

Instead, the smell of a warm dinner wafted from the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans telling him exactly where Steve was. As he rounded the corner, he could see the man flitting around from pot, to frying pan, to fridge, stirring and grilling up what smelled like Eddie’s favorite dinner.

He didn’t look dishevelled, didn’t have any hickies dappling the skin of his neck and Eddie chose to be thankful for that instead of wondering whether there were other marks in places he couldn’t see. His hair was damp, fresh and fluffy, drying with a slight curl that he never left the house with and Eddie wanted to card his hands through it, drag his nails across his scalp and feel the soft strands against his palm.

Steve whistled as he stirred the sauce in the pot, and Eddie breathed in deep, trying to melt into the scent of Steve and chopped tomatoes and chicken, shoving away the talk with Robin and the sounds he heard as he fled the apartment. He cleared his throat, leaning against the arch of the kitchen doorway to appear casual and collected, like he hadn’t just had a crisis of the heart. Steve startled, catching his eye with a smile and Jesus H. Christ, Eddie was doomed. He was like the sun, he was like beams of warmth shining through clouds after a storm, the sky parting to deliver him like god down to earth for Eddie to reach out and touch, only to brush fingers and be thankful.

Jesus, maybe he was gayer than Robin thought.

“Hey, Eds,” Steve pulled Eddie from his thoughts. He could probably wax poetic about Steve Harrington for every hour of his life, though that kind of behavior would definitely make him run for the hills, leaving Eddie to wallow in his own obsessive tendencies.

“Hey. Whatcha makin’?” he asked, though he already knew.

How long could he lean against this doorway until it was weird? Had he already been standing here too long? Did it look obvious that he was trying to act natural, only for him to overthink his naturalness to a point of being unnatural? He cleared his throat and walked over to the kitchen table. He couldn’t fuck up sitting, right?

“Grilled chicken parm!” He seemed light, carefree, satiated if Eddie wanted to torture himself more than he already had tonight.

“Mmm, my favorite.”

“I know,” Steve winked. He winked, and Eddie wanted to throw himself out of the window. He wanted to walk up to Steve and wrap his arms around him, he wanted to kiss his neck and trail his fingers down his arms, pretend that they lived together because they loved each other and not just because it was convenient to split rent.

He wanted a lot of things.

“Oh!” Steve startled, turning to point his spatula at Eddie, “I got your favorite cereal and some Yoo-hoo, and we haven’t had ice cream in a bit so I got a couple pints and I figured we could get high and watch a movie or something? Robin gave me a bag of tapes she wanted me to watch, because apparently I’m uncultured,” he mocked, voice going high at the end as if mimicking Robin’s voice, though it sounded nothing like her.

Eddie’s giggle came out high and grating, ripping through the air just to torture him. He wished he could grab the sound and shove it back down his throat, erase it from existence. He just cleared his throat instead and hoped that Steve hadn’t noticed how fucking weird he was being.

He just kept thinking of Robin’s insistence that Eddie should tell him the truth, should tell him that he’d been embarrassingly gone on the man since he’d dragged him out of hell itself. And it was embarrassing, just how much Eddie waited with bated breath every time Steve leaned in close, any time they shared air and he was close enough to count the other man’s moles and freckles, close enough to see the flecks of gold and green and whiskey-brown that call Steve’s eyes their home. If any of his friends gained the ability to read minds, he would be fucked. He got teased enough, he didn’t need to add the nonsense poetry he waxed about Steve every moment he had a spare thought.

The other man didn’t seem to notice his crush-induced spiral, turning back to the stove and humming as he continued to stir the sauce. Eddie should call Wayne. It’d been a while — a week, maybe — and if anyone could handle his sad pining, it was his uncle.

Instead, he picked up the book he left on the table that morning and pretended to read, glancing ever so often at the man who seemed to be synonymous with favorites. Favorite foods, favorite snacks, favorite ice cream, favorite movies, favorite person.

The fact that Steve didn’t already know how Eddie felt was kind of ridiculous, especially since Robin hounded him about his pining every time they were together. He knew Buckley wouldn’t betray his trust like that, though. No matter how much she bitched and whined about him, she had his back — even against her other half.

When the food was ready, it was easier to fit back into their usual banter. If ever Eddie got too close to blurting out the truth, he just shoved more chicken and pasta into his mouth and chewed until the impulse went away. Steve talked about his day and his classes, how the students were always hard to reign in when the weather got nicer and no one wanted to learn about history. Eddie thought he'd probably have graduated the first time, if Steve Harrington was his teacher.

You haven’t told him how you feel yet, have you?

He shoveled more food into his mouth.

Steve never mentioned the girl he brought home, or the shoes that were at the door, or the noises he’d heard from Steve’s room. He did mention the cafe he went to for lunch, the sandwich he’d ordered that ‘Eddie you’d love it, it reminded me of that place we went to right after moving here, you remember?’ and he mentioned the store he’d noticed near the grocery, one that just opened and had mini figures and card games and D&D stuff, ‘all that nerd shit you and the kids like, we should check it out some time.’

Eddie wanted to scream; he had no more food to shovel. So, instead, he collected the dishes and stacked them in the sink, and made his way to the living room — busying his hands with the task of rolling a few joints for their movie night.

Steve grabbed a plastic grocery bag full of tapes that he’d left by the door, and went through each movie one by one, holding them up for Eddie to see and judge. Robin was apparently on a John Waters kick, and while Eddie was down for Cry Baby, if Robin wanted Steve to watch Pink Flamingos, it was going to have to be on her terms, thank you.

He watched as Steve fed the tape into the player, and broke out the ice cream pints from the freezer — little spoon for Eddie because he preferred it for ice cream. It was calm, it was domestic, it was torture, and Eddie loved every moment with Steve. He took his glances where he could, when Steve was turned away, flicking his eyes back to the rolling papers whenever he was close to getting caught. He rolled two, figured that was enough to make him act normal again — to relax and get his shit together so he stopped acting like a twitchy little squirrel, hoarding anything Steve would give him.

He gave Steve the first hit, if only to be a creep and feel the dampness of Steve’s spit on the filter. He watched as the smoke left his lips, touching where Eddie wished he was allowed, before it cascaded out and filled the room. He took one more hit before passing to Eddie, fingers lazily brushing as the joint left his hands.

Eddie looked away as he drew in his breath, the dampness of the filter a thrill as well as a condemnation. He’d always felt like a freak, always wore that label with pride, but he’d never felt more like a freak, than when he was around Steve Harrington.

He focussed on the red-hot burn of the cherry as he pulled in a breath, the smoke burning through his lungs as he held it longer than he needed to — holding it there just to feel the white hot cloying at his throat, and grounding him before he did something stupid like lean into Steve’s space and say something flirty.

You haven’t told him how you feel yet, have you?

Buckley, if only it were that easy.

Just think about it, okay?

Actually, he should stop thinking about it. Before the words started spewing from his lips with no interference from his brain, before his heart stopped beating in his chest and came up his throat to speak the words itself, before he had those stilettos by the door wedged into his brain like a lobotomy.

“Eddie?”

He looked over to Steve, who was holding out the joint again. He hadn’t even remembered passing it back after his hit. 

“You good, man?”

“Yeah.” He took the joint once more, and tried to stay in the moment. Drifting was for later, right now was for man and dude and buddy.

It was mid way through joint #2, when Steve got cuddly. He always drifted closer, leaned in more to talk about the movie, whispered commentary even though they were home and there was no one else to disturb in the theater.

I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Eds.

He looked at him like he looked at Robin, Eddie thought. He looked at him with warmth and kindness, with a deep affection that was reserved exclusively for those closest to Steve Harrington. He looked- 

He looks at you the way he used to look at Nancy.

He was close, close enough to lean against if Eddie just let himself; close enough to brush his nose against Steve’s forehead, close enough to–

Eddie took another hit before handing it back to Steve. He held on to this one, too, until the burn of it took his mind off those too close thoughts. Steve’s lips wrapped around the filter, and in Eddie’s hazy, floaty mind it looked like something he should pray to — the smoke drifting around them, caressing Steve’s skin as gently as it dared, just a whisper as it passed. It was like that, that, you know, the renaissance art style where everything is blended and smokey and otherworldly. Like the Mona Lisa. Steve was the Mona Lisa, and Eddie wanted to breathe in all the smoke that touched his skin.

Steve was giggly now, loose and light headed as Johnny Depp cried glycerin tears and his love interest pleaded ‘please Mr. Jailer, won't you let my man go free?’

He giggled and sang along to the repetitive lyrics and shifted both legs onto the couch cushions, scooting himself closer again, leaving him resting against Eddie’s side. He was warm, so warm against the cotton of Eddie’s t-shirt and he thought maybe if he took another hit or two, he’d be able to blend into the warmth of Steve’s skin and melt together into one person.

The joint was in the ashtray on the coffee table; Eddie would need to lean over to grab it. He glanced at Steve, cuddled up nice and sweet into his side, and he didn’t want to disturb him — like a cat in his lap when he desperately needed to use the bathroom. Steve stretched and snuggled closer, eyes focussed on the TV and not on Eddie’s dilemma.

He was never known as a problem solver, his three years as a senior in high school showed the entire town of Hawkins that he wasn’t exactly the best scholar, but even Eddie didn’t think he was stupid enough to miss what would happen next.

He wiggled his arm under the man, just to grab his attention and not to jostle him free. He thought, oh, Steve would definitely just know what he wanted, because sometimes he forgot that he wasn’t a part of Steve and Robin’s creepy Shining Twins mind-meld. So instead of the man just reaching over to grab the half-smoked joint, he turned his head toward Eddie. Which, obviously that wouldn’t be an issue if Steve hadn’t been snuggled into his side, practically one leg in his lap, but — lo and behold — the movement brought his nose right to Eddie’s cheek.

He could feel his blood rush to the point of connection immediately, lighting his cheeks up like a bright red neon sign — like Eddie was some kind of brothel in the red light district signalling to the public just how horny he was for the man next to him.

He turned slowly — so slowly he wasn’t sure if it was just the weed, or if the whole world was turning in slow motion — just enough to see Steve’s face out of the corner of his eye. He thought maybe Steve didn’t realize how close he was until he turned, just like Eddie, but he still hadn’t pulled away. He smiled lazily at him instead, eyes unfocused and hazy, squinting at the corners like he was still laughing without actually doing it.

“Little close there, Sweetheart,” Eddie whispered, because anything louder than that felt blasphemous, to cut through the sleepy peace of the angel next to him.

Steve giggled, leaning back to actually focus his eyes on Eddie. He could feel the cool air in his absence, Steve’s nose no longer against his cheek.

“Whoops,” he laughed, voice just as small as Eddie’s.

“Could you grab the joint for me? I didn’t want to move you.”

Steve did as he was asked, grabbing the joint and the lighter next to it, and lighting it up for Eddie without him having to even ask. He took one small pull before handing it over, and Eddie fought with himself to hold back a moan as he savoured Steve’s saliva as it once again touched his lips. If only there wasn’t a barrier between the two, if only he could taste it from the source, feel it as he drank Steve in with the desperation of a man lost in the desert.

Steve settled himself back into Eddie’s side, and Eddie did his best not to jostle him as he finished off the joint, thankful that Steve had drifted off to sleep before he did it. At least with Steve asleep, he was safe from the confession that kept springing to the tip of Eddie’s tongue.

The taste in his mouth as Eddie woke up was stale. It felt like cotton on his tongue, dry throat clicking as he swallowed. His thoughts were soupy and his eyes were crusted, joints aching as he stumbled off the couch. He should have tried to fall asleep in his own bed, he wasn’t 20 anymore and the crack of his neck as he stretched took the breath out of him for just a moment. He dragged himself into his room to tug off the jeans he was still wearing, keeping his Metallica shirt and his briefs on from the day before, but he hadn’t bothered with pulling on a pair of sweats — his pale thighs out and about for the world to see.

Steve was in the kitchen, no doubt being the most desirable housewife in all of Indiana by making breakfast for them both. Eddie could smell the toast and butter, the thick scent of coffee drifting through the hallway to his room. He smacked his dry lips in anticipation.

They shared small smiles as Eddie made his way to the table, Steve’s hair sticking up wildly in the back. He looked soft and sleep-rumpled, a small yawn pulling itself from his lips, and Eddie looped his ankle around the leg of his chair to stop from draping himself across Steve’s back. Robin’s words were still floating around like an evil spell, compelling him against his will. If only he could ignore it, shove it into a lock-box and pretend they’d never talked, that she’d never told him to confess in the first place–

The phone rang.

Steve looked from his hand holding the spatula, to the one holding a cracked egg currently spilling into the pan.

“I’ve got it,” Eddie chuckled, squeezing Steve’s shoulder as he passed because he was nothing if not self-indulgent.

It was one of Wayne’s neighbors on the other end.

The call didn’t last more than five minutes.

Eddie hung up the phone, gripping tightly at the plastic handset. He didn’t let go. Couldn’t do much of anything except focus on the racing in his mind. He needed to leave, he needed to call off work, he needed to get back to Hawkins as fast as he could.

“Eds?” Steve asked, voice hesitant and unsure. His eyebrows were drawn together and he had stopped his cooking, clicking the stove off, one hand still wrapped around a spatula and the other halfway to reaching out for Eddie, to touch, to help, to comfort.

“Wayne had a heart attack,” he whispered.

Steve abandoned the breakfast, giving in to the want of reaching out, to cradle Eddie’s elbow in the most gentle touch, like that would help like that would make it better instead of feeling like barbed wire on his skin.

Eddie pulled away, slipping his arm from Steve’s reach and the other man’s hand remained in the air, stuck, like he didn’t know what to do next. They were both still, unusual for them, and it felt suddenly like there were glass shards in the air between their bodies, just waiting to slice them open at any sudden move.

“Is he okay? Eds?”

Eddie nodded, that’s what the neighbor said. That’s what he said. Wayne was okay, Wayne was fine, he went to the hospital on time, he was back home, he was okay.

But, Eddie wasn’t there. He couldn’t be sure, he didn’t know.

“He’s… he’s okay, he’s fine, he’s back home,” he repeated, like a mantra, like he needed to hear the words out loud in order for them to be real. Wayne was fine, Wayne was home.

“Do you want to go, to take care of him? We can stop by the grocery store and pick up some things, I can take a few days off and drive down with you,” Steve was rambling, creating plans and asking about Wayne’s favorite foods, talking about leafy greens and no red meat, about soups he could make and how much PTO he had left, and we, and us, and Eddie wanted to scream. 

“Stop.”

Steve did. He cut himself off, hand still raised to where Eddie’s elbow used to be, but he didn’t step forward, didn’t reach out again — kept himself silent. For Eddie. Because he asked.

“Stop,” he said again, watching as Steve’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. He finally put his hand down, standing in the kitchen with his arms at his sides.

“Stop… what?” He asked, and of course he didn’t know, he didn’t know why his desperate need to help, to comfort, to ease Eddie’s worries were just clawing at him with every word, digging into his skin like thorns and dragging, dragging, dragging until his insides were torn to ribbons.

You haven’t told him how you feel yet, have you?

“Stop acting like this, this perfect guy who outshines everyone else.”

A wobbly smile stretched over Steve’s face, mistaking Eddie’s distress for his typical dramatics. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or roll his eyes, not understanding that Eddie was serious because he didn’t know, he didn’t know.

“I want you to stop being nice to me.”

Steve squinted his eyes, “This feels like a trap, is this a trap?”

“No.” Eddie was shaking his head, clearing it out to make room for what he wanted to say, what he needed to say. He needed to put distance between him and Steve, he needed to go help Wayne and take that time to break this stupid crush and maybe, maybe, when he came back he’d be able to act normal around Steve again. “No, this isn’t a trap.”

“Okay… Well, I’m not sure how to stop being nice to you–”

“Well you need to figure it out. You need to– to be meaner, because I can’t keep going out and meeting guys and comparing them to you because they’re not you, they’re nothing like you. And I can’t keep going on dates and wishing they were over so I can just come home and hang out with you and Robin, and I can’t keep coming home to some girl's shoes by the door and pretending that doesn’t kill me just a little bit.”

Steve looked adrift in their kitchen, untethered and unsure. This wasn’t Eddie’s normal dramatics, this wasn’t Eddie throwing out a backhanded compliment to Steve, this wasn’t a ‘god, Harrington, you’re so perfect it must be exhausting’ with a laugh and a wink. This was Eddie in genuine distress, like the call about Wayne had snapped some kind of barrier between him and everything he’d been holding back.

“What are you saying?”

You haven’t told him how you feel yet–

“I love you.”

He blinked.

It was out.

He said it.

“I love you, I’m in love with you. Not like the way you love Robin or Dustin or how I love Wayne,” his voice cracked on his uncle’s name, the panic about hearing ‘he had a heart attack’ still fresh in the air, still squeezing his lungs. 

“I love you, so–,” he chokes on his words, trying desperately to hold back the flood of tears that threaten to burst; he has to say it, he has to say it, and then he can leave, he can go to Wayne and he can take a few days to figure out what to do after he just crushed his whole life into pieces, “–so you gotta stop being nice to me, or you gotta fall in love with me, because I can’t do this anymore.”

And Steve did exactly what Eddie expected him to do. He stood. He stared. He looked at Eddie like his brain had paused and he was being wholly rewired just to turn back on again, like he mentally needed to smack the connection back online or wiggle the antenna.

The kitchen felt like it was closing in as he watched Steve blink back to himself, and then glance around the room as he thought of what to say, as he thought of how to let Eddie down gently.

Eddie didn’t want to be let down gently. He didn’t want the pity or the shame or the guilt that was no doubt swimming in Steve’s head as he tried to think of a nice way, a sweet way to ease Eddie’s confession away because Eddie knew, he knew, that Steve wasn’t going to reciprocate. The sad glint to his eyes and the pinched corners of his lips told Eddie all he needed to know.

“I…” he sighed, still desperately avoiding Eddie’s eye contact. “I mean… I’m not… I’m sor–”

“I know,” Eddie whispered back. He didn’t want to hear the stuttered, stilted apology. He had nothing to apologize for, this was all Eddie’s fault. “I know, you don’t have to say anything, I just… I had to tell you.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you, Eddie, I’m just not… I don’t… I’m not into dudes that way–”

“Steve, seriously, please don’t say anything. It’s not going to make this any better, and I just… I don’t want to hear it right now, okay? So, just… Let me leave and take care of Wayne and I’ll come back in a few days and we can just forget about it.”

The other man looked like he wanted to argue, to say something else, to keep apologizing and explaining and assuring Eddie that it wasn’t him, it was Steve and that was the absolute last thing he wanted to hear. So, he turned on his heel and walked back to his room to pack a small bag, leaving Steve in the center of the kitchen with his mouth agape, spatula still in hand.

He was still standing there when Eddie passed, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into the work boots he’d left scattered next to Steve’s sneakers. The space would be empty again for any high heels that wanted to stop by, and Eddie wouldn’t have to be here to see it. He knew that Steve would call Robin immediately, that she’d know Eddie opened his big stupid mouth and took her advice and that it backfired exactly the way Eddie had told her it would. She’d probably call the trailer at some point, and he’d wallow with her then. Right now, though, he had an uncle to take care of.

The drive was shorter than he’d remembered — a couple hours south of their apartment — and Eddie was thankful there wasn’t any solid traffic he had to wade through. He didn’t think the drive would end well if he had to sit in his van and wallow in his own head. The music blasting through his speakers could only drown out his thoughts for so long.

All-in-all, he did make it to Forest Hills without bursting into tears on the way, so Eddie counted that as a win. Though, the second Wayne opened the door for him, looking tired and a bit more harried that he had the last time they’d seen each other, the dam couldn’t hold the water works back any longer. He felt a little bad, having his uncle console him even though it should have been the other way around — it was Eddie’s turn to take care of Wayne, that was the whole point of being here. Still, he was distraught enough that it overwrote his guilt, and he just sank into his uncle’s hold, instead. Wayne dealt with it the way he always did, patting Eddie’s back and mumbling soft and gruff that he was fine, Eddie was fine, everything would be okay.

When Wayne told him something would be okay, it always felt more real than when he said it to himself.

After the crying session, Eddie insisted that Wayne sit down in his recliner and take it easy, that Eddie was here to let him rest for a bit and take care of things. He’d learned a lot by living with someone who cooked so frequently, graduated from someone who only knew how to boil hotdogs and follow directions on the back of a box, to someone who actually knew how to cobble together a respectable salad. Wayne scoffed at first. Eddie and salad had never really been paired in the same sentence, but he was an adult, and he could take care of his uncle’s diet for a few days, goddammit, he could. He would. He’d be the best goddamn caretaker this side of the Mississippi River had ever seen, regardless of his own mental state.

And his mental state was rough. Taking care of someone was a good distraction, though. He’d called the shop the second he got to Wayne’s and told them he’d need a few days off for family reasons. His boss, Tom, was always pretty understanding, probably the most understanding boss that Eddie had ever had, and he insisted that Eddie call back and take more days if he needed them.

“Lord knows my nephew could use a few more days of responsibility to knock some screws into place,” he’d muttered over the line.

Wayne wasn’t exactly thrilled to be waited on hand and foot, though. He’d always been a laid back sort of guy, but only in the way that he’d take what life gave him and go with it, make the most of whatever it was, and let the rest wash off of him like water off a duck’s back.

“I’m not some helpless little princess, Eds, I can still make my own damn coffee.”

“Actually you can’t,” Eddie whistled from the kitchen, stirring some honey into the steaming mug on the counter. He held back a smile at Wayne’s put-out grimace as he rounded the kitchen counter and made his way to the recliner.

“Well what the hell is this, then?”

“Tea!” he chirped, darting back to the kitchen before Wayne could do anything drastic like trip him in retaliation. “It’s good for you, your doctor said no caffeine and I haven’t been able to go to the store for decaf yet.”

“Pfft,” Wayne mumbled, “Decaf.”

Eddie could hear the eyeroll in his tone, but he wanted Wayne around for a long time, and he wasn’t going to let the stubborn bastard take himself out of this world with a damn cup of coffee. He could drink the tea, and Eddie would go over the list of foods that Wayne’s doctor had left him with. He needed to grocery shop, because Wayne was supposed to relax as much as possible.

The trailer was nearly the same as he’d left it, the only difference being that Wayne had his room back. Eddie had taken all of his clothes and posters and knick-knacks when he moved to Indy with Steve and Robin, leaving Wayne in peace with his own space returned to him.

Though Wayne probably didn’t think of it that way, it was hard for Eddie to see it any differently. It was Wayne’s trailer to begin with, and it was generous of him to give Eddie the only private room, but Wayne deserved his own comforts at this point in his life. And that included being waited on hand and foot when he was sick, despite his protests.

He called out to Wayne once he collected the doctor’s list of ‘heart healthy foods’, and made his way to the store. Of course, returning to the town that tried running you out of it came with a… not unnoticeable amount of stares and whispers. He tried ignoring it as he wandered down the isles, tried to look calm and collected as he grabbed shit like whole wheat bread, and plain cheerios. His cart looked like he’d stolen it from one of the mothers yelling about satanic panic by the time he was done. Eddie didn’t think he’d bought this many vegetables in his life.

The teenage girl at the checkout counter paid him no mind as she scanned his items, bubblegum popping like she was hired straight from the background of a daytime sitcom. The line of three suburban moms behind him, however, were not as unconcerned. There was something absurd about hearing the continued accusations of satanism as he loaded bags of low-fat yogurt and kale back into his cart. At this point, it felt like he could be rescuing kittens from a tree and still catch dirty whispers about him putting them up there in the first place.

He couldn’t wait to get the fuck back out of Hawkins.

Of course, that’s when he remembered exactly what was waiting for him outside of Hawkins. And you know, maybe being the poster child for Satan himself wasn’t that bad, maybe it was even a calling, maybe he’d find it endearing after a few days or weeks or months. Maybe Wayne would grow to like being a couch potato and Eddie could be his butler permanently, you know? Give back to the community that raised him, and all that.

Eddie shook his head as he unloaded the grocery bags from his van, piling up his arms with every bag so he wouldn’t have to make two trips — even if that meant he was using every ounce of strength to make sure his arms didn’t fall off.

Wayne was still in his recliner, cup of tea empty despite his earlier complaining. He was watching some basketball game on the TV, and Eddie listened passively as he emptied the bags one by one. It was all familiar, like he was back home with Steve and he hadn’t shoved both his feet in his mouth before booking it out of the city. He didn’t know anything about the terms being flung around, or the people attached to those terms, but he could almost smell the dinner Steve had cooked the day before, and feel his fingers against his elbow. If he listened to the announcers drift in from the living room, he could almost feel the breath against his neck as Steve squeezed past him to the fridge.

He opened his eyes, unaware that he’d even closed them as the fantasy washed over him. And it was a fantasy, now, since he’d just fucked it all up. He shook his head, taking out the last item from his grocery bags and balling them up to put under the sink. He wondered, absently, if the bags felt at home nestled together inside a bigger bag or if they felt suffocated being squashed in together like that. Did they feel cradled or stifled? Maybe Eddie would feel cradled if he was surrounded by more people like him, people who understood him in a way that Steve couldn’t. Maybe they were just too different.

The ring of the phone on the wall pulled him from his thoughts. It drowned out the commentators on the TV as it rattled away, and for a second Eddie hesitated because what if it was Steve? What if he picked up the phone and it was Steve’s soft tenor voice that crackled through his ear, and made Eddie want to both drive the two hours back to Indianapolis and simultaneously dissolve into a puddle on his uncle’s floor?

“Boy, if you don’t get that damn phone, I will,” Wayne called from his armchair, and Eddie unstuck himself from his spot.

“Munson residence,” Eddie drawled, trying desperately to push away the anxiety from his voice, “We got felons, accused felons, or upstanding citizens, to whom may I direct your call?”

He could hear Wayne’s exasperated ‘ah, Christ’ as he tried to maintain his composure.

“So, you told him, then,” a distinctly non-Harrington voice crackled through the line. He sighed with his whole body, slumping against the wall.

“Robin this is all your fault, you’ve got some balls to call ‘round these parts, you hear?”

“Okay, can it, Houdini. I know you’re defaulting to humor because you’re stressed, but your little disappearing act has really freaked Steve out.” Eddie could practically hear her eyeroll through the phone, could picture her sprawled across her floral couch in her fuzzy ice-cream pyjamas as she pondered how else to ruin Eddie’s life.

“Freaked Steve out? Buck, I panicked! I’m still panicked! He did exactly what I told you I didn’t want to see. He tried apologizing, for Christ sake.”

Eddie slipped down the wall, tucking his feet underneath him on the cheap linoleum tiles. He pulled at the winding phone cord, twisting and twirling it around his finger as he waited for her to respond. He wondered how long Steve had waited until he called her, or if he just went straight to her apartment after Eddie left. Did he stand there in the kitchen for a while, at a loss for what to do? Did he think about following Eddie, or did he try to shove the confession completely from his mind?

Robin’s sigh crackled through the line. “Not that kind of freaked, Munson. I told him to think about it—“

“Have you considered maybe not telling people things from now on?”

“—And I’m sure he’s having a gay little crisis in that big empty apartment, all by himself.”

“Robs, it’s barely 800 square feet, I wouldn’t exactly call it big or empty.”

“That’s what you focus on? Not the big gay crisis?”

“If anyones having a crisis it’s me! I’m gonna have to find a new apartment, a new job, change my name, maybe even flee the country!”

“Okay, that’s a little much, even for you.”

“Nothing’s too much for me, Buck, I’m the definition of much.”

“That didn’t even make sense.”

He huffed out a breath, hitting his head against the wall behind him a couple times to try and knock some semblance of sense back into this conversation.

“Alright, listen. I know you think you’re some matchmaking messiah or whatever,” he could hear Robin scoff over the phone, “But I really, really don’t want to hear it right now. I have to focus on Wayne.”

Thankfully, after a small pause, Robin graced him with a change of topic. She clearly wanted to keep talking about Steve, though, and Eddie knew that she was just trying to be helpful, but he’d figure it out… eventually. He’d figure it out eventually, and that was not today. Probably not tomorrow, either.

She sighed, “So, how long are you gonna be back in Hawkins, then?”

“Eh, right now I’ve got until Tuesday, but… I don’t know Robs.”

He might take Tom up on his offer and call back requesting more days off. He just couldn’t stop thinking about that face Steve had made, lost and confused in the middle of their kitchen, his arm raised like the confession had shut his brain off entirely. He could hear the stilted apology that he’d cut off, because that was the last thing he needed from Steve — an apology for just being who he was, an apology for something he couldn’t control, something he didn’t ever have to apologize for because it wasn’t his fault. He could imagine the same face greeting him at the door once he finally gathered the courage to go back to their apartment, wide eyes looking for something to say to make it right. He didn’t want to see it; he didn’t want to hear it.

“So, if I don’t hear from you in two days, can I send over a search party?” Robin cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to Wayne’s kitchen, and not the one back in Indy.

He knew the party were still in their senior year, he was planning on catching up with Dustin at some point while he was back. He’d need to do that before Robin called any of them, though, just to prove he wasn’t the sad sack she made him out to be.

He was. To be clear, he was the sad sack she made him out to be.

The party didn’t need to know that, though.

“Yeah, yeah, call in reinforcements. I’m fine, I just need a few days to, like… think things through.”

“You’ve been thinking too long, Doofus. Just, don’t go thinking yourself into any holes, okay?”

“Well, there’s one hole I could–”

“Okay, bye!” she shouted before he finished deflecting with a dirty joke. He always knew how to get under people’s skin, it was a talent he’d honed for decades.

He let the phone hang, resting it on his shoulder as he continued playing with the curling cord. He could hear the dial tone droning on faintly by his ear, and he sat on the tacky linoleum, listening and worrying the cord between his fingers until the dial tone had dug its way into his eardrum.

He sighed, planting his feet more firmly on the ground to pull himself back up. He put the phone back into its cradle with a soft plastic click, and made his way into the living room.

The couch sank underneath him, years of use wearing it down until it was both perfectly soft and lumpy with uncomfortable springs. It was like a hug from someone you love, with really boney elbows. If the rest of Hawkins wasn’t waiting outside the door, he’d stay here indefinitely.

“You done usin’ me as an excuse, now?” Wayne’s voice grumbled out next to him. He was reclined back in his chair, feet kicked up with a small hole on the heel of his sock. His eyes were still trained on the television, but Eddie knew he didn’t imagine the question directed toward him.

“I’m not using you as an excuse, old man.”

Wayne chucked, though his face was blank, and reached out for his mug, setting it down once more when he remembered it was empty. Eddie made a move to get up, to refill it, but his uncle waved him back down.

“I know you’re here to help, but you don’t gotta push away yer friends to do it, kid.”

He never really knew what to say when Wayne went into parent mode. It was nice, and Eddie knew he needed it sometimes, but he never really grew up with it. It wasn’t until the start of high school that Eddie had moved in with Wayne, and by that time he was used to parents bailing at any opportunity, or just pretending he didn’t exist. He was used to staying up late by himself, and pretending he owned the place just to make it feel a little less lonely that there was no one in the other room. He was used to the occasional call just to ask if he was up for helping on a ‘job’, and then the dial tone if he said no. He was used to Al Munson.

He wasn’t used to the calculating eyes that were only calculating how to help. He wasn’t used to the silence that preceded genuine understanding, and the desire to find out what Eddie needed to get off his chest. Wayne was always there to hold Eddie’s hand through his worries, to give advice about anything he didn’t understand. Eddie wasn’t used to that when he moved into the little trailer, and he didn’t think he’d ever be used to it, even now.

“I’m not trying to push my friends away,” he answered, instead of saying the other things that were running through his head.

“Just Steve, then?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, sinking further into the faded couch. Were all parents this perceptive? Or was this just a Wayne specialty?

“I know somethin’ happened t’make you drive all the way down here–”

“Uh, yeah, you had a heart attack–”

“–But it shouldn’t keep you down here, s’all I’m sayin’,” Wayne nodded his head, as if that was that. But it wasn’t, because even without Steve, Eddie would have booked it to Hawkins. Even if everything was fine, and he hadn’t made a fool of himself in that stupid little kitchen — even if he was dating Steve, for Christs’ sake, he would have dropped everything to drive down here, and if his van crapped out on him he would have hitchhiked to do it, too. Maybe he was paying special attention to the food lists and doctor instructions, and maybe he was focusing a little more on cleaning up and making Wayne comfortable, and holding himself back from ripping the nosey suburban moms a new one, maybe he was doing that to keep his mind off of Steve and his hovering hand and his sad eyes, but he was here because he loved Wayne.

“Wayne, I’m here for you, alright? I’m here because… because you’re the only dad I’ve got s’far as I’m concerned, and I need you to be okay.”

If Wayne had heard the little crack in his voice, he didn’t comment on it, but the misty haze in his eye that he blinked away told Eddie that he had. Yeah, he was distracting himself from Steve, but that had nothing to do with making sure Wayne was okay.

“Well, I, uh…” he cleared his throat, turning back to the game on the screen, “I ‘preciate you, kid.”

Eddie nodded, because that was that, and he got back to his feet to bring Wayne’s mug to the kitchen for a refill. He’d bought decaf coffee at the store, and Wayne deserved it, even if it wasn’t really what he wanted at the moment.

He spent the next two days doing much of the same. He cleaned Wayne’s room, cleaned the kitchen, used up the leafy greens for a few salads that Wayne insisted he hated, even though he cleared the plates. He wished he knew how to make the soups that Steve did when he was sick, but he wasn’t about to call and ask. Robin didn’t call again, though Eddie could practically feel her hovering by the phone two hours away.

He stared at the phone, sometimes, just imagining what it would be like to call their apartment and hear Steve’s voice. He’d probably sound relieved, happy that Eddie had checked in, though once that excitement bled out of his system, he knew it would be awkward again. He didn’t want to stand there and listen to the cracking electricity through the line, as Steve tried to figure out what to say. He hated not knowing how to talk to Steve. He’d never once been speechless in his presence, never once looked into his eyes at a loss for what to say. He hated it.

He contemplated calling Tom back, too, and asking for Wednesday and Thursday off, just to delay the inevitable. That was closer to happening than him calling Steve.

The dishes in the sink were piled up from an attempt at the grilled chicken parmesan that Steve made, but he’d fucked it up in the end and burned the sauce. They still ate the chicken, but it made Eddie miss the before — before he opened his mouth, and halted everything in its tracks; before he obsessed over Robin’s words, and blurted everything out; before he cut Steve off, didn’t let him finish talking, and fled from the whole city.

Whatever happened to not running anymore? When did Eddie throw that away again, just to disappear the second things got difficult?

He called Tom and asked for Wednesday off, too.

The next day, the dishes were still in the sink, and the groceries were down to just cereal and yogurt. He should have spent more time with Steve in the kitchen; he should have paid attention to recipes and figured out how to do things for himself without Steve around. He’d been self-reliant for so long, he hadn’t realized when he became dependent on another person again, until it was too late.

He sighed – he seemed to be doing that a lot lately – and handed Wayne a new mug.

“I’m gonna go back to the store, okay? Then I think I’ll stop by the Henderson’s or Wheeler’s to say ‘hi’, since it’s been a while.”

Wayne nodded, taking the tea without complaint. “That’ll be good for ya, see someone besides your old man.”

“I’ll be back around five, probably, just so you’re not wondering.”

Wayne grumbled an affirmative, and Eddie took his leave. He had more of an idea what to buy this time, avoiding the things he’d already fucked up cooking and grabbing more simple snacks. The suburban moms still gave him a wide berth, though their whispered gossip still made its way to his ears. He knew they were aware of Wayne’s heart attack, it wasn’t exactly a secret with high security clearance, and this was a small-as-fuck town — and yet somehow, Eddie coming to take care of his sick uncle wasn’t worth any praise to the Stepford Wives. No, only scrutiny was reserved for the Munsons.

He missed Steve.

He didn’t end up seeing any of the kids, either. Maybe Robin was right, though he’d never tell her that. Maybe he was a sad sack that needed saving. He drove to the park, instead of subjecting some poor kid to his shitty mood, leaving the bags of groceries in the car as he trudged his way to the swingset. It was surprisingly empty on a Wednesday, though he supposed it was just barely after school hours. There was also a playground at the elementary school, so maybe this one wasn’t used as much in general.

Either way, he let the breeze pass him by as he scuffed his shoes into the dirt. He should probably call Robin back before she really did call in the party to drag him out of Hawkins. Maybe Steve had figured out what to say by now. Maybe five days was enough time to ignore the giant gay elephant in the room. Did he want to ignore it, though?

Kind of.

But he also didn’t. Robin was right again (though he’d seriously never tell her). The confession was a long time coming, and Eddie should have done it months ago. He should have just sucked it up and said it the second he realized, just so he could squash it early and they could get back to normal. He wanted Steve’s hand in his hair again. He wanted to watch shitty movies on Robin’s trash couch again, all squished together on the two-seater as if they belonged to one body. He wanted to come home and smell Steve’s cooking.

Wayne had a check-up the next weekend, one he’d already insisted several times that he had a ride to, and Eddie didn’t need to be there for. He kind of felt… untethered, in the middle of the playground with his feet swinging idly. It was nice out, the breeze was warmer than it had been for a while, and it didn’t make him feel any better. He was glad Wayne was okay, obviously, but he kind of wished the old man would ask him to stay. Eddie didn’t even want to stay in Hawkins, but he wanted to feel like he was needed somewhere.

Maybe this was how Wayne felt all those years Eddie yelled about ditching Hawkins at the first opportunity. Maybe this was payback.

He shook the stale thoughts from his head, remembering there were a few dairy products in his van and he should probably get back to the trailer to unload them. He was probably ready to go back to Indianapolis tomorrow, probably ready to face the music, as it were.

Wayne wasn’t in his recliner when Eddie got back, but he did hear the tap running and dishes clacking in the kitchen sink.

“What did I tell you, old man? Leave the dishes to me,” he grumbled, kicking his sneakers off as he juggled the grocery bags. They rustled in his arms as he gracelessly fought his way to the kitchen, bags piled high to once again avoid a second trip.

They all nearly toppled to the floor when he saw Steve at the sink, a stack of dishes already in the drying rack as he scrubbed another.

He wanted to swear at god himself, if he believed in any of that crap. He said he was probably ready to go home, not be ambushed in Wayne’s kitchen with his arms full of groceries. He didn’t even know what to do. He kind of felt like running again, feet itching to move and get him as far away as possible, but he couldn’t exactly run to the car with all the bags in his arms. They called his attention, nearly cutting off the circulation at his wrists as they begged to be put down somewhere, anywhere.

Steve was just as frozen, though he must have heard Eddie come through the door. He still had a cup in his hand, suds dripping from his fingers as he paused to watch Eddie malfunction in his presence.

“Hi,” he said eloquently, putting the cup back in the sink and wiping his hands on the towel hanging from the stove handle. 

“Uh,” Eddie added helpfully. He glanced at the empty kitchen table, feeling like his arms would break if he held onto the grocery bags any longer, and yet weirdly feeling like they were the only things between him and Steve, like the glass panel at a prison visiting center.

He swallowed around his pride and the lump in his throat, and carefully placed each bag on the table, one by one. Steve was still staring at him as he finished. Just an hour ago, he could have sworn he was ready to talk, to move past this weirdness between them, and yet faced with the man of the hour, his words all dried up on his tongue.

He was still fiddling with one of the plastic bag handles, tearing off the loose tags in the plastic to avoid looking at the man in front of him.

“Wayne’s across the street,” he offered, gesturing to the door. Eddie nodded. “I’m… uh. I brought a couple different bowls of soup and a casserole. I wasn’t really sure what things Wayne liked, but I tried to go for something more classic, just in case. And, uh, I figured I could wash some dishes while I waited for you. I mean, Wayne didn’t seem to mind, so–”

“What are you doing here?” Eddie cut him off. He seemed nervous, shuffling from foot to foot, wringing his hands out now that they were empty of dishes. It was the awkward silence he was dreading, the stuttered responses and stilted words. Steve sighed, looking back at the sink longingly, like he’d rather be slaving away just to avoid Eddie’s eyes.

“I’ve been thinking…,” Steve trailed off, shoe scuffing against the linoleum.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Robin called?” He looked up, meeting Eddie’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded, glancing at the phone like she’d somehow know he was talking about her.

“What… uh… what did she say?”

“Mostly just called us idiots,” he lied.

“Yeah, she’s… she’s been doing a lot of that.”

Steve went quiet again, sneaker still scuffing along the kitchen floor. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to say something, and then clicked it shut again. God, the silence made Eddie feel like he was full of ants, crawling up and down his legs and wiggling between his toes.

“Steve, you don’t have to make any of this better, okay? It isn’t something that needs to be fixed.”

“I didn’t know,” Steve blurted out, suddenly still in the kitchen like he had been that day in their apartment. His hands were still clasped together, and his foot was still pointed like he wanted to keep grinding it into the tile, but he was still, unmoving. Just his eyes darted back and forth as he looked at Eddie.

“I know, that was kind of the point, Steve,” he sighed, crossing his arms. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“No, I mean, I didn’t know you could like both,” Steve corrected, swallowing. Eddie could hear the click of his dry throat as he did it. “I didn’t know.”

Eddie wasn’t really sure what he meant by that. He glanced to the sink, a pesky water drop dripping into an empty pot, and then looked back down at the grocery bags on the table. He didn’t really know what to ask to clarify, either.

Steve grumbled, like he was frustrated with himself for his choice of words. He was always mad he couldn’t make the right ones come naturally, like Eddie could. But Eddie could only think of the right words when it didn’t matter, when it wasn’t important.

“I only ever liked girls, Eddie. I mean…”

Was this it? Was this the start of the rejection Eddie knew was coming? Steve liked girls, Steve had always liked girls, Steve didn’t like Eddie.

“I thought that liking girls meant that I couldn’t like you, because I didn’t know you could like both,” he emphasized again. Steve stepped forward, dropping his hands to his sides.

Eddie… thought he knew what he was saying. He thought he understood what those words meant, but it was so far out of left field that it didn’t make sense, it was so far past what he’d ever hoped to hear that he was more convinced he was hallucinating than anything else.

“Do you know how many times I brought girls over wishing they were you?”

Eddie blinked. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure he understood English anymore.

Steve took another step forward.

“I don’t want to stop being nice to you.”

He said it with weight, like it meant something, like he was saying something else, and Eddie couldn’t quite put his finger on it — couldn’t read between the lines when he wasn’t even sure he could read in the first place anymore.

He took another step forward, and Eddie had the irrational urge to throw one of the grocery bags at him to keep some distance. He wasn’t prepared for this, he wasn’t ready for this, he didn’t even know what this was, really.

“You said… you said I should either stop being nice to you, or fall in love with you,” he repeated, “and I don’t want to stop being nice to you, Eddie.”

Steve took another step forward, reaching out for Eddie’s hand, and he couldn’t help but compare it to the day he bolted. Instead of stunned and stuttering, frozen in place, Steve looked determined and sure of himself. His eyes weren’t wide with confusion or darting around for a way out, or a way to turn Eddie down that wouldn’t crush him. He stared at Eddie with a sharp focus, still reaching out to touch, but not afraid of the contact. He was so close, only a couple inches between them, and Eddie shook his head to dislodge the barrage of Steve, Steve, Steve running through his brain.

He took a step back, hip hitting the rounded corner of the kitchen table, but his hand didn’t slip from the other man’s grip. He needed space to get his thoughts in order, because he didn’t have any when he was standing this close to Steve.

“I’m not sure you really know what you’re agreeing to right now.”

Steve shook his head, still holding onto Eddie’s hand, grip tight like he was afraid Eddie would run again.

“I do, I know exactly what—”

“I want to have sex with you,” he blurted, snapping back to himself at Steve’s confused blinking. He took a breath, trying to collect himself so he didn’t fuck this up any further, so he could explain to Steve what being nice to him meant, so he didn’t just take Steve at face value and grab onto him desperately, without him knowing the full picture.

“I don’t just want you to be nice to me. I don’t just want everything to go back to how it was, I don’t want to freak you out when you realize how gone on you I am,” he said, begged. He took another breath, wrapping it around his lungs like a blanket and fortifying his resolve. He stepped back into Steve’s space. The hand around his slackened but didn’t let go.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered, flicking his eyes down to Steve’s lips and noticed with a thrill of satisfaction that Steve did the same. “I want to hold you,” he took another step forward, nearly chest to chest. He could feel Steve’s heartbeat though the soft cotton of his T-shirt, pounding away like it was trying to escape this time.

Steve was still staring at his lips, and with the beating of his frantic heart, Eddie started to believe maybe he did know what he was getting into. Maybe Robin was right, again — Jesus Christ — and Steve really had been freaking out through a sexuality crisis for the past few days. All by himself in their big, empty apartment.

That didn’t sound like the start of a porno when Robin had said it, but now? With Steve looking at him like that? His eyes dark and eyelids drooping with unconcealed desire, still focused on Eddie’s lips like the thought to look away hadn’t even crossed his mind. He licked his lips. Steve tracked the motion, and deliriously Eddie thought of a lion in a nature documentary, stalking its prey. What he wouldn’t give to see Steve drooling over him.

“I want to touch you,” he continued to whisper, the air in the trailer dense and heavy, squeezing around them like the walls themselves were pushing them together. He couldn’t quite tell which one was being trapped anymore, he or Steve. Steve’s palms were starting to sweat. Eddie swallowed.

“I want to hear you moan underneath me, like those girls you brought home.”

He was so close he could feel Steve’s knees nearly buckle, his hand gripping tighter against Eddie’s to keep his balance. He swallowed, blinking back to himself, eyes drifting sluggishly to Eddie’s and away from his mouth.

“Can I be nice to you, now?” Steve whispered, so quiet that Eddie wouldn’t have heard him at all, if there was any space left between them.

The air was so heavy, dripping around them like molasses and he couldn’t get the words back out of his throat. He barely dipped his head in a nod before Steve pushed forward, the screech of the cheap metal table legs only background noise as Eddie was crowded against the wall. His lips were warm, just like Eddie had imagined so many times, soft and sweet. He’d pictured these lips taking him apart in their apartment, on his bed, on Robin’s old floral couch, in the grocery store every time Steve grabbed one of his favorites. Favorites, favorites, favorites; these lips were his favorite.

He could hear the soft breaths escaping Steve’s mouth, feel the hot air against his lips — another favorite. Steve’s hand let go of his, fitting against his hips like he’d already carved out a place for them in Eddie’s skin, perfectly molded to grab and hold and never let go. He could barely grasp onto any fleeting thought floating through his head, all so intangible and opaque, like a mirage drifting in and out of view. But Steve’s lips were an oasis, and Eddie was desperate to drink him in — catalogue every noise and feeling and taste like a new collection of favorites that only Steve could provide. This was infinitely better than chasing any last remnant of Steve on the filter of the joints they shared, better than the passing slide of Steve’s hand on his shoulder or his back as he passed.

He was so preoccupied by the feeling of Steve’s everything sliding and gripping and licking and sighing and clicking into place like a missing piece, he didn’t hear the creak of the step outside, missed the rusted rasp of the handle as it turned just around the corner.

“Well, I’m glad ya’ll’ve figured yourselves out, but it’s a small trailer and I was hopin’ for a beer if you don’t mind.”

After sharing the same space, the two steps back that Steve rapidly took — a sheepish, panicked smile on his face — felt like an entire continent. Eddie gripped tightly onto his hand so he couldn’t get far.

Wayne was standing to the side, face blank but Eddie could still see the twinkle in his eye — like interrupting was a form of entertainment — and he knew the excuse was a lie. The old fart probably just wanted to see their faces being caught red handed. Wayne couldn’t even have beer right now.

“I do mind, actually,” Eddie said, gathering his wits faster than Steve, “The doc said a month, old man, you’re not weaseling a beer outta me.”

Wayne shook his head, muttering about being treated like a flower, and snagged one of the trucker hats from the wall before heading back to the front door. Fucker didn’t even need to get past them, Eddie knew what he was about, he could read that old man like the back of his hand.

“Goin’ for a walk with Fred, don’t wait up,” he called out before making his way back to the neighbors.

“Is that alright?” Steve asked, pointing at where Wayne had just been.

“Yeah, the doc said he should start doing light exercise and they mostly just gossip, anyway. They’re almost worse than the suburban moms.”

“No I mean…,” he stumbled over what to say, looking back and forth between the door and Eddie and their hands clasped together and oh, his eyes were still a little panicked.

“Oh yeah, totally, Wayne’s known about me since middle school, he’s not gonna say anything.” Eddie paused, thinking back to the twinkle in his eye, “Actually I’m more than certain he set that up in the first place.”

Why else would he have let Steve do the dishes alone while he made himself scarce? He’d probably seen Eddie’s van return, and waited a few minutes before checking on them like some fucked up puppeteer, pulling their strings behind the scenes. He was a sneak and a weasel and Eddie loved him more than anything.

He glanced up at Steve — hand still pointed to where Wayne was — and caught his eye once more. His cheeks were flushed, lips slightly parted, and it hit him all at once that he could have that, he could have Steve. The other man smiled at him, and Eddie could feel all the worry and anxiety crash to the ground like a wave, pulling away from him in the high tide of Steve’s happiness. And he did look happy, flushed and alive, and so relaxed in the trailer that Eddie had called home for so long.

He didn’t have to keep his distance anymore, didn’t have to pretend that Steve’s hand on his shoulder or brushing against his lower back was anything less than revolutionary, and he didn’t have to stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man and holding on tight. He squeezed the hand still grasped in his, and revelled in the firm squeeze he received back.

“Do you want to help me make dinner, or do you have other plans?” Steve asked, no longer whispering, but no less intimate in the small space they shared. He wiggled his eyebrows like a dork and Eddie felt like he could burst.

“I can think of a few things to do,” he smirked, pulling on Steve’s hand to urge him forward, but only if he wanted, only if he took the step to do it himself.

Steve chuckled, looking down to Eddie’s hand like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and that would have made Eddie panic, before. Before he’d made a fool of himself, and before he’d run from the apartment, and before Steve came all the way to Hawkins just to get him back, and before Steve was his to tug and grip and hold onto. Now, he just felt the same. Like he’d wake up any second and be back on their couch, half-smoked joint in the ashtray and a campy John Waters movie dancing away on the TV screen.

He caught Steve’s eye again and the man relented, stepping forward to crowd Eddie back against the wall, leaning forward to claim his lips again, slower this time. It wasn’t hurried and frantic like it had been just moments ago, it was sweet and gentle and indulgent and Eddie added another favorite to his list. He was sure there would be more favorites to come — favorite ways to hold, and favorite ways to spend time, and favorite ways to annoy Robin and make her regret ever pushing them together. He smiled against Steve’s lips.

They could go on lunch dates to the deli that Steve found, and take the kids to the game shop, and melt together like the ice cream Steve grabbed whenever he wanted to make Eddie’s day. They could cook without Eddie worrying about being too much, or too obvious, or too awkward, and he’d never have to see another shitty pair of high heels where his shoes were supposed to be, taking up space next to Steve’s.

He couldn’t wait to start collecting favorites.

—

Bingo Prompts

[berilaksl]

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

notes ! sirius black x f!reader, fluffy and might be slightly witty

warnings ! none yet whipped sirius I guess?? fluff slightly suggestive

The Hogwarts library was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, though the distant tapping of enchanted quills and the occasional sneeze from the dust-riddled stacks kept it from being entirely silent. The smell of parchment and ancient ink mingled in the air like perfume—comforting to some, suffocating to others.

You sat cross-legged at your usual corner table, the one tucked beneath the arching stained-glass window overlooking the Black Lake. Your fingers delicately flipped a page of “Runes of the North: Decoding Pre-Wand Magic”, your brow furrowed in concentration. A soft hum of your favorite self-soothing melody left your lips. Your eyes danced across the worn text with intense focus, every now and then mouthing a translation to yourself

So, of course, this was exactly when he decided to strike.

“So this is where the cleverest student in the castle hides…”

You sighed. Not again.

“Hello, Black,” you replied, not looking up. “If I stay very still, maybe you’ll think I’m a statue and leave.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter — low and amused — and walked around the table to sit across from you, sliding into the chair like he belonged there.

“Tempting, but I’m far too enchanted. I’d probably end up serenading the statue.”

“Do it and I’ll Petrify you for real.”

“Kinky.”

You gave him a flat look, lifting your eyes just long enough to scowl. He gave you a grin that could melt chocolate frogs.

“You’ve really got to stop chasing me around the castle like this,” you said, calmly returning to your runes textbook. “It’s starting to look desperate.”

“Says the girl who hasn’t accepted a single one of my five — no, wait — six date proposals.”

“Exactly. You’d think you’d take the hint.”

“And miss out on the slow burn enemies-to-lovers arc we’ve got going on?” he quipped, leaning back in the chair and watching you with open amusement. “It’s practically Hogwarts folklore now.”

You blinked slowly. “We’re not enemies.”

“And yet you stab me with words like that.”

“Sirius.”

“Yes, love?”

You pointed your quill at him, exasperated and flustered. “Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.”

You gave him a long stare, then slowly turned back to your notes. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he said, voice dropping just a little as he rested his chin on his folded arms, “you never hex me. Which tells me you’re at least slightly fond of me.”

“No, it tells you I have self-control.”

Sirius chuckled. The warmth of it settled somewhere beneath your ribs, annoying and persistent.

For a while, he was quiet. Just… sitting there. Not fidgeting, not whistling, not pushing further. Just watching your quill glide across the page, occasionally glancing at your brows when they furrowed in thought.

And that — the silence — was somehow worse.

You looked up suspiciously.

“Are you actually being quiet right now?”

“I’m behaving,” he said, straight-faced. “Remus told me to try it. Said it might make me more appealing.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“He also said,” Sirius added with a mock-thoughtful tone, “that my charm was wasted on someone who values peace, intellect, and academic rigor above all else.”

“Sounds like he knows me better than you do.”

“Unlikely.” He tilted his head. “I know, for instance, that you bite your lip when you’re trying to remember a translation. That you tap your quill three times before committing anything to ink. And that you smell like old parchment and something floral — lavender, maybe?”

You blinked. For a moment, your heart jumped.

Then:

“So you’re stalking me now?”

“Only academically.” He smirked. “Genuine curiosity. I’ve caught it.”

You tried — really tried — not to laugh. But the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And he saw it. He always saw it.

“There it is,” he said, sitting up straight like he’d just won a prize. “The smile. My favorite subject.”

You exhaled, setting your quill down. “Sirius, for the last time—”

“You’re not going to date me. Yes, I know.”

He stood then, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves with a dramatic sigh.

“But I reserve the right to be hopelessly enchanted and incredibly annoying about it.”

Before he turned to go, he added, without looking back:

“See you tomorrow, same table. I’ll bring you tea this time.”

You blinked after him, stunned by the combination of chaos and charm he always left in his wake. Your friends often teased that you were unshakeable — that you could hold your ground against even a Veela’s pull.

But Sirius Black?

He was going to be trouble.

Big, grey-eyed, endlessly smiling trouble.

[michimichim]

Truth or Dare • Giselle (aespa)

spring nights are made for risky decisions—at least that’s what your girl, Giselle, seems to think. between the jacuzzi steam and vodka shots, you’re (willingly) trapped in her games: alluring smiles, cherry gloss, and hands that promise a good time.

contains: g!p female reader, semi-public shenanigans, breeding kink, alcohol use

The kitchen is mostly quiet now, except for the lazy thump of a playlist no one’s really listening to anymore. You’re squinting at a bottle of something clear and suspicious (tequila? Drain cleaner?) when the breeze drags in the smell of wet grass and something floral through the screen door. 

The counter’s a graveyard of party debris: Solo cups with lipstick smudges, a bowl of ice that’s now a bowl of disappointment, crumbled chips everywhere. 

You grab a glass that’s “clean” if you don’t look close, dump in sweaty ice, and pour. First sip? Regret in liquid form - It hits like a car crash. You grimace, stab a sad-looking lime carcass with a butter knife (‘cause all the spoons vanished hours ago), and squeeze it in.

Stir with the knife. Chug.

“Fuck my life,” you rasp.

No ragrets.

This isn’t how you’d usually spend a Thursday night. You’d rather be elbow-deep in that dog-eared copy of HunterxHunter you’ve read six times - but spring air does stupid things to a person. Like agreeing to a party because Giselle whispered ‘come on, it’ll be fun’ against your neck, teeth tugging your earlobe like you weren’t mid-rant about Hisoka’s… whatever Hisoka’s deal is. Traitorous, weak-willed creature, you.

And yet - Giselle’s mouth on you, her nails digging into your thigh as she hissed “stop being a hermit,”- got you here, choking down a drink that tastes like battery acid and fucked decisions.

You reach for a napkin, elbow knocking the bottle. It sloshes, drenching your hoodie sleeve. “Goddamnit—”

That’s when a laugh seeps through the room, bright, venomous, the kind that makes necks snap.

“-literally ate shit in the bushes,” Giselle’s saying, voice dripping mock sympathy. You briefly glance up. She’s strolling in with Ning glued to her side, both giggling. She’s holding her phone up like a compact, swiping gloss over her lips before puckering them into a ‘O’. 

Ning swipes a half-empty bottle of Prosecco off the counter, swigs straight from the neck.

“Cried over his Jordans,” Giselle adds, snapping her phone shut. “Like they weren’t fake anyway. Cringe.”

Ning laughs and slides the bottle back on the counter, “Please. His entire personality was a StockX receipt.” She flicks her hair back, black and poker-straight, like she’s auditioning for a shampoo ad. Giselle titters, satisfied, like this was the reaction she’d been farming for.

And you’re back to scrubbing your sleeve with a wad of paper towels (Spoiler: it’s a lost cause). The fabric reeks of freezer-burnt vodka. You ditch the towels. 

The room’s down to its last few people - most having either left or passed out. Winter’s girlfriend’s on the couch, blowing o’s at the ceiling like it’s her part-time job. Someone’s little brother’s spread-eagle snoring beside her. Outside, a couple is eating each other’s faces on the patio, laughter smothered; some girl’s sobbing in the hallway and you think you heard the rest of the girls somewhere outside as well. 

You’re about to give up and peel off the hoodie when arms slide around your waist. Warmth presses against your back. Vanilla.

“Miss me?” Giselle’s breath ghosts your neck. Her nails dig playfully into your hipbones.

You don’t turn. “You’re mean,” you mutter, but it’s half-hearted.

She laughs, low, and rests her chin on your shoulder. “Ning started it.” Lie. You glance over, Ningning’s already wandered off, texting furiously on her phone. 

You suppress an eye roll. Giselle can truly a bitch at times. But whatever, you’re into it.

Giselle spins you around, teeth sinking into her bottom lip the way you’ve told her a hundred times drives you insane... “We’re hitting the jacuzzi,” she whispers, thumb swiping the wet cuff of your sleeve. “You in?”

Somewhere outside, a sprinkler hisses and a shriek-laugh erupts.

Your gaze drags from her lips to her eyes. Bad idea, that’s usually when you fold. When you look at those glinting lips, cherry-slick. You swallow and drag your eyes upward to her brown, glittering, half-lidded gaze. Amused. Like she’s already tallying her score in a game you didn’t know you were losing, nor playing.

That’s when you notice: she’s swapped her hoodie for a black bikini. That black bikini. The one with the whisper-thin strings you’ve traced with your teeth. The one she’d worn for your birthday, when she’d “accidentally” spilled her drink down your shirt (her signature move, all batting lashes and stifled laughter, like either of you believed it wasn’t planned).

Like she wasn’t already steering you toward the pool shed, her fingers hooked beneath the hem of your shirt, smirk in place.

You’d let her corner you there, of course. Let her press you against the chlorine-sticky shelves, her mouth silencing your half-hearted protest about someone seeing, someone hearing. You always fold. Even now, your dick almost hardens at the memory at how reckless it was, how reckless she is, and how little either of you cared.

The bikini clings to her like it was handcrafted for her body, the triangles tight on her like they’re paid to, barely hiding her hard nips. But it’s the bottom half that really does you, like the way the fabric narrows at her hips, thinning to almost nothing at the back. It’s all engineered to wreck you, and she knows it.

You know exactly how it fits (or barely fits) disappearing between the soft curve of her ass like it belongs there. She likes that part, too. The way that tiny strip vanishes between her cheeks, and how’d you pull the thong back taut between her ass cheeks, causing the little triangle in the front to ride up against her pretty cunt -

The friction had made her wetter than you’ve ever seen her.

It’s your unspoken game - hers, really. You’d spent twenty minutes tracing every cursed string with your tongue while she hissed “hurry the fuck up” through gritted teeth and giggles, her nails leaving indents in your shoulders. You’d been feral that day. All teeth and trembling fingers, her thighs vise-gripping your head as you teased her clit through the cloth, that no-one’s-gonna-hear-us smirk of hers dissolving into sighs. 

“You’re obsessed,” she’d moaned, voice cracking as you dragged it out (not minutes, not an hour, but until your knees burned and the pool party’s chatter faded into static.) You ditched, fucked three times in your shitty Corolla’s backseat, and she’d tossed you that hoodie after, smug. Premeditated, every second.

And now? Here she is, reusing the same thirst trap. 

You see the trap. 

You walk into it anyway.

Your flaccid dick gives a twitch, pulse hammering where her nails dig into your hip. Fuck.

You want her to keep touching you like that. You want to kneel. You want to –

“Jacuzzi,” she repeats, tilting her head, ruddy hair catching the light. Her smirk widens. She knows you’re getting hard. She can feel it, pressed against you. Knows you’re replaying how she’d moan obscenities in your ear, how her legs shook when you’d pulled her back against you, fingers still working her clit before you came inside her. “Again,” she’d demanded, and you’d obey, because you’d burn cities to hear her like that.

You blink. “Yeah, sure.” 

Fuck. What’d you just agree to? No, no, no, you didn’t mean to–

But it’s too late, judging by Giselle’s quirked lips. Her hand slips beneath your hoodie, manicured nails scraping your skin. “Good,” she murmurs, slowly skimming her fingers down your navel, moving with every rise and fall of your breath.

“Who’s gunna be with us?” 

Giselle slides her hands back around your hips. Your pants are baggy, low-rise, and she has no trouble dipping inside the back of them to grab your ass, looking right into your eyes as she does it. “The girls,” she replies light-heartedly, as if she isn’t kneading your flesh like she’s testing fruit at the market.

You swallow.

Okay, two outcomes here:

You go, and it’s 40 minutes of them dissecting their celeb drama you couldn’t remember even if the WiFi depended on it.

Or, you go, and they roast you both raw because Giselle’s a PDA menace and you’re, well, you. The kind of disaster sapphic who’s lowkey obsessed with her girl’s attention but would literally die if anyone clocked it.

“Don’t look so scared,” she laughs, “Give me a hug.”

“I’m not,” you huff, but still loop an arm around her waist, tugging her body against you. Casual. Real casual. The hug is all PG-13 angles (your hand splayed safe above her bikini ties, her cheek smushed to your shoulder).

But Giselle doesn’t really do casual. Her hips tilt, pressing your thigh between hers, and her sigh is pure theater, hot and throaty against your ear. “Fuck, babygirl,” she murmurs, “Semi-hard already?”

Her fingers skate up your spine, and you stiffen, pulse rabbiting in your throat. Winter’s girl on the couch coughs out a smoke ring that wobbles toward the ceiling. Don’t look down. Don’t—

Too late. Giselle’s leg shifts, and now the seam of your pants grinds against her inner thigh. She hums, low and approving. “Knew you’d cave.” Her lips brush your jaw. “Always do.”

The accusation stings because it’s true. You’ve let her corner you anywhere, bar bathrooms, the back row of a Scream marathon – anywhere her hands could slip under your clothes, her teeth could find your neck. It’s a problem. A glaring problem, according to your best friend/roommate, who once walked in on Giselle riding you in the living room at 3 a.m. (She still sends you Band-Aid coupons as “trauma tax.”)

Giselle’s hands start moving to the front of your pants when Winter’s girlfriend drawls from the couch, smoke curling lazily from her lips. “Get a room,” she says, not looking away from her vape clouds. “Or Venmo me fifty bucks. I’ll watch.”

You freeze, but Giselle just snorts, pressing closer. Her thigh shifts against you, pressing against your dick, and you nearly choke on your own breath. “Don’t be jealous, bookie,” she shoots back, sing-song. “Your girl’s out back trying to French the neighbor’s dog.”

Winter’s girlfriend flips her off before dismissing the both of you. Thank God the couch faces away from you.

Giselle’s hand slips back up, fingertips grazing and toying with you, tracing the outline of your dick and twirling over the engorged head until a wet spot forms. You want to rut into the touch, then hide your face in mortification because fuck, what if Ning walks in? Worse, what if Karina walks in?

What if they see you cornered, weak and pathetic, Giselle palming you through your boxers. And oh fuck, does it feel just perfect there. Just like with her lips, her hand is everything. She slips beneath your waistband before you can process what’s happening, grabbing at your cock.

“Can’t wait to fuck you,” Giselle purrs, thumb pressing just shy of cruel against the tip. You choke back a noise, shoulders tensing as your eyes dart to the living room. Winter’s girlfriend is still entirely distracted, oblivious. The snoring kid twitches.

“Gis—”

“Shhh.” Her lips brush the shell of your ear, sticky with gloss. “Focus,” she murmurs, “Fuck my hand.” 

Giselle’s fist closes around your dick, and your back arches, stuttering. You’re slick to the base, twitching, hips jolting forward in helpless, hungry thrusts—fucking into her fist like it’s the only thing worth living for. Her grip’s not just tight, it’s filthy—knuckles wet, fingers gliding through the mess you’re leaking, stroking you with the kind of shameless hunger that makes your stomach flip.

Your brain short-circuits. “Fuck—” you hiss. 

Moans break in your throat, breathy and guttural, heat crawling up your spine like it’s trying to burn through your skin. Everything’s hypersensitive; the wet suck of your skin, the muted bass thudding through the walls, the sharp, shallow breaths she lets out against your ear. Her mouth curls, smug, like she knows what she’s doing to you.

“Gi, Fuck,” is the only thing you’re capable of muttering, thrusting harder into her hand with zero hesitation, chasing the wet drag of her fist like it’s the only thing left in your world.

She’s working you like she owns it, like she’s jerking off her favorite toy, and every squelch of her palm around your cock feels obscene—wet, sticky.

Her thumb presses down over the tip, catching the pre-cum and smearing it like she’s painting with it. You jerk at the touch, leaking hotter, messier, your whole cock glossy with it now.

She pumps you harder, slick squelching between every stroke, cock drooling into her hand, “Just like that.” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “So fucking big in my hand. Can feel you throbbing, baby, fuck.”

Your knees nearly buckle, lower belly tingling. That is until Karina’s laugh slices in from the patio—sharp, loud, close—and your stomach drops.

“Giselle—” you grit out, hand clamping over hers. She stills, brow arched. “Karina’s right there.”

“So?” Her free hand skates up your breast, thumb catching your nipple through your hoodie. You bite your tongue. “She’s busy filming Ning’s TikTok. Look.” She nods toward the sliding door, where Karina’s silhouette leans against the glass, phone flashlight aimed at Ning’s. “Distracted.”

Distracted now. But Karina’s got predator instincts—catches every side-eye, every whisper. Last month, she called you out for “eye-fucking Giselle’s ass” when you had come to watch their dance practice. You still haven’t recovered.

Giselle’s grip tightens, her nails grazing your dick. “C’mon,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours. “You want me to stop?”

Yes. No. You’re sweating through your hoodie. Her thumb circles your slit, and your knees nearly buckle. “Fuck me,” you whisper.

“That, I’d love to do.” She nips back at your jaw, her other hand sliding down to guiding your palm to grope her ass. “Grab. Harder.”

You do, hands smoothing to her hips, a bit rougher now, then sliding down to palm her ass—so soft, encasing that teasing little thong. Your fingers slip beneath the cloth, groping the bare muscle, digging in like you want to mold it to the shape of you. You squeeze, knead, pull her cheeks apart just to feel the way she twitches for it. She lets out a moan, kinda loud, shameless, calculated, just to make your nerves spike, watch you panic. 

“Quit -” you plead, but she’s already rolling her hips, grinding against your thigh, her hand working you in lazier strokes. The kitchen feels like a fishbowl, every smothered laugh from the patio, every creak of floorboards, ten time louder. You’re hyper-aware of the half-open pantry door, the flicker of the LEDs above the sink, the smack of Giselle’s glossed lips as she kisses your throat.

“Relax,” she breathes, all false innocence. “We’re just hugging.”

“You’re—fuck—you’re gonna get us caught—”

“Mmm, and?” Her tongue flicks your earlobe. “Think Karina’d make a PowerPoint? ‘Slideshow of Your Lesbian Meltdown’?”

You choke back a laugh, nerves fraying. “Stop—”

“Or what?” Her strokes quicken, thumb pressing that sweet spot beneath your head. “You’ll cum? Right here? In my hand while Ning’s debating the best angle for her fucking reel?”

Your fingers dig further into her ass, torn between shoving her off and yanking her closer. The room tilts. Distantly, you hear Ning crow, “A hundred bucks says the neighbor calls the cops again!” and Karina’s sharp retort: “You’re paying when he does.”

Giselle’s watching your face, pupils blown, her own breath hitching. She loves this. The risk, the filth of it all, the way your teeth cut into your lip to stay quiet. You’re close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Leans in, her voice a hot, fucked whisper: “Cum. I wanna watch you cum for me.”

You’re gonna kill her. You’re gonna kiss her. The patio door screeches.

“Aeri! Manager’s blowing up–” Karina’s voice.

You freeze. Giselle doesn’t. Her hand pumps once, twice - cruel - and you spill over her fingers with a silent gasp, vision whiting out. Giselle feels it filling her palm, clinging, trailing between her fingers, so much, obscenely. Her sweet girlfriend, she loves your cock so much. Wants it for herself all the time.

She then yanks her hand free, wiping it on your hoodie under the guise of adjusting it just as Karina strides in. “The fuck are you two—?”

“Hugging,” Giselle chirps, all sugar, slumping against you with dramatic sighs and puppy-dog eyes, her cheek squished to your shoulder. “Y/N’s goldfish, Steve, just died.” Your knees are jelly. Your soul is exiting your body. 

Karina’s gaze narrows, flicking between your pathetic face and Giselle’s too-innocent smile.

“Bullshit and gross,” she says finally, tossing Giselle’s phone on the counter. “Save the improv for the Harper’s Bazaar shoot. Soo-man wants you rehearsing the poses. And to confirm the Vogue interview.” 

“Ugh, fine. Tell him I’ll wear the stupid feather dress.” Giselle flips her hair, her foot nudging yours under the counter, silently telling you to stay put. “But only if they let me pick the music.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m not your secretary.” Karina turns to leave, then pauses, before deciding on simply leaving, muttering about “fucking nymphos.” 

You slump against the counter, half-dead. Giselle’s smirk blooms as she spins back to you, thumb swiping the sweat from your temple. “Steve would’ve loved you,” she purrs, biting her lip to stifle a laugh.

“You’re deranged,” you whisper, knees still liquid, fumbling to adjust your jeans.

She kisses you before you can finish, all teeth and cherry gloss, her hand slipping into your back pocket. “Deranged enough to get you coffee after this shoot tomorrow?”

You stare at her.

“That’s a yes,” she decides, already texting the manager, her free hand toying with the damp edge of your hoodie. “Wear the gray sweatpants.”

Jesus. 

Giselle disentangles herself, but not before pinching your ass and dragging her nails across your waistband like a warning. She snatches the vodka off the counter with a victorious flick of her wrist.

“Jacuzzi. Ten minutes. Clean up and don’t make me come back and drag your ass there myself,” she tosses over her shoulder, hair swaying with every smug step.

Then she’s gone, hips swinging, like she didn’t just ruin your life in the kitchen and call it foreplay.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The jacuzzi steam clings to your skin. You’re perched on the edge, legs submerged, toes brushing someone’s shin under the froth – probably Ning’s. Giselle’s palm skims your calf absently, her thumb pressing circles into the dip behind your knee while she argues with Karina about lyrics. Her touch is proprietary, grounding, even as your head swims with the vodka, blur of your fourth shot.

The girls are all half-submerged, flushed and vibing. Momo’s hair fans out in the water like ink. Winter’s girlfriend blows vape clouds - who’s surprised?- that curl into the night. Ning’s arms balance on your knee as she leans in, voice conspiratorial: “…and then he texted ‘wyd’ at, like, 3 a.m. Again. As if I’m his fucking booty call—”

You snort. “Block him.”

“But his dog—”

“The dog’s an accomplice. Block them, both.”

Ning cackles, sloshing water as she throws her head back. 

The game you’ve been playing (Classic truth or dare) has been chaos: dares to swap bikini tops (Momo’s still in Winter’s neon green one), truths about body counts (Karina’s “I don’t kiss and tell” was bullshit, and everyone knew it). But now the heat and shots have dulled the stakes. Conversations fray. Winter’s girlfriend scrolls her phone, the blue glow sharp on her smirk.

Until—

“Okay, fuck this.” She flicks her vape. “Let’s revive the game. Y/N.” Her glasses catch the light as she turns. “Truth or dare. Final round.”

The water stills. Giselle’s hand pauses.

You grin, loose and lazy. “Dare. Obviously.”

Winter’s girlfriend leans forward, droplets sliding down her collarbone. “Kiss. Two people. In this circle. Right now.”

A beat. 

The jets hum. 

You count the silence. One. Two. Three.

Giselle’s fingers tense.

Everyone’s looking at you.

“Daaaaaamn,” Momo drawls, fanning herself.

Then chaos unfolds around you:

“Bold—”

“Woop, woop, bitch!”

Your tongue feels thick. “I … what?”

Giselle’s nails dig into your calf. Winter’s girlfriend swirls her drink. “Kiss someone here who’s not Giselle. Or… admit you’re whipped.”

The word hangs. Whipped. Like it’s a crime. Like wanting your girlfriend, only her, is pathetic. Fuck her.

Giselle’s laugh cuts through the chaos. “Cute.” She shifts, water sloshing, and tugs you in the water. The heat sears up your ribs, and you pivot toward her. Her eyes narrow, a challenge. Try it. “Go ahead, baby. Kiss Ning. She’s been eyeing you all night.”

Ning chokes on her drink. “The fuck I have—”

“Do it,” Giselle whispers, lips grazing your pulse point.

Karina watches, bored but alert. Winter’s staring at the stars, cheeks flushed, bless her heart. Momo’s filming.

And Ning’s right there, cheeks equally flushed, lips parted in a oh-shit grin. It’s easy. Safe.

You turn to her, “Fuck it,” you mutter. “Can I?”

At her nod, you lean in for a clumsy, wet smudge of a kiss. She tastes like coconut lip balm, her laugh soft and surprised against your mouth. You giggle too, pulling back as her hand flutters to your wrist.

Winter’s girlfriend clap like it’s her personal soap opera.

You turn to Giselle, heart hammering. “Happy?”

Her smile’s all too sweet…“Ecstatic.” And then she doesn’t miss a beat. She twists in the water, straddling your lap in one fluid motion. The sudden weight of her ass flush against your thighs, the heat hotter where she grinds down.

Your brain flatlines twice again tonight.

Her hands find your face, palms warm, thumbs brushing your bottom lip before her mouth is plush onto yours, tongue swiping the ghost of Ning’s chapstick off your lips, prying past your teeth. “Mine,” she whispers, low enough that only you hear it. 

Cheers erupt around you (Momo whooping, someone gasping “Oh my God”—) but Giselle doesn’t let up. She licks into you again, wetter, hungrier, hand sliding up to grab your jaw, holding you in place like she’s fucking starving. The water churns. You forget how to breathe.

Winter throws a towel at your heads. “Get a room, you two!”

When she pulls back, her thumb smears your lower lip again, wiping the gloss smeared across your chin “Two,” she announces, loud enough to cut through the catcalls. Her voice drips honeyed venom. “Done.”

Someone whistles. Even Karina cracks a smirk.

Winter’s girlfriend salutes with her vape. “Solid B-plus. Minus points for predictability.”

Giselle waves her away, but her grip stays tight on your thigh under the water. Ning’s still laughing.

Someone from the sideline mutters, “Jesus, get a room.”

“We have a room,” Giselle retorts, then leaning into your ear. “That we’ll use later, right?”

You choke on your spit and grab a shot. Fuck, yeah. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The bathroom mirror is cold against your palms. Giselle’s perched on the counter, legs hooked around your hips. You’d meant to shower, to rinse off the chlorine and sweat, but she’d cornered you the second the door clicked shut, fingers twisting in your waistband before you could even peel off your bra.

“Lift me,” she’d said, not asked, chin jerking toward the marble. Now her nails dig into your shoulders as you grind against her, her sandals dangle from her toes, tapping a restless rhythm against the cabinets beneath.

“You’re still wearing those stupid boxers,” she murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. 

“You’re still avoiding the shower,” you counter, breath hitching as she rolls her hips.

She laughs, low and throaty. The mirror’s fogged behind her, streaked where her head tipped back. “You want to get clean before getting dirty again?” Her hand slips between you, thumb brushing the soaked cotton of your underwear. “You sure ‘bout that?”

The faucet drips. Voices buzz in the hallway, muffled through the door. Giselle doesn’t care. She never cares about shit like this.

You press your hips in slow, dragging thrusts, your cock thick and swollen, forcing the fat bulge right against the soaked crotch of her thong. The fabric barely holds you back, stretched tight as it wedges between her slick folds. Every push spreads her pussy open around the pressure of your cock, grinding hard into her clit through the thin barrier, and she whimpers, all wet and needy, hips twitching to meet yours like she needs that friction just as bad.

Every drag pulls wetter, breathier moans from her—half-muffled between your mouths, like she can’t decide whether to kiss you or just moan straight into your tongue. Your own are going shaky, turning into soft, broken moans that get swallowed. It’s messy, all tongue, but neither of you cares—it’s more about staying connected, about not pulling away from each other’s bodies.

“You’re gonna fuck me like a good girl, hmm?” she whispers into your mouth, voice thick, teasing, ruined. Her cheek then brushes yours, lips planting fluttering kisses along your jaw. “I’m so wet,” she adds, like she’s confessing it, like she loves how fucked and a little desperate she sounds. Her mouth trails soft kisses across your face that makes your stomach knot tight.

You let out a breathless giggle, half-dizzy, and fumble a hand between your bodies, yanking at your boxers with shaking fingers. The waistband slips down past your hips and your cock springs free, slapping hot and wet against your stomach with a slick smack. The sudden kiss of cool air makes you twitch, painfully sensitive.

You’re leaking, thick and steady, a string of pre-cum smearing across the skin of her thigh. You’re flushed, fevered, dragging in a ragged breath as you lean forward and shove her panties aside with one rough tug.

And then you’re right there, your cock slotting between Giselle’s drenched pink folds like it belongs there, the heat of her pussy wrapping around you even without pushing in. She gasps, thighs tensing when your fingers hook behind her knees and push them up, spreading her open as your cock grinds along the soaked seam of her cunt, every pass catching on her swollen clit, slick and shameless.

She wasn’t exaggerating, she’s really fucking drenched.

“You’re, fuck, you’re so wet -”

“Obviously.” Giselle rolls her hips, forcing your dick to slide higher, catching her swollen clit. Her breath hitches. “Been dripping since the kitchen. Since you came in my hand like a fucking—”

You don’t give her the space to finish, and grind over her clit again and again, your cock sliding messily through the slick heat of her folds—soaked, swollen, and parting perfectly around you. Each thrust is frantic, soaked to the point of obscenity, the sound of it loud and wet and constant, like your bodies can’t help but make a mess of each other. Every push of your hips catches her clit just right, dragging the thick underside of your cock over it until Giselle’s moaning into your mouth, open and raw, her legs twitching like she can’t hold still.

She’s spread wide for you, thong stretched to the side, pussy lips puffed and glistening, flushed dark with arousal. You lean down heavier, slurring incoherent shit, hips stuttering, can’t even manage a proper thrust without needing to shove in, grind forward, like your cock refuses to part from her for more than a second.

You drop your grip from her knees and plant your hands on the edge of the sink, bracing hard. Her legs fold up high and lock around your shoulders, heels digging into your back, forcing you deeper into the grind. The porcelain creaks behind her, something scraping loudly against the wall, but all you can focus on is the feel of her cunt, so, so hot and sticky, your cock slipping and catching against her clit with every frantic push.

“Gonna cum just like this?” Giselle taunts, breath hot. “Rubbing on me like a teen? Pathetic—”

“Fuck—stop—”

“Make me.”

You’re so slick now it feels like you’re drenched in her, your cock dripping from the sheer mess you’ve both made. Giselle grabs you harder, nails scraping down your arms, her legs quivering where they’re hooked around you. Despite the teasing, she’s shaking, breath stuttering, and you can feel the way her clit’s gone puffy and sore from the constant attention—but you don’t stop. This is your revenge.

Then her mouth is on yours again.

Not aggressive. Not teasing. Just… Sure. Certain. Hers.

You answer without thought, lips parting on a whine. Your tongues slide together, wet and needy, curling and tasting and pulling, your breath catching in your throat as your heart hammers like it’s trying to punch through your ribs. You kiss her back like you're starving for it, sloppy and unashamed, the sound of it bouncing raw and echoing off tiles.

And then, no warning, no easing. Your hips shove forward and your cock sinks into Giselle, hot and thick and stretching her open in one slick, devastating push.

She moans- a sound torn straight from her chest, half-shock, half-relief, cracking wide open into something wrecked and perfect as your hips start pounding into her, relentless from the start. Her walls grip you, tight and soaked, the glide almost too easy from how wet she already is.

Her nails dig into your arms, hard and sudden. “Wait—wait,” she gasps, voice shredded but firm. You freeze, cock buried deep, twitching inside her as your pulse slams through your ears. Panic spikes. Did you hurt her? but then she looks up with that up-to-no-good smile and bites her lip, “Turn me around,” nodding toward the mirror. “I wanna watch.”

Your brain stalls. What?

She presses gently at your chest, not pleading, commanding. “Behind. I want to see you fuck me.”

The demand clicks. The memory slams into you, her sprawled across your bed weeks ago, scrolling your camera roll, pausing on a blurry mirror selfie she took of the two of you. “Hmm,” she’d bit her lip, tossing your phone aside. “You ever fuck someone in front of a mirror?” she’d asked, casual as if discussing the weather. “Like… watching yourself fuck? Kinda vain, but,” She’d shrugged and smiled, running a hand through her red strands, toe tracing your calf. “Can we try one day?”

You’d choked on your apple juice. She’d just laughed.

You blink back to the present. Giselle’s already wriggling off the counter, flushed and impatient, and you move fast, hands at her waist, easing her down, sliding out. Your cock leaves her soaked, a thick string of cum and slick still connecting you together. 

“C’mon,” she breathes, turning smoothly, planting her palms flat on the counter. The mirror frames everything: her lips bitten red, her cheeks blotched with heat, lip gloss smeared across her mouth, “Fuck me.”

You swallow, hands trembling as you grip her hips. Her thong’s a soaked scrap, shoved aside. The bikini top’s strings dangle loose down her back. “Arch back, please,” you instruct, dragging a finger up the hem of her bikini top. Her nipple pebbles under your thumb as you graze it. So responsive it makes your cock twitch.

She does as asked, palms sliding up the mirror as she arches her back hard, ass tilting up for you. The bikini top’s strings dig into her skin, triangles straining. You hook two fingers under the damp fabric, yanking it up until her tits spill free, nipples hard and flushed. “Y/N—” she moans, but it’s swallowed when you pinch one roughly, rolling the bud between your fingers as you line yourself up.

The strings of her bikini top dig into her back, the triangles straining uselessly over her chest. You hook two fingers under the fabric and yank. Her tits spill out, heavy and flushed, nipples stiff and aching for your mouth. “Y/N-” she gasps, but it’s swallowed by a moan when you twist one nipple, rolling the bud between your fingers just as your cock presses back to her cunt.

“Look,” you coax, nodding toward the mirror. “Look at what I do to you.”

And then you drive into her in one brutal thrust.

The mirror rattles. Giselle’s mouth falls open in a silent scream before a strangled moan tears free. Your hands claw at her hips, dragging her back onto you as you pound into her, relentless. Her tits sway with every slap of skin against skin, your cock pistoning deep into her soaked heat as the counter groans beneath her.

“God,” she chokes out, half-laugh, half-desperate cry. “Yes—yes.”

You look up. Your reflection is wrecked: jaw tight, eyes blown wide, hips jerking like you’re possessed. Her mouth is slack, breath fogging the mirror, but her glazed eyes doesn’t leave her own reflection. You look down to watch the way your cock disappears inside her, glistening with slick, the obscene stretch of it, the way her body gives around you.

“Harder,” she breathes, not to you, but to her own reflection, eyes wild. “Harder, fuck!”

You slam into her deeper, harder, and she jolts forward, palms sliding on the mirror as your cock splits her apart, slides deep into the clutch of her muscle, dragging every sound out of her like you’re wringing her dry. Her legs are spread, shaking, skin flushed everywhere you touch her, chest pressed to the mirror, ass pushed high.

You moan, guttural and close to cumming. She moans back, eyes locked on the mirror like she’s watching a dream come true. 

Giselle’s barely got her toes on the ground anymore. Every thrust from you has her lifting off her feet, teetering, dangling, your cock punching up into her so deep she has no hope of holding herself steady. Her body gives, legs quivering, cunt greedy and wide open, swallowing you like it’s desperate to keep you, like it knows you’re about to flood her and doesn’t want to miss a drop.

She’s dripping. You hear it, feel it, the way your cock slicks through her over and over again, every vein dragging along her cunt walls, every pull-out thick with strings of precum. Her thighs are a mess. So are yours. Every time your hips meet hers, it sounds like something’s breaking.

“Fuck, so tight,” you groan, breathless, a broken record. And you repeat it, over and over, a mantra made for her cunt alone.

The bathroom echoes with it: the slap of skin-on-skin, your groans, her cries, the wet, sticky drag every time you pull out just enough to slam back in. It’s loud. And Winter’s room is right next door.

You don’t stop.

Wouldn’t even if Winter banged on the wall and begged.

“More,” Giselle pants, and it doesn’t even sound like a request. It’s a command.

“More of my dick, Gi? You want it to split you open?” Your voice is ragged, trembling with the way her cunt drags on you. “Hmm? Gaping for me, taking every inch.”

“Fuck, yes.” 

You grab her by the hair and shove her face against the mirror, fog blooming across the glass from her ragged breath. Her cheeks flush darker. Her lips are parted. And her toes? No longer touching the floor. Every time you ram into her, her feet lift higher, curling—like she’s being hoisted by the sheer power of your cock alone, like her body’s forgotten gravity in favor of getting fucked open.

“I'm gonna cum,” Giselle gasps, voice wrecked and raw. “Gonna cum. Gonna fucking cum so hard on your dick, fuck, harder! Cum in me!”

Your brain shorts out.

“In you?” you rasp, your whole body thrumming. You shove in harder, deeper, until her body’s flush against the counter, hips slamming into porcelain. “You want me to breed you, huh? Fuck a baby into this tight little cunt?” Your voice breaks, low and filthy. “Fill you up, ruin you for anyone else. Knock you up right here against the mirror so you watch yourself take every fucking drop—"

Her cunt clenches so hard around your cock it nearly sends you to your knees.

You grip her hair harder, drag her face up to see what she looks like fucked out. Her reflection streaked with fog, eyes glazed, drool clinging to her lip. Her body shakes. 

“I’m gonna fucking cum in you, Gi,” you hiss through your teeth, like it’s being ripped from your core. You grind into her with sluggish, longer thrusts, the tip of your cock pressing into the spot that has her seeing stars. “You’re gonna take it? Promise you’re gonna take every last drop, and you’re gonna cum when I do, yeah? Cum when I fill you up-"

“Oh-yes!” she squeals, voice shattering on a moan when you hit that spot just right. Her back arches, cunt choking your cock, and you feel everything, down to her body twitching as she teeters on the edge.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” You can’t even get the words out before they melt in your throat. That thought, her dripping full of you, leaking down her thighs, maybe taking, maybe really taking is what breaks you. 

Her pussy clamps around you and she cums, shuddering and wailing, legs quaking on either side of your body as her orgasm floods over you. You go right with her, muttering something, cock slamming in deep, your hips locking as your body jerks uncontrollably. You spill into her with everything you’ve got, moan ragged and cracked, hot, thick, endless. You gasp, twitching through the aftershocks as her cunt milks you for every fucking drop.

She wants it. The idea of breeding her, of your cum spilling back out of her used hole and soaking the floor, it shatters you.

You collapse forward, breath heaving, forehead against her spine. Still buried deep. Still twitching inside her.

“Oh,” you whisper. “I could die right here.”

Giselle hums, delirious, and giggles into the fogged-up mirror: “Wow.”

You stay draped over her, skin slick, bodies still fused. Her thighs twitch, cunt still clenching weakly around your softening cock. You don’t move. Can’t.

She’s trembling underneath you, breath ragged, until finally, finally, she draws in a fuller breath and turns her head just enough to kiss you. It’s slow, a little shaky, and when her lips part against yours, you hum, maybe even whine, a soft, broken sound, one last lazy grind of your cock inside her making both your bodies jolt. You’re overstimmed and exhausted, but you kiss her back. She sucks at your tongue, licking deep and slow, until you go fully soft and slip out, your cum following in a slow, lazy trickle down her thighs.

You both hiss at the loss.

Your lips trail kisses along her shoulder, warm and gentle now. “Fuck,” you whisper against her skin. “I loved that. You. That.”

It’s true. Every dizzy, filthy second of it.

She smiles at that. Except it’s...off. Just a little strained at the edges. But you’re still buzzing, floating, caught in the haze, so you don’t think much of it.

You shower together. Wash off the mess. Her body presses against yours under the water like she doesn’t want distance, like she’s still hungry for you even now, but when you soap up her back, she doesn’t quite lean into it the way she usually does. Still, you rinse, dry off, curl into bed like everything’s fine.

And it kind of is. Mostly.

She pulls you against her chest, and you go willingly, cheek pressed to her breast, her skin warm and soft. One hand runs slow nails across the nape of your neck. It’s comforting. You could fall asleep just like this. You probably will.

Until she says—

“Did you mean it?”

You hum. Eyes still closed. “Mean what?”

Her hand pauses. “When you said you loved me.”

Your brain stutters. You blink your eyes open, more awake now. Her chest doesn’t rise the same way. She’s stopped breathing quite so evenly.

“I...wait, when?”

“During sex.” Her voice is quiet. But not small. It’s pointed. “When you were—inside me. You said, ‘fuck, I love you.’”

Oh.

She must feel your body shift, the way you go still, because she scoffs, a little bitter. “You don’t even remember.”

“No,” you say quickly, “no, I just …” You sit up halfway, heart pounding suddenly, “I didn’t realize I said it out loud.”

“So you do remember.”

“I …” You frown, searching through the haze. Everything had gone so fast. All sensation and no pause. But that moment—her cunt clenching around you, cumming, the overwhelming everything of her—it’s there. The feeling. The words. They were real.

“I don’t remember saying it,” you admit, voice soft. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She turns her face toward yours, “You mean that?”

You don’t hesitate now. “Yes. Gi. I fucking mean it.”

She doesn’t answer right away. But the silence this time feels fuller, thicker, like something swelling between you instead of falling apart.

Then her lips press to yours again. Softer. She kisses you like she believes you. And maybe for the first time, she really does because she confesses those three little words back and adds: “And so did Steve, rest in peace little guy.”

Before you’re groaning, smothering her face with a pillow and she’s cackling at you.

frannie's note: it's been a while since i wrote fics with cute endings, lol! hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing this ... (p.s. the two angels who've won the challenge and guessed the prompt right will be summoned and revealed soon :p <3)

click for m.list

[tallovines]

I LOVE WRITING TALES FOR MY STUPID LITTLE SCP OC X CANON SHIP 😈😈😈

[crushpunky]

rafe surprises kook!reader on valentine’s day

masterlist | kook!reader masterlist

based on this ask that i LOVEEE

The four of them sat around the brunch table, recapping their weekend escapades over mimosas and bloody marys. The warm Sunday sun bathed the patio in a golden glow, Topper and Kelce arguing over some video game. Rafe lounged back in his seat, his tanned thighs being shown off as he stretched his legs out underneath the table, his arm resting on the back of y/n’s chair.

“So, y/n…” Kelce said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “What’re you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

Y/n scoffed, taking a sip from her coffee as she laughed to herself. Of course they had to bring it up. She’d secretly been hoping nobody would’ve mentioned the holiday only days away. It wasn’t that she necessarily hated Valentine’s Day… well I guess she kinda did. Not because of the romantic or cheesy nature of it, that she secretly adored, it was more the fact that she never got to experience the joy of the holiday. She never got the roses or the chocolates or the night out. No. Y/n usually spent the night in. With chocolate, sure, but ones she had purchased herself and were downing with a bottle of wine and whatever mindless rom-com she could find on TV.

“Uh, nothing.” Y/n said with a shrug, stabbing her fork into her pancake mindlessly. On the back of her chair, y/n could feel the slight movement of Rafe’s arm.

“Oh c’mon,” Topper said through a mouthful of eggs, “lil’ miss Kook doesn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day?”

Rafe scowled, delivering a harsh smack to the back of Topper’s head that nearly caused him to choke on his food.

“Ouch—” Topper started, rubbing at the back of his head.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ asshole.” Rafe said sharply before settling back into his seat.

“Let’s just… stop with the Valentine’s talk, ok?” Y/n said, her tone coming off a bit more thorny than she had intended… but that didn’t mean she didn’t mean it.

Y/n had spent most of her Valentine’s inside, scrolling through an endless stream of couples posting each other with the caption “my forever Valentine” or whatever other cheesy shit they could conjure up. After rotting all day, y/n decided it would be best for her to take a break and go outside. So, she put on her tennis shoes and grabbed Jack’s leash before the two of them set off on a walk down the streets of Figure Eight.

Her parents were out on their own Valentine’s date, Topper and Kelce were at dinner with their on again and off again girlfriends, and Rafe was… definitely busy. I mean… it was Valentine’s Day and he was Rafe fucking Cameron. Any girl on the island would kill to accompany him on this day. 

Finishing their walk, y/n came in the side door, Jack’s ears perking up before he began to tug at his leash excitedly. The alarm to the house was disabled, the side door unlocked, and a familiar pair of pristine white Nikes sat just in the doorway along with the rest of her family’s shoes. Y/n unhooked Jack from his leash, the dog immediately darting up the stairs and into her bedroom as she took off her shoes.

“No, no.” Y/n heard a voice upstairs scold. “Get the— hey— get the fuck out, dog.”

Y/n’s brow furrowed as she made her way up the steps, the door to her room flung open and a subtle floral scent floating down the hallway.

“Dog— Jack, get out—” The voice continued as y/n stepped into the doorway.

The curtains to her room were drawn up, the only light in the room coming from the sprinkling of flickering candles around her room and her bedside lamps. Her bed was done up, a tray resting atop it with a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine with two glasses. Atop her dresser sat perhaps the biggest bouquet she’d ever seen, deep red roses practically falling out of the elegant crystal vase they sat in. While she was certainly amazed by the elegant decoration of her room, the person standing in the middle of it all (being swarmed by Jack) was what surprised her the most.

“Rafe?” Y/n asked. Rafe’s attention immediately turned upwards, his eyes torn away from the dog at his feet. He immediately straightened, swallowing harshly as the two of them locked eyes.

“Hi.” Rafe said, clearing his throat as he fidgeted with his Cameron family ring. Y/n watched as he smoothed down the front of his dress shirt, the same light pink one Topper and Kelce had teased him about once when he wore it on one of their golf outings.

“Uh, what are you doing here?” Y/n asked, stepping into her room hesitantly.

“Well, you said you weren’t doing anything for Valentine’s day so I thought… we could do something.” Rafe said as he ran a hand through his hair. Y/n blinked harshly, her heart feeling like it had stopped in her chest. She had to fight not to break into a lovestruck-schoolgirl smile, her cheeks growing warm. 

The look of shock on y/n’s face sent a shiver down Rafe’s spine. Terrified he’d scared her into thinking he’d crossed a line, and maybe even second guessing himself if he did, Rafe’s eyes widened before he shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable by this apparently sudden gesture of something more than friendship, even if what he was feeling really was more than friendship and had been for a very long time.

“I— uh, as friends, of course.” Rafe stammered, a bit of color returning to his cheeks as he watched y/n take in a sigh of relief.

Y/n’s breathing returned, her system recovering from the shock of the foolish thought that Rafe may have reciprocated her feelings. Of course ‘as friends’. Of course.

“Did you… not have anything going on?” Y/n asked, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. She smoothed her fingertips over her bedding, surprised by Rafe’s bedmaking abilities considering he grew up with maids who always did everything for him.

“No?” Rafe said, continuing to stand in front of y/n as he spoke. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d had plenty of girls in his dms, and hell maybe he would’ve hooked up with one tonight, but once he heard how sad y/n sounded at brunch when she said she didn’t have plans, he knew he had to clear his schedule.

Y/n nodded, biting her lip lightly as she looked around the room once more before a wide smile spread across her face.

“I’m… impressed, boy.” Y/n said, looking up from the bed to Rafe. Rafe’s lips drew up into a flushed grin as he shrugged cockily.

“Don’t let it get to your head, though.” Y/n prefaced before reaching for the bottle of wine on the tray in front of her. She peeled off the metal foil before she attempted to pry at the cork with her fingers.

“Wouldn’t want everyone thinking I’m not a half bad Valentine, huh?” Rafe said as he sat alongside her on the bed, taking the wine bottle from her as he produced a corkscrew from his pocket. He opened the bottle with a wink that caused y/n to giggle and roll her eyes before offering out her glass.

“Thank you.” Y/n said as Rafe filled her glass, trying his best not to splash any of the dark, red liquid onto y/n’s bedding, before filling his own glass. Y/n offered her glass out, Rafe clinking his against hers lightly.

“Happy Valentines.” Rafe said before he took a sip.

“Happy Valentines.” Y/n said.