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offside-the-lines · 3 months ago

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i'm half-doomed & you're semi-sweet | Connor McDavid (x Male!OC)

Summary: After a painful playoff exit to end the 2022-23 season, Connor just needs to get as far away as possible, all the way to Gold Coast, Australia. He expects some peace and quiet, a reprieve. What he doesn't expect is this happy and carefree bartender, Lucky, to make him question the choice he has been making since he was 10. Title inspo: Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes by Fall Out Boy

This fic is dedicated to @hiding-from-reality-56 for @wyattjohnston's Summer Fic Exchange 2k24. I'm really sorry it's late. Life has been nuts. I really hope you like it! S/O to Demi, Ashley and T for being my cheerleaders, beta readers and editors. Ilysm. Pairing: Connor McDavid x M!OC. This fic features an original male character. Word count: 11.3k Warnings: SMUT: 18 + ONLY. MINORS DNI. SAFE SEX RESOURCE. Angst, lots of (I would say light) angst (first 1/2). Smut, lots of (light to medium) smut (second 1/2). This fic deals with internalized homophobia and coming to terms with your sexuality by way of having your first gay and first sexual encounter (it's hot and sweet, I hope). This was a super meaningful topic for me to write about, and I hope it resonates. Please take care of yourself if this is a topic that is sensitive for you. Connor is also, as I liked to say as I was writing this, Cognitive Distortions and Anxiety and Self-Doubt stacked on top of each other in a trench coat. Our poor boy is going through it in this. The smallest emetophobia warning. Small mention right in the first section (7 paragraphs in). Masterlist | (My requests are currently closed.) | Read this story on AO3

It’s 4 am on May 15th, and Connor’s lying in his own bed. And the only thing he can think about is what should’ve been.

He should be going to Vegas, getting ready to win Game 7.

Or better yet, he should’ve never let it get to that point—needing a Game 7. They should be getting ready for the conference finals.

The humiliation of yet another failed year—a second-round exit, no less—stings deep, and he feels the bile rise in the back of his throat. The taste of ‘This is our year’ sits rotten on his tongue, the number of times he said it to the boys. Momentarily, he wonders if he ever truly believed it. If any of this means anything at all. Or if he really is just a mouse in a cage running on a wheel going nowhere.

The silence in Roger’s Place is all he can hear in the darkness of his own bedroom. It makes him feel like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. The idea of going back to his Toronto house, carrying the looming absence of those 35 pounds, makes him want to throw up.

Or maybe that’s just—

He bolts up in his bed, runs to his toilet, and throws up nothing but bile.

With his head resting against the cold ceramic, he thinks about his parents. He knows they’re not going to be disappointed. They don’t care about the Cu— They don’t care about all that. They care about him, but he doesn’t think he can stomach another off-season of their pitying looks and gentle encouragement.

Another off-season walking around the city of Toronto, feeling like everyone is laughing at him. ‘Look, there goes the Next Great One, the so-called McJesus. What a joke. Look at him, he’s a failure.’ He can hear their thoughts.

They don’t even know about the other thing.

He rinses his mouth and stumbles back to his bed. He picks up his phone and texts his agent about finding somewhere different to train this offseason before he can think better of it. “...in I don’t know. Fucking Australia or something. Just. Somewhere far,” he adds.

He sits on his bed, fiddling with his phone for a while.

He sighs and rests his head against the headboard. He closes his eyes and drifts, picturing what his life might look like if he wasn’t… Well… Him.

He remembers a sports psychologist he was encouraged to see called it ‘maladaptive daydreaming.’ Which—that’s always felt a little ridiculous, given that they also recommend ‘visualization techniques’. ‘Picture yourself scoring the goal, Connor,’ they’d say.

It always felt like the same thing.

He sighs and texts Jeff again. “Totally okay if not. I know it’s super late notice. Just feel like it might be good for me. And for next year.”

The next few days pass like a blur, just room full of people after room full of people. Saying the same meaningless comments over and over. Play the part. Be sad, but not too sad. Be honest, but not too honest.

It doesn’t help that Leon’s grumpy, too. Well, not so grumpy he won’t sit on Connor’s couch—that does occasionally happen—but grumpy enough that he’s been mainly communicating in grunts. But, Connor figures, a grunting Leon is better than no Leon, so they sit in miserable silence as episode after episode of Friends plays on his ridiculously large 85-inch TV.

Which—who even needs an 85-inch TV? Well… Connor does, apparently, according to his decorator anyway. It’s ridiculous, and he hates the excessiveness more with each passing minute. He considers how bad it would be to just rip it off the wall. Probably quite bad. He doesn’t do it. Instead, he pokes Leon in the side with his toe and smiles weakly when he gets an irritated grunt in return and a heavy hand gripping his ankle.

Connor does his duty as Captain and hosts one last team barbecue in his absurd house that makes him feel like a zoo exhibit. He says goodbye to Leon for the summer—every year, it feels stilted and weird; he can never find the right words, but he thinks Leon gets it anyway. Or at least some of it. Not that Connor really knows what “it” is.

Not that Connor really wants to know what “it” is.

Connor swallows down the lump in his throat and turns his phone off, settling in for the flight from LAX to Brisbane, Australia—apparently, Jeff took him literally. He can’t help but think What the fuck am I doing? But that’s the point, right? To not think.

For once in his life, it would be nice to just do something without thinking about it endlessly. To just do something without thinking through the whole play, without reviewing the tape and dissecting everything that could go wrong.

He pops a sleeping pill with the hope that maybe it means he won’t spend the 15-hour flight ruminating on whether or not he should be doing this at all. And then ruminating on whether or not he should be ruminating on whether or not— Yeah. Five hours of rumination he can do—he does it often with the NHL schedule and the Edmonton of it all—but 15 hours seems to be a stretch even for him. So, he pops a sleeping pill.

Besides, he hopes that if he’s asleep, he won’t have to make any more eye contact with the flight attendant whose hand Connor accidentally touched when he helped Connor put away his carry-on. He kept making such earnest conversation with Connor, a smile crinkling the corners of his dazzling green eyes as Connor embarrassingly fumbled over his words, which—

Yeah, he needs to get a grip. And sleep. Hopefully, when he wakes up, he will feel a little less mortified—from experience, unlikely. At least the guy was Australian and didn’t seem to know who he was.

Connor wonders if he would be like this if he worked in something mundane, like finance or sales. If he’s destined to be this way, or if hockey made him this way. At this point, it was impossible to determine where Connor ends and McDavid-97 begins.

Luckily, hockey means he gets the good pills, at least, and he is knocked out for at least 12 hours.

Connor spends the first few weeks in a weird state of suspended animation, just going through the motions of his off-season training. He meets the trainers, who seem to have been briefed by Gary on what he needs and throws himself into the work. No one recognizes him except for a couple of the guys at the rink. But they don’t bother him. It’s a relief. He thinks he understands why Leon fucks off to Mallorca every summer. He wonders why he doesn’t fuck off to Mallorca with him—something else to not examine further.

He takes himself to the beach and watches the surfers and tries to remember to reapply sunscreen every 30 minutes, or whatever, even though it’s “winter”. He fails, of course, and burns bright red after only a few days. He’s forced to return only in the late afternoons.

He finds a pub-thing between his condo and the beach and sits at the bar for dinner every day; nothing better to do. He orders a beer with his dinner at the bartender’s suggestion. He hates it. He drinks it anyway. The bartender—Connor thinks he said his name was Lucky?—probably thinks he’s an absolute freak, judging by the little glances he throws Connor’s way and the amused look he has every time Connor orders.

It doesn’t help that Lucky is kind of stunning. It’s a thought that Connor usually keeps locked up, stuffed in some deep crevice of his mind where he won’t have to examine it, but the longer he watches Lucky—not that he’s watching, he just happens to be at the bar every night, and there’s not much else to do—the more he notices.

Connor watches the messy mop of curls fall in front of his eyes every time he bends over to put ice in a drink and the way he brushes it away with the back of a toned, tattooed forearm. It’s hard to tell exactly how dark his hair is or what the color of his eyes is in the dim interior of the pub, but Connor finds himself itching to know.

But the thing that Connor thinks about as he lays in bed at night is the way Lucky interacts with everyone—playful, easy. He notices the way he flirts—and the guys he flirts with. There’s this weird tightness that settles in his gut, and it twists every time he catches Lucky’s bright smile and the glint in his eyes.

There are an increasing number of days when Connor feels the need to stay until closing. There are a few other regulars he’s gotten to know, and it’s fun to hear about their lives. They will chat with Lucky as he’s cleaning up the bar.

It has nothing to do with the way Lucky will sometimes take some guy home. Nothing to do with the way it’s just out in the open. Bold, confident, and unashamed. There are never any side-long glances from anyone, no snide comments.

Connor is completely unable to ignore the way his chest feels too small every time it happens. He wonders if he could ever do that. He wonders if he could even look at the thing head-on.

He thinks maybe Gold Coast Connor could.

It takes him until the night before his flight to the NHL awards to decide that Gold Coast Connor can make moves. Gold Coast Connor has the confidence and freedom that Connor McDavid does not. Gold Coast Connor is funny and banters with strangers.

Connor McDavid knows to never have more than two drinks. It affects his performance the next day.

That’s why Gold Coast Connor has 5 or 6. Switches to whiskey after the usual disgusting beer. Lucky chuckles at him.

“I knew you hated that. Was trying to see how long you were gonna keep drinking that for. You should see the face you make every sip.”

Connor's face heats; he knows the ruddy red cheeks look ridiculous against his messy ginger beard.

After the third drink, Lucky shoots him a look. He responds with only a shrug, and he seems to decide to not press the issue.

He knows he’s drunk when he shoots his shot.

“Come home with me today,” he says to Lucky, leaning over the bar conspiratorially.

He laughs, smile wide and easy, eyes wrinkling. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Lucky’s smile shifts, and he stares at Connor for a long moment, lips pressed together. The weight of the look sits heavy on him and makes him squirm. He fights the urge to run.

“Yeah, nah,” Lucky decides, “I think it’s time to cut you off. Switch to water.”

Connor suddenly realizes how this must look to him. “I’m serious,” he blurts out, “about the offer, I mean.”

Lucky laughs. “Good to know.” He winks, and Connor feels very warm. “But you’re six drinks deep when you usually only have one beer. Whatever this—” he gestures at Connor “—is, I’m not sure I want to get involved in that.”

His stomach sinks like a rock, and bile licks at the back of his throat. “Oh.” About twenty different thoughts battle in his mind, fighting for dominance.

Lucky looks at him consideringly and sighs. “Connor, it’s not a no. It’s a not today. Trust me, I am very interested. You’re—Look, you’re going on your business trip tomorrow, right?”

Connor nods.

“Okay, talk to me when you get back, yeah?” He leans in—it makes his biceps pop, but Connor tries not to let his eyes catch on it—something akin to amusement dances in his eyes as his lips curl into a smirk. “You can wait that long. You can be good, can’t you?”

A heat settles in Connor’s gut. “Uh, yeah,” he splutters.

Lucky leans back, his smirk bigger now, satisfied. “I thought you’d be into that. Yeah, we’ll have some fun when you get back.”

Connor swallows thickly; something that might be hope simmers under his skin.

The good feeling Lucky leaves him with doesn’t last long. It starts with the mountain of texts, missed calls, and voicemails that come through as soon as he puts his normal SIM card back in.

It only gets worse when he’s faced with Leon’s fury. Leon is pissed off often, but it is rare to see him genuinely angry.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Leon fumes, steel grey eyes not even a foot from his face as he grips Connor’s arm so tightly he thinks it might bruise.

“Um, look—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Leon continues right over Connor’s soft voice. “I had to call your agent just to make sure you were still alive. Hey—at least Cameron got a text, right? Nice of you to not ghost your family, I guess. Guess I didn’t make the cut, eh?”

“Leo, I’m s—”

“You know,” Leon grits, “I was going to fly back to Canada ‘cause I thought something had happened to you. But, no. Glad you’re living it up in Australia. Glad you’re having so much fun.” He drops Connor’s arm and steps back, chest heaving as he breathes heavily. “Well, if you don’t want anything to do with me, then you can have nothing to do with me.”

“Leo, please—” Connor’s voice breaks as his throat burns and his chest tightens like a vice grip.

“Fuck you, Connor. Seriously, you’re a fucking selfish asshole,” he says as he walks away, the door of Connor’s hotel room slamming behind him.

It takes too long for Connor to remember how to breathe after that, sitting on the floor of his hotel room, staring at his shaking hands.

The day somehow gets worse from there when he has to ask Mikael Backlund, of all people, why Matthew has a sling on.

Backlund gives him a strange look. “Wh—Chucky?”

“Yeah,” Connor swallows.

After a beat of silence, he says, “He broke his sternum. Game 3 of the finals against Vegas. Played in Game 4 anyway. Didn’t matter in the end.” Backlund winces. “They lost in 5.”

“Oh,” Connor winces in return.

Backlund stares at him for a while. “Heard it was pretty bad.”

“Shit.”

The festivities continue around them. He gives a cordial nod to Nico Hischier and Jack Hughes as they walk past.

“I thought you two were friends; that’s what Chucky used to say anyway,” Backlund finally says.

“We are,” Connor swallows around the guilt sitting in his throat. “I just, uh, needed a break, so I was—Never mind. It looks like duty calls, so I’ll be—” Connor forces himself to stand up and gestures towards the event people waving at him. “Have a good night. See you next season.”

Backlund nods with an expression Connor can’t quite place—he thinks it might be pity.

Connor sleeps so poorly over the next few days, and it’s a wonder he’s coherent when he meets the Bedard kid. He feels horribly ill-equipped to give the kid any advice and fumbles through some generic pointers. Leon was much better, as he usually is at these things.

At least the time together allowed him to earn back some of Leon’s good graces. They part with a promise of photos and texts and a hug that makes Connor feel unmoored. He wonders if Leon can tell he’s barely holding it together and just doesn’t care enough to ask anymore. He hopes not. He really needs it to not be that.

I guess we can add ‘friendship’ to the list of things Connor McDavid can’t do, he thinks. When he closes his eyes, he can only picture Leon’s furious expression, or Backlund’s confused disappointment, or Matthew’s annoyingly amused smirk when Connor finally had the chance to catch up with him and explain his absence.

Leon’s anger is still the one that stings the most. It’s the one that plays on a loop in his head. It pops into his head at unexpected moments. It’s kept company with all the other failures and misses that haunt him.

He doesn’t sleep a wink on the flight back to Australia.

It takes Connor a few days to work up the courage to go to the pub again, now more sure than ever that he made a fool of himself the last time. But, eventually, he forces himself to just do it—it has nothing to do with his inability to cook.

Lucky greets him, same as always, with an easy smile and a glint in his eye. It’s so normal that it makes him think Lucky forgot about their last conversation. But, something about the way he reaches across the bar and taps Connor on the wrist as he laughs at some dumb comment Connor made. Or maybe it’s the wink he sends Connor when he catches Connor staring at the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the top-shelf liquor…

Either way, Connor knows deep down that Lucky definitely remembers their conversation. Which means Lucky knows something about Connor that no one else does.

It’s a thought that should make his chest tighten and stomach churn—the idea of it alone would usually send him down a paralyzing spiral—but instead, it makes him feel feverish, a small crackle of expectation settling just below his navel. There’s just something about Lucky that eases something in his chest—Well, there just is something about him.

Neither of them do anything about it, though. Connor can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved.

A few days later, it’s almost closing and it’s quiet in the pub. There’s tennis on the TV: Wimbledon, Connor thinks, possibly a replay. He isn’t really paying attention. If he’s honest, he’s never really got tennis. Leon likes it, though, so he watches when it’s on.

“So,” Lucky says, interrupting Connor’s trance. He’s leaning against the bar back, polishing a glass—it makes the muscles in his forearm ripple. Connor pointedly doesn’t stare.

“So?” Connor says weakly. He knows. And he knows that Lucky knows he knows. He still doesn’t acknowledge it. He quickly looks around to check if anyone is close by.

“Did you still wanna come home with me?” Lucky says.

He just drops it into the space between them like it’s nothing. He just says it like it doesn’t turn Connor’s world upside down and his guts inside out.

Deep down, Connor knows that he could say no and Lucky would never mention it again. No hard feelings. Easy. They could both pretend like it never happened. Which is what Connor should want—it is what Connor wants. Which is why Connor is going to say no.

“Yeah.” It comes out close to a whisper, but it doesn’t need to be audible because Lucky smiles. Connor feels his cheeks heat, and it’s like every inch of skin suddenly fires up like live wire.

Lucky turns around and places the glass on the shelf, and Connor blows out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in a puff.

“Good,” Lucky says when he turns back around, “‘cause I already asked Kazza to close out for me tonight. I just need to grab something from the office, and then I’m good to go.”

Connor swallows. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Lucky runs his bottom lip through his teeth consideringly before he flashes Connor a heated grin and walks away.

Connor waits for the pang of regret or guilt to hit; something to tell him to put a stop to this. It doesn’t come. All he feels is the prickling simmer of anticipation.

“Connor?” Lucky says, poking his head around the corner.

“Huh?”

“I meant for you to follow me,” he chuckles.

“Oh!” Connor scrambles to get out of the bar stool—it’s an entirely ungraceful affair—and follows Lucky and waits in the hall.

When he emerges from the office, he hands an envelope to Connor. “Can you hold this for a sec? Just need to put my jacket on.”

“Yeah, sure.” Connor looks down at the envelope, which has Lachlan written in Sharpie on the front. “Who’s this for?”

Lucky freezes and cocks his head. “What?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—It’s just on the—Nevermind. Don’t worry about it,” Connor mumbles.

“No, no. Wait.” He shakes his head and huffs. “It’s me? Lachlan, that’s my name?” He pronounces it like Lock-lan, which confuses Connor more.

“What do you mean?”

“Lachy… It’s short for Lachlan?”

“It is?” Connor furrows his eyebrows.

“Yeah, mate! What have you been calling me?”

“I thought your name was Lucky!”

Lucky—or Lachy?—bursts out laughing, snorting a little as he clutches his sides. “I thought you were just saying it weird,” he manages to get out between laughs.

Connor rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean, it was loud in there when you introduced yourself, so…” he lets himself trail off. He shifts on his feet, looking at the carpet.

Lachy shakes his head, still chuckling as he grabs Connor’s hand at the wrist. “Come on, this way.”

“It’s a bit weird now ‘cause I’ve been calling you Lucky all this time, and you’re Lucky in my head. I guess I have to change that now,” Connor murmurs, largely to himself.

Lachy hums. He tugs on Connor’s wrist and pulls him forward, swallowing the space between them as he backs them into a door. In a snap second, it’s like all the air has left the room, the world around them focusing in on the one point of contact at Connor’s wrist. Lachy’s hand is warm as it applies some pressure.

There is a beat of silence where Connor doesn’t know what to do but look. The lighting is a little better back here, and it catches on the strands of Lachy’s hair that have been lightened by the sun. In this lighting, Connor thinks Lachy’s eyes might be hazel or maybe a warm amber. He feels an inexplicable need to find out.

The thing that catches Connor off-guard is the way he has to look down at Lachlan. Connor knew that he��s shorter—has seen him with his coworkers to compare—but it didn’t prepare him for the way it feels. The way that Lachy’s everything makes him feel pinned in place even as he towers over him—the six inches or so of height difference feels meaningless under his heated gaze.

Lachy reaches back with his free hand and grabs the door handle.

“You can keep calling me Lucky if you want, seeing as you’ll be getting Lucky tonight, right?” The corner of Lachy's lip ticks up in a smirk as he bites back a laugh. He leans in. “You can call me whatever you like once I’m inside you.”

Connor chokes. “Um, okay?” he squeaks, spluttering.

Lachy—Lucky?—leans his head back against the door and laughs. There is no explanation for the way the sound seeps into Connor, reaching every single crevice. It should be embarrassing to be this affected by someone’s laugh. Connor doesn’t have time to explore that thought further as Lucky pushes the door open and pulls Connor with him into the cool evening air.

The walk to Lucky’s place is not very long. But it is enough time for Connor to feel the ever-present doubt creeping in, even as Lucky tells him a funny story about a collision he saw while he was surfing that morning. He’s standing so close. Close enough that he can feel the heat of Lucky’s arm against his own. Closer than is normal for two guys casually strolling down the street, which—

Connor knows they’re not just two guys walking down the street. Not at all. He can still feel the anticipation simmering under his skin even as the cold air cuts through his thin sweater.

He tries to focus on the fact that the streets are empty, except for the occasional car, and no one knows him here. Here, he’s just Connor. So he tries not to let the looming shadow of his Name dig its claws in.

The thing is… he has a guy—a really hot guy who definitely knows what he’s doing—who is willing to take Connor home. A guy who seems to be into his disheveled and awkward self for some reason. A guy who inexplicably makes Connor feel safe, thousands of miles away from home and away from everything and everyone he knows.

Connor should take this gift with both hands and say thank you like the good Canadian boy that he is.

He thinks about the visualization exercises and pictures himself taking off the Edmonton Oilers jersey with McDavid 97 on the back and the C on the front. He pictures himself handing it over to Australian customs along with the apple he had forgotten was in his bag.

Connor barely has time to even look at Lucky’s apartment before he’s crowded against the door. Connor sucks in a steadying breath.

Lucky looks up at him, his warm breath tickling Connor’s neck. “I’m sorry if I smell like beer; I know you don’t like beer.”

Connor makes an affronted noise. “I do so like beer. I just don’t like—”

Lucky huffs and cuts him off by slamming his lips on Connor’s. Connor lets out a little squeak of surprise before his body takes over. His eyes flutter shut as he takes in the warmth of Lucky’s soft lips.

It feels so foreign when Lucky slides his tongue over Connor’s bottom lip; the wet heat surprises him and makes him open his mouth instinctively. He’s rewarded as Lucky pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbles on it slightly. Connor finds out he enjoys that as he bites back a groan.

Lucky’s hands move from the door behind Connor to rest on his hips, fingers applying gentle but firm pressure. His hands feel so warm Connor wonders if they would leave handprints for the world to see, like a brand.

Lucky makes a noise against his mouth that Connor can’t interpret. He hums a questioning sound and finds that it tickles a little. He finds out he likes that, too.

Lucky’s hands pull away, much to his dismay, only to grab Connor’s own hands and place them on his sides—Connor runs his hands down the firmness of his obliques and gives them an appreciative squeeze, earning him an approving sound as Lucky rests his hands on Connor’s chest.

Connor doesn’t know how long they just stay like that, kissing languidly as he slowly becomes more exploratory with his touches, sliding his hands over Lucky’s defined back. And Lucky returns the favor, running his hands over Connor’s chest—through the sweater material, it just feels like broad warm pressure—before reaching up to the nape of Connor’s neck and moving him the way he wants to deepen the kiss.

The wet, hot slide of their mouths feels so nice that Connor thinks maybe they could just stay doing this forever. But Lucky has other plans; he slides his hands under Connor’s sweater and hums appreciatively at what he finds. His hands travel up Connor’s chest; when he slides his hands directly over Connor’s nipples, Connor has to choke down a whine.

Connor’s hands move of their own accord, sliding down Lucky’s back and over his generous ass. His pressure is light, but it doesn’t stop Lucky from rocking forward and onto his tiptoes, stealing all the air from between their bodies. In doing so, he presses his hard dick right into Connor’s, the slide sending an electric shock through his body. They both moan at the same time.

Connor suddenly becomes acutely aware of how hard he is and the slight wet patch at the front of his boxers. Connor sucks in a breath through his nose. If he had known this was happening today, he would’ve jerked off before going to the pub. Hell—if he had even a second, he would’ve jerked off in the pub’s bathroom. Anything to take the edge off.

As it stands, Connor feels unable to get a hold of his restraint, like he’s reaching out to grab something just out of reach. It makes him feel underwater and suddenly too aware of all the sensations at once: the filthy slide of their mouths, Lucky’s thumbs rubbing over his nipples, the friction as Lucky grinds their clothed cocks together. It’s all too much as Connor feels his restraint fraying.

“Lucky,” Connor mumbles against his lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, leaning back a little.

This time, when Lucky slides his hands down Connor’s chest, he claws his hands, and his dull nails scrape over Connor’s nipples, drawing an unrestrained moan as he arches into Lucky.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” Lucky mumbles as his hands continue to travel south, as he recaptures Connor’s lips in a messy kiss.

His mind feels fragmented. Split between needing this to stop so he doesn’t come way too soon, ruining the whole thing, and needing to come so bad he thinks he might die. But he can’t figure out how to put that into words, so he just floats in the liminal space between the two.

He feels Lucky slide hook his fingers over the waistband of his jeans and boxers, and it takes him a second too long to figure out what’s happening as Lucky’s hand dips inside. It’s just the brush of a hand over his bare dick, but it’s more than he’s gotten in almost ten years, and Connor panics.

“Wait—no—” he blurts out, muffled by Lucky’s mouth.

Connor grabs Lucky’s hand and yanks it out of his pants, but it’s too late. He squeezes his eyes shut as he fights the shudder that travels through his whole body as he comes, largely untouched, in his too-expensive jeans.

He tucks his chin to his chest, face flaring so hot he must be bright red. He takes a few breaths to steady himself before he opens his eyes and dares to look up at Lucky.

He immediately winces at what he sees. Connor feels like he actually might die and prays for the ground to swallow him whole.

Lucky’s jaw clicks, his expression one that Connor has never seen on his handsome face before. One of hurt and confusion. Connor swallows.

“Is this a gay panic thing? Because I hate to break it to you, we’d been rubbing cocks for like twenty minutes,” he says, voice low and even.

“What? No! No, it’s not—” Connor stutters, “That’s not—No.”

“Right.” Lucky raises his eyebrows; he clearly doesn’t believe him.

Connor realizes he is still clutching Lucky’s wrist so tightly it must hurt; he lets it go completely. Lucky takes a few steps back, and Connor misses the heat of his body immediately. He feels the edges of panic closing in, so he just speaks.

“No, I promise. That’s not what’s happening. I’ve known since I was like ten that maybe—” His eyes dart around the room, and his eyes fixate on all the little trinkets around Lucky’s house—it’s kind of adorable. He takes a deep breath. Fuck it. “No. I’ve known since I was 10. I’ve just never… told anyone before. Or done anything. That was… That was great. I really liked it. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m so—” He runs his hands down his face. “Trust me, that is not what’s wrong. God, I want to die right now.”

His eyes affix to the surfboard mounted above the couch, a point just over Lucky’s left shoulder. It’s suffocatingly silent for a moment as Lucky looks him over.

“Wait,” Lucky says, his voice low and tight, “Did you just… come?”

Connor drops his head in his hands and straight-up whines.

“Oh my god,” Lucky whispers. “Holy shit.”

Connor wonders if it’s possible to just travel through the door like a ghost. Or maybe blink out of existence.

There’s a shuffling sound before gentle hands on his wrists pull them away from his face. “Woah, hey, Connor. No worries, yeah? It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbles. Connor thinks about all the guys Lucky’s fucked before and wonders if any of them had ever come in their pants after being lightly grazed by a hand. Of course, he would be a failure at this, too.

“Baby,” Lucky’s voice is so gentle, “I’m serious, okay? You have nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s… Seriously, oh my fucking God, Connor, that is fucking hot.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, baby, it is.” He gently clasps Connor’s chin so he has to look at him and smiles softly. “Come on, maybe let’s take a break.”

“Oh.” Connor’s chest feels too tight. “Do you wanna stop? I’m sorry. I can go if you want. I’m sorry for ruining it for you.” He knows his voice sounds odd, but he’s too panicked to care.

“Stop? Who said anything about stopping?” Lucky chuckles. “Unless you want to stop, I am very much still very interested.” He directs Connor’s hand to the front of his jeans, where the hard outline of his cock twitches in Connor’s palm. “Trust me. Very. Interested. But I can wait for a second. Come on, lemme get us a drink.”

Lucky walks over to a bar cart and pours two whiskeys. Connor wonders if he should leave anyway, if he’s just being nice. Sure, he’s still hard, but does he really want Connor, the guy who came from a light breeze in his entryway? Connor thinks about all the guys he’s seen Lucky take home before, and he just knows he’s going to be the worst—or at least, the most disappointing. Maybe it would be less embarrassing for everyone if he left now.

Lucky walks over and leans against the kitchen counter opposite him and hands him the drink with a soft smile.

Connor determines that he should probably stay, given he’s come once already, and Lucky hasn’t come at all. And that’s probably unfair.

“So,” Lucky says, “Earlier, you said that you’ve never told anyone you’re gay?” Connor shakes his head. “And you’ve never… done anything?”

Connor sighs. In for a penny, in for a pound, or whatever. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“Really? Never?” Lucky says, slightly incredulous.

“Well, there was like once or twice in juniors—high school, I mean, uh. Bro-jobs, or whatever, on, uh, school trips.” He shakes his head. “It just felt wrong ‘cause they weren’t gay, but I was. And it felt a little like I was taking advantage of it. So I stopped.”

Lucky snorts. “Well, sucking cock is pretty gay if you ask me.”

It pulls an unsuspecting laugh out of Connor. “I guess. I don’t know. That’s not what I meant—I guess—it was just different for me.” Connor shrugs and bites his lip. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I never did anything again after that.”

“Like… nothing?” Lucky asks, not unkindly.

“Yeah. Nothing.” Connor sighs. “I think you’re the first person I’ve kissed in like almost ten years. God, that’s so embarrassing to say out loud. You probably think I’m so fucking weird.”

Lucky reaches over and squeezes his arm. “Hey, I don’t think that’s embarrassing. Or weird. Different strokes, or whatever. It is what it is.”

Connor didn’t set out to have this conversation. Realistically, he never thought he would ever even have this conversation—not at least for another ten years. But something about the earnest way Lucky’s looking at him makes him want to say it. Like it’s suddenly something that’s clawing at his throat to get out.

“I just…” Connor pauses and worries at his lip again. “It’s different for me. I…” He takes a really deep breath and blows it out. “I work in the sports industry, and, unfortunately, being gay is still a pretty big deal in my line of work.”

“Shit,” Lucky nods. “That sucks.”

“I guess a little part of me always thought that if I didn’t say it out loud to anyone or do anything about it, then it was just something about me that was just for me to know. Something that other people don’t get to know about me. I guess in the process, I stopped really acknowledging it, even to myself. It’s weird. I’m not ashamed of it, but I also don’t want people to know. Which must mean I am ashamed of it, I guess. I don’t know.” Connor clears his throat to push through the tightness there. “I’ve never known another option. Like, I knew this was what I had to do from when I figured it out at 10. It’s like… if this is your reality, you might as well accept it and move on, you know?”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not painful, though. It still sucks. I’m sorry.”

Connor shrugs as Lucky lets it hang in the air for a bit.

“Am I the first person you’ve told?” Lucky asks.

“Yeah.”

“Wow… that’s…” Lucky smiles. “Congratulations, Connor. That’s a big deal. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Connor blows out a breath, and it comes out long and shaky. Despite that, his chest feels looser, like one of the invisible chains that wrap around his body loosened. “Yeah.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a bit as they sip their whiskeys, deep in thought. Connor takes the chance to look over Lucky in the bright kitchen lights. Connor finally determines that he has hazel eyes. They’re largely amber with flecks of green, and it makes him feel warm. It reminds him of the start of autumn and the beginning of the hockey season and the hope that comes with it.

The muscles in Lucky’s forearm ripples as he taps his fingers on the countertop to an unknown beat. It makes Connor think of the little hints of his body under the fitted black shirt and black pants. He knows from the way his shirt stretches when he reaches for a high shelf that Lucky has a broad, defined back. He’s seen enough of his arms and hands to fuel his fantasies for weeks. And what he’s seen of his ass and thighs makes him want to dig his fingers in, just to see what happens. Lucky just looks so handsome, beautiful, hot that it makes his head spin a little.

A flash of heat rolls over Connor as he remembers the feeling of the solid planes of Lucky’s body against his. Connor’s a professional athlete. He’s seen so many naked male bodies in peak physical form so many times and felt nothing that he sometimes questions whether he is actually into men. Of course, there’s always someone who would knock him away from that thought like an 18-wheeler truck. Either way, he doesn’t look in the locker room. Rarely even wants to.

This time, though, it’s Lucky. And he’s not a teammate. And he’s gay. And, for some inexplicable reason, he wants to fuck Connor—a thought that sends another wave of molten heat through his veins.

He shuffles on his feet and feels the uncomfortable wet patch in his pants and flushes. Something catches Lucky’s eye because he raises an eyebrow slightly and cocks his head. It’s a minuscule moment, but Connor catches it, and the way the air seems to shift.

Connor thinks about how he’s already here, everything out on the table. Connor thinks about how he might never get this opportunity again—at least not for another ten years—needs to make the most of it. Connor thinks about the weight of Lucky’s hard cock in his hand. Connor—

“So,” Connor finds himself saying, “Are we gonna fuck tonight or…?”

Lucky throws his head back and laughs. It exposes the long line of his neck, and—Connor doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey or some other form of intoxication, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to bite it, lick it, kiss it.

So he does.

He closes the space between them in one big step and leans down to run his teeth along Lucky’s neck. He moans in response, a deep rumbling sound that tickles his lips. Connor licks it and savors the flavor of salty sweat and the aroma of heady musk.

“Yeah, baby,” Lucky groans, his fingers finding purchase on Connor's hips and gripping firmly, “I’m going to make this so good for you.” He tilts his head and captures Connor’s lips in a heated kiss.

This kiss is different to the one at the door. It’s more urgent, incessant, purposeful. It’s messy as their teeth clash and tongues slide against each other. Lucky bites down on Connor’s lip harder than before, and he moans. Connor sucks on Lucky’s tongue, earning a moan of his own, before letting go with a pop.

“What do you want, Connor?” Lucky murmurs against his lips.

“I want you to fuck me,” Connor blurts out, the words spilling out.

Lucky freezes for a split second, almost imperceptible, before shaking his head lightly. Connor feels the stab deep in his gut; the sting of rejection hits him by surprise, and it hurts—more than he thought it would. He tries to pull away.

Lucky shakes his head. “No, I just mean, I’m not gonna fuck you tonight.”

Connor furrows his brows, feeling confused, still trying to step away.

“Connor. Not on your first night. You’re not ready.” Lucky squeezes Connor’s hip. “Next time though…”

Connor freezes. “Next time? There’s a next time?” he hears himself say, voice small and quiet.

“Yeah, baby. If you’re game, there will be as many next times as you want before you leave. You’re here for a few more months, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathless.

Connor doesn’t know who closes the gap between them, their lips meeting in a heated kiss once again. Lucky guides him backward until he bumps up against the counter of the kitchen island again. He hears the empty whiskey glass clink as his body knocks it back a few inches.

“So, what are we gonna do then?” Connor asks nervously as Lucky kisses down his jaw and neck.

“Oh, there are plenty of ways I can make you feel good, baby, don’t you worry,” Lucky says against the neck, the puffs of air tickling him.

“Oh,” Connor breathes.

He leans back. “Luckily,” he winks, beaming, “you’re in very good hands.”

It takes Connor a second to process the joke before a surprised giggle escapes his lips.

Lucky pushes his sweater up, exposing his stomach and chest. Lucky flicks a tongue over one nipple and a thumb over the other. Connor groans, his hands tightening on Lucky’s shirt.

“So sensitive,” Lucky laughs into his skin as he kisses his way down Connor’s front. “So pink. God, you’re so flushed, too. It goes all the way down to… I need to know if…”

Connor doesn’t have time to even process the way Lucky looks on his knees between his legs because Lucky is popping the buttons on his jeans and pulling his jeans and boxers down in one motion.

His dick bobs free, already achingly hard again. The swollen head glistens, wet with a mix of his come from before and the new beads of pre-come collecting at the tip. The air feels uncomfortably cold against him, and it makes him squirm.

He’s not uncomfortable for long, though, because Lucky wraps one hand around the base of his dick and squeezes firmly before running a hot tongue up the shaft. Connor’s breath catches in his chest.

He’s given no time to process the sensation before Lucky sucks the head into his mouth, bobbing once before sucking him all the way down with a salacious wink. Connor groans and is, for the first time this evening, happy that he’s come already because it is the only reason he doesn’t blow it from that alone.

Lucky moves, bobbing up and down, his hands resting on Connor’s hipbones, holding him still. It is impossibly hot and impossibly wet and impossibly tight. Connor doesn’t even know what sensation to focus on; the only thing he can think is fuck, that feels so good.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to get a handle on his ragged breathing.

He has nothing really to compare this to, but he doesn’t need to compare anything because he feels as though he is on fire, sweat prickling all over him as he focuses on not coming. He focuses on the tension and heat that settles in his gut.

It’s so different than when he touches himself; it’s just so much more. More everything, everywhere. The sounds, the smells—he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. He thinks that maybe he can’t open his eyes and see what this looks like from a real POV perspective because seeing it would ruin his life.

Connor likes to think that as a professional athlete, he has conditioned himself to have great control over his body. A theory that is being very much tested as moans and curses fall from his mouth without his input at all.

“God, fuck,” he rasps, his hoarse voice sounds insanely erotic. “Lucky…” Lucky swirls his tongue over the head as he moves himself up and down Connor’s dick. “Lachy… Fuck. Lachlan,” he moans.

Lucky hums—Connor feels it all the way up his spine—and pulls off with a pop. “Say it again.” His hand moves to lazily slide up and down his shaft.

“What?”

“My name. Say it again.” His voice sounds even more fucked than Connor’s; it makes his head spin.

“Lachlan,” he says softly.

Lucky smiles and makes a low noise of approval before sucking Connor back down, all while keeping his eyes pinned on Connor, who can’t look away.

“Oh fuck, Lachlan,” he says, and he’s rewarded with another groan. “You look so good. You feel so good. This is… ahh…”

His hands are gripping the kitchen counter so hard it hurts. The view of Lucky’s shiny red lips stretched over him is too much, his hold on his self-control close to faltering.

He closes his eyes and lets his head hang back; he’s unable to bite down the keening sound that escapes when Lucky flicks his tongue along the frenulum. The symphony of sound in the room sounds so filthy Connor thinks he would be flushing even pinker if he could. But he knows he’s already flushed red from his face to his dick that’s disappearing into Lucky’s incredible mouth.

Connor thinks about Leo and what he would say if he saw this. He wonders if he would be disgusted. If he’d never talk to him off the ice again. If he’d request a trade. If he would lose his best friend. He thinks about what the people would say if they saw him like this—Cam, his parents, his teammates, his agent—

Lucky’s hand slides down Connor’s shaft to the root and traces the line between his balls that are wound up high and tight against his body. His dick throbs inside Lucky’s mouth, and he feels more than hears Lucky’s moan of appreciation.

He decides he shouldn't be thinking of anything at all. However, the decision is more or less taken out of his hands when Lucky presses a finger behind his balls with such incredible precision his knees almost buckle.

The movement causes him open his eyes, and he watches as he accidentally fucks into Lucky’s mouth. Lucky’s dark lashes are wet, and his hazel eyes glisten as they look up at Connor as he fights against a choke, eyes fluttering shut in concentration. Connor thinks he’s never going to forget this moment, the way this looks. Even if this is only a one-time thing, it’s worth it.

Lucky reached up to grab Connor’s hand and place it in his hair. Connor cards his fingers through the soft curls. Lucky rolls his eyes humorously before pulling off.

“Fuck my face, Connor,” he rasps.

“Oh… Oh, fuck,” Connor whispers, hands shaking slightly as they move to grip his hair.

Lucky waits, mouth open, as he reaches one hand between his own pants. Connor watches as Lucky wraps a hand around his own cock, and feels compelled to say something.

“No,” he says.

“No?” Lucky furrows his brow.

“No, don’t—I want to get you. After—”

“Oh,” Lucky breathes, “Fuck, yeah. Okay.”

Connor watches as Lucky gives himself a firm squeeze before pulling his hand out and placing it on his broad thigh. He looks up at Connor and smiles before opening his mouth again, tongue hanging out over his bottom teeth. Connor groans as his dick kicks, another bead of precome collecting at the tip. Lucky leans forward and licks it off lightly.

Connor swears before grabbing his dick in one hand and Lucky’s hair in the other before feeding his dick into Lucky’s awaiting mouth. The heat, and wetness, and tightness puts him on edge immediately as his hand clenches, pulling Lucky’s hair tighter. His moan vibrates against Connor’s dick, and he feels it resonate inside every bone in his body. The urge to come is suddenly close to overwhelming.

He keeps his eyes open this time as he rocks into Lucky’s mouth experimentally, watching for any sign of discomfort. As if reading his mind, Lucky rolls his eyes and makes a brief movement with his hands. It surprises a chuckle out of Connor as he relents.

He brushes over Lucky’s lips reverently with the hand that was gripping the base of his dick before he moves it to cup the back of Lucky’s head as he starts to fuck deeper into his throat. With each thrust, he feels the control he barely had fray and unravel.

His pace quickens, hitting the back of Lucky’s throat on every thrust. Lucky places his hand back on Connor’s hip to steady himself as Connor fucks his face. The tension in his groin feels impossibly taut.

“Lachlan, fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Lucky hums and grips his hip tighter so Connor doesn’t even think about pulling out. Their eyes lock, Connor unable to look away as Lucky cups his aching balls in his hand, reaching behind to the spot, and presses his fingers deep, plunging Connor over the edge.

Connor moans his name as he spills down Lucky’s throat, the world going hazy as his balls tighten and throb. He thinks the only thing that keeps him upright is all the years of balancing on knives on ice.

He gently eases Lucky off his dick, realizing suddenly just how tightly he was clutching his hair.

“Sorry, was that,” Connor says, his voice hoarse and soft, “Was that okay? Did I hurt you?”

Lucky laughs, shaking his head before tipping forward and burying his face into the crook of Connor’s thigh.

“Yeah, baby, you did so good. A total pro at getting your cock sucked.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Connor rolls his eyes, unable to contain his laughter too.

“Now, there’s an idea,” Lucky says.

“Yeah?” Connor says, voice suddenly small as a wave of heat rushes over him. His spent dick throbs valiantly in interest.

“Oh, yeah,” Lucky hums against his thigh, “Not today though.”

Connor reaches down and pulls Lucky up to stand, supporting his weight a little as he comes off his knees. He leans down and kisses him gently.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against his lips. He can taste the faint flavor of himself on his lips.

“Nah. Yeah, no worries, baby,” Lucky chuckles, “Any time.”

Connor’s body shudders at that thought, and he chooses to push it aside as he feels Lucky’s hard cock against his thigh.

“I want to take care of you. Can I?” he asks quietly.

Lucky hums and pushes a hand under Connor’s sweater, muttering, “Why are we still fucking wearing clothes? And to answer your question, fuck yeah. Come on.”

They fumble, Lucky guiding Connor, who’s walking backward, to the bedroom, their mouths clashing while they finally remove their clothes.

Connor feels his knees knock against the bed as Lucky gives him a slight push, sending him sprawling. His dick unceremoniously flops on his stomach, and Connor feels momentarily embarrassed before he looks up at Lucky.

His breath catches at the sight. Lucky is standing there, naked at the end of the bed, his heated gaze raking down Connor’s body as he strokes himself. Connor is transfixed by the movement. From where he is, Lucky’s dick looks thick, thicker than Connor’s own anyway, maybe a bit shorter. It tapers down to the tip, where the head, red-purple and mouth-wateringly wet, peeks out from the foreskin.

Connor always thought he would be nervous at this moment, unsure. But looking at Lucky, he feels calm, like the moment before his skate hits the fresh ice in pre-game. Every single cell in his body feels dialed into this moment, reaching out to feel Lucky’s skin against his.

His eyes follow the dark trail of hair, from the groomed patch at the base of his cock up to the mat of hair between his nipples. His eyes track the movement of Lucky’s toned arm as he works himself slowly, languidly. He bites his lip as his eyes trail down Lucky’s thick thighs, a carpet of dark hair over them. For some reason, Connor just wants to sink his teeth into the meat of his thigh.

When he finally meets Lucky’s eye, he feels like his soul is going to leave his body. The look is almost predatory, the way his gaze feels heavy, pinning him in place. His eyes are so dark now, his pupils swallowing the beautiful hazel, as his curly hair falls messily over his face.

“You like what you see,” Lucky says gruffly.

“Yeah,” Connor replies, breathless once again.

“Good.” He kneels on the bed, and Connor slides back further onto the bed. “Me too.”

Lucky knee-walks his way up the bed, his thick thighs bracketing Connor’s legs, skin blazingly hot. Connor can’t help but scramble back until his head hits the pillow.

Connor swallows hard when Lucky finally towers over him. The hand not stroking his cock is pressed against the pillow right next to Connor’s head. The view is intoxicating. Connor’s hands twitch at his sides.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

Lucky moans and nods, biting his lip.

Connor reaches up and runs his hands over Lucky’s cheek. Lucky’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into it. Connor’s thumbs brush over his thick eyelashes, and then he pulls his bottom lip out from between his teeth. Lucky’s mouth remains slightly parted as Connor slides his hands down his neck, through the thick hair at his chest, down the hard planes of his stomach, and onto his thighs.

Connor digs his fingers in, earning him a small hiss, and pulls Lucky’s thighs forward so he can sit comfortably on Connor’s stomach. He slides his hands up the back of his thighs, savoring the contrasting rough and soft of his thick leg hair. He takes a moment to knead Lucky’s ample glutes before taking one hand to trace the thick groomed hair at his pelvis.

Lucky’s hard cock sits heavy on Connor’s stomach, the pre-come smearing a little against Connor’s flushed red skin. Lucky wiggles at the light touch, cock kicking, as Connor runs his fingers down the soft velvety skin of the shaft, tracing the snaking veins. He is so transfixed by it, how soft it is, how much it responds to his touch, how hot all of this is—

“Please,” he hears Lucky whisper, a hint of a whine.

Connor blinks and looks up at Lucky, who looks like he’s in a tremendous amount of pain—although Connor knows that’s not what it is. His jaw is clenched, and he’s breathing hard and raggedly.

“Sorry, I just—Sorry,” Connor says softly.

He takes a deep breath before wrapping his hand around the shaft of Lucky’s cock, earning him a deep moan. He pumps his hand experimentally, noting the difference in how it feels in his hand compared to his own dick, before applying more pressure. When Connor slides his hand up and down again, he runs his thumb lightly against the underside of the tip.

“Connor,” Lucky moans above him, his head dropping a little. His curly hair brushes against Connor’s cheek.

He hums, drawing up the play in his head as he continues to repeat the motion. Lucky’s leaking so much that it doesn’t take long before his hand is wet enough to touch the sensitive head without it being uncomfortable—he hopes at least. He alternates his strokes between one that goes from the root to the tip and one that squeezes the head with a slight twist—the way he knows feels good.

“Fuuuuck,” Lucky breathes. His arm is starting to shake a little from where it is next to Connor’s head. Connor turns his head slightly and presses a light kiss to Lucky’s wrist. “Baby, that’s so fucking good.”

Connor smiles and feels his chest puff a little, proud like when a new drill finally clicks. He looks up at Lucky’s face, now flushed with pleasure. He watches as he applies more pressure, watching the way Lucky’s eyes roll behind the closed lids and lips hang open.

“Yeah, fuck, just like that,” Lucky says. His hand comes up from where it was resting on Connor’s thigh and grabs onto his shoulder, fingers digging in. It hurts, but Connor doesn’t mind.

Connor continues to stroke at an even pace, eyes gliding over Lucky’s face and body, taking it all in. Lucky continues to drop little praises between them, mixed with his moans and curses. Connor feels like he could listen to the way Lucky says his name forever.

It’s not long before Connor notices the way Lucky’s hips start hitching with his strokes and speeds up his hand. He loosens his grip slightly so Lucky can fuck into his hand in time with his strokes.

“Lachlan,” Connor’s voice sounds hoarse and fucked-out, even to his own ears, “Open your eyes. I want to watch you come.”

Lucky moans and his eyes open, gaze unfocused. Connor is transfixed by his face: the square jawline and full cheeks flushed with pleasure, the way his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open, the shape of his mouth as he moans Connor’s name over and over.

Connor feels Lucky’s cock get impossibly harder in his hand as his pace becomes more erratic. Connor sees the moment before he comes in his eyes as they roll back, his eyes slamming shut. Connor feels the momentary desperation before the relief in the way Lucky’s fingers clench into the pillow beside his head and into the meat of his shoulder.

He feels the first pulse in the kick of Lucky’s cock in his hand before the cum hits his chest, his name on Lucky’s lips as he comes. He strokes Lucky through his orgasm in even pulls. He feels breathless and in awe and reaches up with his lips to pull Lucky into a deep kiss.

When they pull away, a while after the last pulse Connor feels, Connor is smiling wide. Lucky rolls off him and pants in the bed next to him, his arm draped over his eyes as he catches his breath. Connor stays smiling like an idiot at the ceiling.

“Holy fuck,” Lucky murmurs against his elbow next to him.

Connor hums. “Yeah.”

“No, seriously. Holy fuck.” Lucky knocks his leg against Connor’s. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve never done that before?”

Connor lets his head drop to the side to look at him. “No?”

Lucky peaks an eye out and looks at him. “What are you, some kind of prodigy? What the fuck?”

“Uh…”

“Did you hack my brain? How—I’m serious, Connor. I can’t believe that’s the first handjob you’ve ever given. I think I might’ve died and fucking transcended. Fuck,” he breathes.

“Um… Thanks?” Connor says, unsure, “I guess I’ve spent a lot of time jerking off, so…”

Lucky knocks a knee against him again, harder this time. “Shut the fuck up.”

Connor laughs.

Lucky turns in the bed to face him and smiles dopily. “Do you want me to get you again?”

“Huh?”

Lucky gestures to Connor’s dick, hard and curved up against his stomach.

“Oh! I didn’t even—No, I’m okay. I think I might be fully dry.”

Lucky laughs. “Yeah, okay.” He’s silent for a second. “Hey, Connor?”

“Mmm?”

“Stay, yeah?” he says, voice quiet.

“Okay,” Connor replies softly.

“You can stay there; I’ll grab you a towel to clean up.”

“Hmm?”

“Your chest?”

“Oh!” he huffs and looks down at the mess on his chest. He runs a finger through the mess and pops it in his mouth, the flavor salty and tangy on his tongue. “Hmm!”

Lucky groans beside him, “Oh my god! What the fuck am I gonna do with you? You’re a fucking menace.”

“What?” Connor asks, confused.

Lucky rolls his eyes and climbs off the bed. “I can’t believe you genuinely don’t know what you do to people, do you? Fuck.”

Connor shrugs, not really following but too content to care.

They wake up facing each other the next morning, the sliver of light streaming in through the curtains illuminating their faces. Their bodies are pressed in close. Close enough that Connor feels Lucky’s morning boner pressing into his own.

Through sleepy blinks, they kiss for a long time, slow and heated, their bodies sliding against each other. Lucky hooks a strong thigh over Connor’s and pulls them even closer together, their hard dicks sliding against each other perfectly.

They moan into each other’s mouths, kissing messily as the sensations build. Eventually, Lucky reaches down and wraps a hand around both of them, rocking against each other. The air in the room feels thick with their pants and moans.

Each slide of Lucky’s cock against Connor’s sends sparks up his spine; the way their heads rub together is unlike anything Connor’s ever felt before. The pressure of Lucky’s hand is light, and it shouldn’t be enough to get him to the edge, but it does faster than he expects.

“Lachlan, I’m gonna come,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and arousal.

“Mmm, me too,” Lucky moans.

When Connor comes, it’s nothing like the night before. It’s slow and sensual, waves of heat and pleasure rolling through him like molasses. Lucky follows not long after, covering them both in sticky heat.

Lucky captures Connor’s lips again, resuming their lazy kiss for a little while longer until the mess between them gets to be uncomfortable.

Lucky reaches up with his hand and licks it clean—it unbelievably makes a molten wave of heat roll through Connor’s body again—before he reaches up to cup Connor’s cheek.

“You didn’t panic and run away,” Lucky says evenly, without judgment and maybe even with a sigh of appreciation and wonder.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t,” Connor smiles. “Why? Did you expect me to?”

Lucky shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess.” He pauses and sighs. “It happens. A lot of guys will have the post-nut clarity, or whatever, and make it clear that they regret what happened. They’ll try to make it real clear they’re “straight” which…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I didn’t know you wouldn’t do the same. I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t. But…” He trails off and shrugs.

It stings more than Connor expects, and he feels his full-body wince. “Good thing I’m gay then, eh?” he says.

He didn’t know he was going to say that when he opened his mouth to respond, but he feels with amazing—post-nut—clarity that he is glad he did.

Lucky smiles and it's the smile that makes Connor feel warm and tingly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It’s a different heat than before. He imagines it’s the type of heat that sunflowers chase when they supposedly turn to follow the sun.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Lucky says.

“Me too.” Connor leans in and plants a soft kiss on Lucky’s lips.

Lucky hums, content. “Come on. Let’s shower, and then I can make us breakfast.”

Later, when he’s sat at the kitchen island watching Lucky talk animatedly about the merit of sharks of all things while making an incredibly delicious smelling omelet, Connor is struck by the normality of the whole thing.

You could replace Connor with any single person, and the world would keep spinning. Why would Connor be any different?

He thinks about checking his phone earlier. He had opened it, heart pounding, holding his breath while he towel dried his hair—he took the opportunity while Lucky was drying his hair in the bathroom with an absolutely wild-looking contraption—”It’s called a diffuser, Connor”.

So, he was hiding, essentially, crouched on Lucky’s bedroom floor where Lucky had plugged his phone in before bed, knuckles white around his phone as he turned the screen on.

It was underwhelming, really. The world did not burn down. It wasn’t front-page news on ESPN or Deadspin or Twitter or something. There wasn’t some sort of international beacon that went out screaming: “Connor McDavid is Gay” or “Connor McDavid has Gay Sex; what is next for the Edmonton Oilers Captain”. There were no “you’re fired” texts from Ken or Bettman. There were no “you’re disgusting, and I hate you” texts from all the people in his life who loved him.

There were only the normal texts. Photos from Cam of some Canada Geese. A text from his mum asking how he was doing. The most notable thing on his phone was a recent text from Leo, apologizing for Nashville—an apology Connor didn’t feel like he was owed, but Leo wanted to let him know he was sorry anyway.

“Hey, just wanted to say sorry for how I was in Nashville. I don’t want you to think I meant it,” he had said. “You’re one of the best people I know. I was worried and hurt. So I’m sorry. I hope you’re having a good time in Australia. You haven’t sent me any pictures, asshole.”

“Isn’t it like 3 am in Germany right now? Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?” Connor had texted back.

Leon had sent back his typical response—an eye roll emoji—and Connor had smiled and turned off his phone.

So, Connor watches Lucky move at the stove, easy and carefree. And, for the first time in a long time, Connor feels a little bit of that ease in his chest. Like there is just a little bit more room to breathe. Like there is an ever so slightly less weight on his shoulders.

For the first time since he was 10, Connor considered that maybe he could be wrong. That maybe Connor McDavid could get to have something like this. Something easy—private but easy. Connor considers that maybe this is something he might want to share with a select few people when he’s ready. Not the people who would make it into a Connor McDavid-97-Captain issue. But people who deserve to see Connor a little more clearly.

But for now, he’s just content to watch as Lucky tries—and fails—to flip the omelet in the air like a pancake.

“So, how do you feel about scrambled eggs?” Lucky asks, smile broad and eyes shining.

“Good,” Connor laughs. “I feel good about scrambled eggs.”

“Fuck yeah!” Lucky laughs.

“Fuck yeah,” Connor says softly.

Masterlist | (My requests are currently closed.) | AO3

#the summer fic exchange 2k24 #hrpf #hockey rpf #connor mcdavid imagine #connor mcdavid fic #edmonton oilers imagine #edmonton oilers fic #edm #rox writes #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nhl smut

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 4 days ago

Text

Part 32

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 31 🟣 Part 33

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August, Sherlock, Charles, Melot and Napoleon

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: ongoing vampire shenanigans, Melot's ongoing identity crisis, purple (or at the very least lavender) prose, angst, mentions of: child marriage, cheating, (internalized) homophobia, religious trauma, abuse, SA. Mentions of grey sweatpants, inappropriate anger at the inventor of jeans, Awkward Virgin trope, blood, biting, bruising, praise kink, the untimely demise of a shirt, awkward groping, (awkward everything), handjob, blowjob, premature-ish ejaculation, wasting water by taking a shower that later proves to have been absolutely fucking useless, Frotting/rubbing/dry humping (not sure what to call this, tbh. A butt-job?), rimming (eating ass, analingus, pick your fave), light D/s dynamic, light brat behavior, hair pulling, more praise (possibly slight feminisation? Depending on how youd define that?), masturbation, deepthroating, throatfucking, oral creampie, cumswapping/cumkissing, elements of subspace + subdrop, aftercare.

Word count: 14.004 (Yes. 14k. You read that correctly.)

A/N: Well, well, well, what here we have? It started with this sweet ask from @geralts-yenn, and... what can I say? Things got out of hand? (Understatement.)

It quickly became clear to me that there was a lot more to unpack than I had originally counted on, and then the boys turned out to be... well, dirty little whores. So...

I considered making this a bonus-chapter because this is written from Melot's POV, but since it slots into the timeline, I decided against that. I will, however be changing the tense and POV (from past tense to present, and from 2nd person to 1st person POV) from here on out, because over time I've simply come to prefer writing that way. I'll also be writing more chapters from the boys' perspectives—I'm working on one from Leon's POV that isn't too far off in the future (storyline-wise... actual real-life time-wise, one can never know.)

Also: I'm literally begging everyone to come into my comments (or DMs, or asks) to talk about these boys because... Well, I just love them so much. I already did, but it's literally so much worse now, lol.

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo @mysweetlittledesire

I’m afraid to open my eyes, knowing that if I do, I’ll be staring right back into the reflection of my own soul.

There’s no hiding from him—not that I want to. At least, I think I don’t.

I sit still, counting the seconds as they tick away on the clock in the living room. I’m the only one who can hear it from anywhere in the house—anywhere on the property, even. If I try hard enough, that is.

The sound has been my anchor for centuries. Sometimes, it feels more familiar to me than the beating of my own heart. Unsurprisingly, I might add. How could it not be, when everything about me exists for the sole purpose of looking outward.

Oftentimes, my visions have prevented me from gaining a more intimate knowledge of myself, and they continue to do so to this day. It’s been this way throughout my entire existence.

Fourteen hundred years. Fourteen centuries.

My senses are honed to perfection. Beyond it, even—although many would argue the impossibility of the proposition, but it’s exactly what a millennium and a half will do to you.

I know that better than anyone. How could anyone know better? For all we know, I might very well be the oldest vampire on the planet.

The scoff I attempt to choke back finds its way to freedom as a nigh imperceptible faltering in my otherwise steady breathing.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispers softly. I feel his fingertips creep closer to mine before they actually do, yet I am startled by the sensation of him touching me.

I resist the urge to pull my hand back, just as I’ve been resisting the urge to flee the room and never return. A part of me, I am most unwilling to admit, even wants to attack.

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

He’d be dead before he even realized I’d moved.

Oh, to become something you’ve been taught to fear—and to think this is hardly my first battle of the sort. I’d give up the hope that they ever get easier, if I hadn’t known for a fact they don’t for the longest time.

‘You like boys.’

These words have haunted my dreams for the past two days. Left me alone for nary a second since the moment they fell freely and innocently from Mike’s beautiful lips.

Spoken with no ill intent, they wrapped themselves around every inch of every branch of my consciousness, constricting it more and more with every last breath I took, their truth so immediately undeniable that I was forced to admit to it.

And that means there is no way back for me now.

When Mike told me that I’d have time for an identity crisis later, I don’t think he realized just how right he was, and I can’t blame him for his ignorance. I don’t doubt for a second that it was completely unintentional.

As much as he hates it when we say it, he is just a baby, born into a fairly secular household in the sixties, but more importantly; involved in all kinds of generally more accepting subcultures from a relatively young age…

He’s had his struggles, of course. But as strange as it is to say, because one has to admit they were significant, they are irrelevant at this current time.

On the other side, we have… well, me.

Forced into a political marriage at fourteen in early medieval Cornwall, to a girl even younger than I was, our wedding night consisting of nothing but a tear-filled pact made between two terrified children under the cover of darkness, to forego the consummation of our marriage.

Instilled in me, a fierce loyalty and the staunch belief that a man lay with no one but his own wife, and a wife with no other person than her husband, I devoted myself to her as best I could, given our circumstances.

That there was no love between us mattered not, for we had been united before God.

Not unlike today, however, inappropriately crude and explicit conversations with my peers had made me far more knowledgeable on the subject of reproduction than I otherwise would have been, given my lacking experience.

For years, I slept by her side, riddled with guilt over our failure to fulfil our marital duties toward one another, praying every waking minute for the ability to be a better husband.

I shed my tears over her betrayal in private as I prepared to welcome a child into my life—a child I knew couldn’t possibly be mine.

Every day of my life, I am grateful for the existence of specialized historical trauma psychologists: They were of indescribable and immeasurable value when I was struggling to unite the unpleasant aspects of my upbringing and ‘early’ non-human life—the first thousand years, give or take—with the modern world I somehow found myself in rather more suddenly than I had ever expected.

The past certainly has a way of sneaking up on you, but I wouldn’t dream of underestimating the present in that particular respect.

Alas, as helpful as my therapists have been, their efforts feel wasted in this moment, because Mike dragged me onto a new road of self-discovery that appears to contain several unexpected challenges.

Challenges I am afraid of.

Challenges I am ashamed of.

As mentioned before: for the second time in my fourteen hundred years, I have become something I was taught to fear, and despite my convictions that I had overcome my prejudices, that I had moved past this darkness of fear and hatred, it seems to be the case that nothing could be further from the truth.

A shocking revelation. Truly.

I find no solace in the fact that I was never taught to hate, though it is true. One is almost never directly taught to hate, for the simple reason that it is far easier to teach fear than hatred.

But fear breeds hatred.

I learned to fear the sin, which led me to hate the sinner, and there is no excuse for that.

This, I have always known.

Over time—more time than I care to admit—my hatred disappeared, and I took pride in that, for I had shown growth, and an ability to learn and adapt.

I had evolved.

How upsetting it is, then, to be forced to come to the realization that somewhere along the line, I seem to have come to the conclusion that to cease fearing for others’ condemnation would suffice in terms of accepting them.

In other words: If they want to go to hell, let them!

And now that it’s me, I find that I suffer still from that very same fear of a god I have long since stopped believing in.

The line between truly knowing that something isn’t sinful, and simply not caring when others sin, is remarkably thin.

And I am standing right on top of it.

“It wouldn’t help,” Mike whispers, just as my desire to ask him what I want surges, threatening to wash me away.

Two lonely tears escape my still closed eyes, allowing me to focus on their path down my cheeks as they fight the resistance my skin provides.

I thank them silently.

“Why not?” There is no point in trying to keep the defeat from shining through in my voice.

“Because you want it all,” he replies. I expect to hear pity in his voice, and its absence surprises me nearly as much as his answer. No matter how much I want to ask him, my voice refuses to lend me its cooperation.

Not that it matters. After all, Mike knows.

“There is no ‘one desire’, Melot,” he continues, making me shiver as he drags a single finger down the back of my hand. “In the past thirty seconds alone, you’ve cycled through ‘fight, flight, freeze’ more times than I can count. You want to jump me—either to kiss me or kill me. You want to run, hide, talk, think, cry, scream, punch something—not me, please. You want answers, and to desperately not need answers because you want there to not be a question that needs answering to begin with.”

“I never wanted to kill you,” I mumble, the characteristic heat of embarrassment creeping up to my cheeks in a staggering tempo.

Mike chuckles. I’m not proud of what the sound does to me, but good Lord it feels amazing. “That’s the thing, Melmel,” he muses quietly, “the fact that I felt it, means it was a genuine desire. Granted, it didn’t last long, but it was there. And I get it.”

“I was never going—” More tears tread in their predecessors’ footsteps, their heat blending in nicely with the scorching glow of embarrassment that plagues my skin.

“I know,” he reassures me. “You have a whole rational brain I don’t have access to—that’s Marshall’s territory, not mine. My point is: you can’t ‘sorta’ want something. Okay, you can, in the sense that there’s a scale to how much you want something—a range from ‘want’ to ‘need’—but there’s no such thing as a half-desire. A desire is a desire.”

I wince at the implication of his words as guilt washes over me like a tidal wave, while Mike continues: “Your tiny little—but genuine—want to brutally murder me was immediately overshadowed by a very strong need for me to be… not dead.”

“Was there anything useful in the entire list?” I’m surprised by my ability to squeeze out an entire sentence, if I’m being honest.

Mike chuckles again, and my whole body feels like it’s made of carbonated liquid. “The desire to call your therapist is probably a good one,”—he pauses for a moment, letting out a cheeky chuckle—“and I would selfishly vote in favor of any of the many more eh… carnal ones.”

I scoff. He speaks in jest, at least partially, and I refuse to dignify his nonsense with a response, so I move on. “Which is the most, eh… potent?”

“That’s a great way to phrase it, yeah,” Mike confirms. “And it’s definitely your overwhelming—and permanent, by the way—desire to be held by someone.”

I finally open my eyes, staring at Mike wide-eyed in nothing short of pure horror. How disappointing that the floor doesn’t melt away from under me right this second to spare me the mortification…

“Get your priorities straight, Melmel,” Mike admonishes me, a sweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You should be way more embarrassed about wanting to kill me than wanting to snuggle up to someone.” He scooches closer to me, quickly adjusting the mountain of pillows as he moves, and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Especially since we share that particular need.”

We sit in silence for a while, Mikey’s head on my shoulder, his arm around me. It triggers my visions, which isn’t at all surprising. In them, I feel none of the shame and guilt I do now—or did, moments ago—which is very reassuring, but as much as I would like to luxuriate in that feeling after my meltdown, Mikey’s much stronger reaction forces me to let them pass, acknowledged but without much further investigation.

He struggles to keep his fingers still, and I am facing similar difficulties in strangling whatever sound I feel I can’t afford to make freely.

“What do you need from me?” I practically have to force the words out of my mouth. “In this… courtship?”

Mike laughs. “As far as definitions go, that’s fair, but do you know a twenty-first-century word?”

“To describe you?” I elbow him in the ribs and roll my eyes. “I know several, and I doubt you’d be happy with any of them.”

“Jerk,” he huffs.

“That was one of them, yes.” I struggle not to laugh when Mike pouts and nudges me, failing miserably, and before I know it, I’m on my back with him hovering over me. My gaze is pulled towards his lips through no fault of my own. In my fourteen hundred years, I have never known anyone who scowls as adorably as Mikey does, and every corner of my thoughts occupied by the sight of his bottom lip sticking out slightly.

Completely involuntarily, my eyes follow the contours of that lip, and my mind gravitates towards images of us. Together.

I—

I bite back the moan that threatens to escape, and fight to regain control of my teeth. “We should talk first,” I manage, my words punctuated by labored breaths.

Mike nods, dropping onto his side next to me and propping himself up on one elbow. “It’s really simple,” he says plainly. Clearly, the past thirty seconds have been less taxing on his self-restraint than they were on mine… “We can take this as slowly as you need, obviously. But I need you to know the difference between what you’re ready for now, and what you know you’ll be ready for in the future.”

I nod. That’s the easy part of the equation.

Unfortunately, Mike may be a clown at times, but he wasn’t born yesterday. “And I need you to stick with the now-boundaries.”

I nod again, much less sure of myself this time, but I promise him to give it my very best effort.

“Of course, I’ll help. If necessary,” he continues. “But I refuse to rely on my gift to guard your limits. I need to know you feel comfortable, and safe, and confident enough to communicate your needs, okay?”

His concern for my safety and wellbeing is almost enough to bring me to tears all over again. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that time does, in fact, not heal all wounds, and although I have come a long way, I cannot deny the lasting—possibly permanent—damage inflicted upon me by the coldest, darkest days of my past.

The times without love.

The times when I had no one but myself to care about me.

I sob my agreement to his terms, rather than say it. The sound of my breaking voice draws his brows together in a pitiful frown.

He bites his lower lip as he contemplates his next words, and I struggle to keep my head clear as his lips once again draw my attention away from the conversation, while the sorrow in his expression has me teetering on the edge of panic.

His expression hardens as he breathes in deeply before looking at me very directly. His eyes are cold, and my heart rate quickens at the sight.

“And,” he says softly but with unmistakable determination, “I’m not doing this behind closed doors.” He looks down, fidgeting with the duvet covers as he continues: “I’m not saying you have to come out to the entire world tomorrow—or explicitly to anyone at all, unless you want to, of course—”

“I wouldn’t even know what to come out as,” I admit almost reluctantly. At this point, I haven’t even begun to think about labels and definitions and whatnot.

“I mean… If we’re going to be dating, then one label that definitely applies is ‘the guy who’s dating Mikey’,” he says matter-of-factly. I have to admit he has a point. “I’m kinda big on PDA—I promise I won’t suck your face off in public, but hugs, or a kiss here and there… Like, I’m not going to let some guy who can’t even hold my hand at the movies, dick me down when we get home.”

He laughs at my expression, and I can’t blame him. I, myself, imagine it to be quite the sight; wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land while my entire vocabulary seems to have vacated the premises…

“I’m sorry,” he snickers, “I didn’t mean to scare you. My point is: If you can’t love me in public, you don’t get to love me in private, that’s all.”

“Mikey…” I hesitate, attempting at the same time to swallow away the lump in my throat. It doesn’t work. “I promise—swear, even—that I will try, but I might need some time.”

“Progress, not perfection, Melmel,” Mike says as he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine for a moment. “I just want you to make an effort, okay?”

I nod furiously. Of course, I never truly expected him to toss me aside because I can’t adjust to all of this in a matter of days, but it’s a relief, nonetheless.

Now that my fears have been taken away, more visions come to me. The doom scenarios are entirely of my own making—I learned to tell the difference several centuries ago, but I can’t say that that knowledge has been in any way facilitative to my ability to disregard them.

However, I cannot deny that it is comforting that the majority of them are overwhelmingly positive, setting my body alight with a warm, soothing glow.

It makes me calm.

Happy.

It also makes me…

“For someone who’s struggling to come to terms with all of this,”—Mike’s voice is strained, the sound of it more of a moan than regular speech—“you are incredibly horny.”

My lips tremble as his hand cups the side of my face, his thumb gently trailing over my cheekbone.

I have to swallow before I can even speak. “I’m coming off a fourteen-hundred-year dry spell, Mikey.”

Mike’s eyes go wide with shock, perhaps even terror. “Fourt— w-what?” He looks adorable, his mouth slightly open, brows drawn together in disbelief. “Two days ago… That wasn’t your first kiss, right?”

I chuckle, but not from the heart. “It was certainly the first one I was a willing participant in,” I admit bitterly. The realization bites, digging its filthy, razor-sharp claws deep into my soul. “Not that the collection of instances of the other sort is by any means impressive.”

“Every last one of those is one too many, Melot,” Mike sighs.

I can’t stand to see the pity in his eyes, so I close mine again, focusing on his scent instead.

Every member of my coven—past or present—has an odor so unique to their person that I would happily wager that I’d be able to identify them from a mile away.

With everyone else, smell certainly serves as quite the handy tool when it comes to ascertaining their intentions—hostility, for instance, reveals itself quite readily by means of a distinct and exceptionally foul sour note—or their species—vampires in this day and age always smell faintly of blood and garlic, and however cliché one might deem it, werewolves reek perpetually of wet dog.

And then there’s my own family, blood and garlic aside.

I may have known Sherlock the longest, but I know Charles the best, which is why I can say with absolute confidence that I’d recognize the dark, brooding combination of leather and smoke in my sleep. It’s luxurious and alluring, its complex sophistication undeniable, but at the same time, it’s cold, distant and uninviting. It used to be different, but what little remains of the welcoming seduction of the past, is now dull and faded.

Sherlock, on the other hand—although every bit as strong and refined—smells warm, approachable and comforting, with a very pronounced overtone of sweet vanilla—which Mike, should I ever decide to discuss this particular subject with him, would probably find very typical and likely even funny. At some point in my life, I developed the strange habit of sitting outside Sherlock’s bedroom door when I miss him, just so his scent can comfort me—he has a way of showing up whenever I do.

August and Leon share the dark, bold and spicy edge to their scents. They’re matched for sensual promiscuity, but Leon leans further into the direction of exotic rebelliousness and playful deviance. August smells… calmer. More grounded.

Marshall smells remarkably similar to Sherlock, in a way. Only he trades the sweetness for something crisper and fresher, reminiscent of pine and fresh herbs. It feels almost strangely grounded and familiar, with a quiet strength and weight to it that borders on intimidating.

And then there’s Mike. It should surprise no one that he’s the odd one out, and although I wouldn’t describe the scent as that of bubblegum and jellybeans, I wouldn’t necessarily not describe it as such. It’s a rather untidy fragrance, that has an energetic flamboyance to its almost cacophonous complexity. Touches of woods and herbs ground the otherwise discordant bouquet of lush, tropical fruits and crisp, fresh citrus, combined with a selection of floral aromas that expresses something of a delicate… femininity. It’s youthful, vibrant, playful and mischievous, and more importantly, it’s the best damned thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to smell.

Unthinkingly, I pull Mike closer, the tip of my nose tracing a gentle path up the side of his neck as I inhale deeply, savoring not only the scent, but also his warmth, pulse, and the feeling of his skin against mine as it transitions from the smoothness down by his shoulder to the scratchy stubble of the five o’ clock shadow on his jaw I’m embarrassed to admit I find quite attractive.

My senses are so thoroughly occupied with the attempt to soak up every crumb of these new, delightful experiences that I completely forget to care even the slightest bit about the quiet moan that slips past my lips.

Mike whines impatiently in reply, and when he suddenly moves, I struggle to keep up with the innumerable sensations that wash over me in rapid succession.

His breath on my ear, the delectable feeling of his weight on top of me, the tangling of our legs, his hand at the back of my neck, and its long, slender fingers traveling over my scalp… But much more pressing—and more annoying, I might add—is my acute and absolutely insufferable awareness of the suddenly too thick, coarse and rigid denim of my jeans as it moves over my skin in all the wrong ways while we adjust our position on the bed.

Not to mention that these godforsaken trousers, which fit me perfectly and comfortably less than half an hour ago, suddenly seem too tight—an experience that wouldn’t be unique to my person in the least, if Mike wasn’t very likely completely unbothered by such atrocities sensations due to the fact that he is wearing sweatpants.

Sweatpants which, much to my dismay, contribute to my own discomfort far more than I care to admit.

That is not to say Mike is unaffected by this situation. In fact, the evidence heavily favors the contrary, and the fact that I can feel his pulse… there, in combination with the thought that that means he can probably feel mine in approximately the same location, keeps distracting me from mentally drafting the letter of complaint I wish I had sent to Levi Strauss & Co. back in the 1870s.

I have never wanted out of a pair of trousers—or any other type of garment, for that matter—this badly in my entire existence. And for all the wrong reasons, too, for crying out loud!

A displeased whimper hits my ear, and by the time it dawns on me that I was the one who made it because Mikey suddenly disappeared, an unidentifiable pile of dark grey fabric lands on my stomach.

The person who put it there is standing next to the bed, towering over me with his arms folded across his chest. It would have been intimidating, if not for the hint of a smile that peeks through the stern mask on his face.

Mike points to the bathroom. “They’re sweatpants,” he says impatiently, “go put them on. Now. Please.”

My brain cycles through countless motives and explanations, but I’m so hopelessly behind on processing the events of the past minute, that it comes up completely empty.

I must look at least half as confused as I feel, because Mike can no longer fight back his smile. “Hey, normally I’d tell you to just take the jeans off, but I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves,” he chuckles. “If this is what it takes to keep you from violently longing to invent time travel so you can smack Jacob W. Davis and Levi Strauss over the head with a comically large wooden mallet, then…”

He makes a series of vague, impatient gestures at me, the sweatpants and in the general direction of the bathroom, all accompanied by an equally impatient and exquisitely adorable whine.

When I laugh, after deciding against telling him how cute he looks, Mike frowns, and his eyes narrow. “Mel, please,” he whines, “I really, really, really want to kiss you.”

Nervous as that makes me, I can’t deny that it’s exactly what I want too, and despite my legs feeling exceptionally uncooperative, I manage to make it to the bathroom in one piece.

I lean my shoulders against the wall, steadying myself as I attempt to regain control over myself, my chest heaving with every new breath.

The cold of the tile creeps through the fabric of my shirt with ease, grounding me.

Soothing me.

My thoughts, which are normally fairly organized, are a mess—an un-unravelable heap of pure chaos.

It’s anarchy!

Mike somehow manages to match the energy of an eight-week-old puppy attempting to herd sheep, with the exact same, very predictable and equally—if not more so—undesirable result.

And I’m the sheep.

I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip with force until I taste blood, but the visions keep coming.

My fingers—are they mine? If they were, one would assume I would know how to get them to fucking work, correct? When I put these jeans on this morning, this wasn’t the world’s most challenging button, so why won’t it open, for God’s sake?

I swear under my breath, screwing my eyes shut as if to squeeze the last bit of focus out of my brain that way. I must, however, come to the unfortunate conclusion that I am not a tube of toothpaste.

“You’re impossible.” Mike’s voice is hoarse, his chest moves rapidly in time with his equally erratic breathing, and his long fingers close effortlessly around my wrists with punishing force. “Get these hands out of the damn way and let me help you with that.”

Apparently, his wish is my command. Or perhaps, his command is my command. Either way, my hands are out of his way in a flash.

Barely a second later, the button and zipper of this treacherous denim contraption are no longer an obstacle, and I struggle to breathe as Mike leans his forehead against mine, dipping his fingertips tentatively into the now-loosened waistband of my trousers.

He holds me firmly in place as he steps closer, grinding his hips into mine. Out of reflex, I bite down on my lip again, piercing my skin, which lures a soft whine from my throat.

Before I can do anything, Mike passes his tongue over the wound before sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, and I seem to have suddenly forgotten how to breathe altogether.

“Now,” Mike says—‘growls’ would be a more apt description, perhaps, “take these off, put the sweatpants on—or don’t. Strip completely bare-ass naked for all I care, but get in my damn bed, please.”

Hearing my own desperate need echoed in his voice makes my heart stutter—the cruel cold or Mikey’s sudden absence makes me restless.

I rid myself of my jeans as quickly as I can, and as I exchange them for the much more comfortable sweatpants, I can’t resist the urge to squeeze my throbbing erection through the fabric, desperately attempting to fight the thought of how much I need that hand to be his instead of mine.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mikey snarls, his voice close to my ear and the scorching heat of his body comforting me once again. “I should drag you to bed by your balls, you little tease. Why are you out here wanting all these things, when we can be doing them in there?”

I want to say something, but even if my voice were cooperating, my vocabulary certainly wouldn’t be. In the end, nothing but a pathetic whine escapes me, making Mike chuckle.

He hooks two fingers in the waistband of the sweatpants, no doubt with the intention to tug me along towards the bed, but one catches behind the band of my underwear as well, putting more of me on display than I anticipated. I know Mike well enough to expect him to take a peek—and the urgency with which he does so immediately—and I find myself thoroughly enjoying the look of utter desperation and pure carnal need on his face as he fails to fight off a crooked smile, dragging his tongue along his upper lip.

I struggle to identify the feeling that washes over me, wringing out my insides as Mike’s playful smile widens, his gaze still locked on my groin. There is a strange sense of pride to it. At the same time, waves of anticipation struggle for power against nervousness.

The longer I look at his face, the stronger the anticipation becomes. He’s cute, with his mischievous smile, fangs out as he fights off the ragged corners of the desires he knows would likely push me a tad too far at this time.

But Mike can think of six things either simultaneously or in awe-inspiringly quick succession.

“Why does it happen? The fangs?” he asks quietly, amusement poorly concealed in his tone.

My laughter rings involuntarily, the sound bouncing off the tiles, echoing in my own mind as it once again struggles to keep up with everything that’s happening. “You’ve clearly never lived in a large coven,” I chuckle. “One so powerful that hiding your nature—and teeth—becomes completely unnecessary. Our natural instinct is to have them out. Even after centuries, one must have his wits about him in order to control them, and I don’t know about yours, but mine are halfway to Argentina by now.”

Mike’s grin widens as he takes a step back, finally guiding me back to his bedroom.

When the back of my legs meet the edge of the bed, his eyes darken. “I really want to do some dirty things to you, Melmel,” he whispers. The high-pitched whine that meets my ear must be mine, and unthinkingly I chase the pathetic sound away with a scornful chuckle which, most unfortunately, is followed by a sharp gasp as Mike pulls me closer by my hips until my body is flush against his. “Will you let me?”

The art of speech eludes me still, so I nod.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Mike says as he gently places a hand on either side of my face.

To be overcome with desire does not mean what I thought it did until now in the slightest. As soon as Mike’s lips touch mine, true desperate need comes crashing down on me, drowning out everything else.

His mouth is soft, but firm. His hands gentle as they move from my face, down my chest and stomach, to the sides of my hips, until they reach the back of my thighs. He picks me up effortlessly, of course, wrapping my legs around him before laying me down in the middle of the mattress.

Our moans effortlessly overshadow everything else that attempts to occupy my thoughts, only leaving room to experience pleasure. It’s all-consuming.

Powerful.

Cathartic, even.

Mike’s tongue licks gently at the seam of my lips, which part as if by magic to grant him entrance.

His enthusiasm is infectious, and I greedily reciprocate until…

“Fuck!” Mike pulls back, still laughing when he sticks out his tongue. It’s bleeding. “I forgot you have spare teeth.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t bear to look at him as guilt washes over me, drowning out all the wonderful feelings from before.

“Don’t be,” he says softly, giving me a reassuring peck on the tip of my nose. “You can poke as many holes in me as you want, this just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

He presses his lips to mine again, this time with significantly more restraint—to start with, that is. Every time he rolls his hips, grinding them into mine, he loses a bit of that control.

I could say the same does not apply to me, but it would be such a blatant lie that it would be laughable at best.

When he bites my lip, he is careful not to break the skin, but the force is still enough to bruise me.

Whatever mark he leaves on me, with very few exceptions, will be gone before we’re even done here. Why does that strike me as such a tragedy?

The last remnants of Mikey’s gentle touch have disappeared now, as his fingertips dig into my shoulders, my hips, my thighs, with brutal force. It would certainly be enough to cause serious harm to someone less sturdy than either of us…

“God, I haven’t done this with another vampire in years,” Mike groans. The sound, deep, dark and dripping with lust, vibrates throughout my entire body.

I know he’s been with nymphs, shifters—were- or otherwise—and demons, and I don’t doubt that there have been many more rendezvous with many more species I haven’t the faintest clue about, but that knowledge proves to be of surprisingly little impact on this moment. “Tell me if I’m too rough with you, Mel. Please.”

Not at all, I wish to scream. I’ll take everything he’s willing to give me and more. So much more.

But I can’t seem to find my voice. Instead, I slide my hands into his shirt on a whim, dragging my nails down his back, reveling in the sense of pride and sensuality I feel as he arches to my… well, ‘touch’ would be quite the understatement, I suppose.

“Guess not, then,” he says with a devious grin as he grabs the hem of the t-shirt I just decided to ignore and pulls it over his head.

I’ve seen him without a shirt, of course. Goodness, I’ve seen him damn near naked on several occasions, but this time…

As he sits there, straddling my thighs, towering over me, my eyes wander down, taking in his broad shoulders, chest and abs. He’s lean, toned, but I wouldn’t describe him as particularly muscular. His pale skin is smooth all the way down to his navel, where my attention is captured by the thin line of dark hair that leads… down.

My hands make their way up his thighs until they rest on his hips, and without realizing, I speak. “You are so beautiful.”

I realize my error instantly, an overpowering sense of confusion surging through me as I watch Mike’s face light up.

“Yeah?” he asks excitedly as I continue my attempt to grasp why he sounds so pleased. My confusion must be apparent, because Mike laughs sweetly. “It’s okay, baby, you can call me beautiful all day, every day. Can I see if you’re pretty too?”

It clicks as soon as the word ‘pretty’ leaves his mouth, and I am suddenly overcome with the fear that he won’t see me that way while Mike fusses with the top button of my shirt.

He groans out of frustration. “Do you have any emotional attachment to this thing?” he growls almost aggressively as he grabs me by the collar of my shirt. I shake my head, once again unable to speak. “Good.”

The fabric tears almost too easily, and several buttons—four, to be exact—find their way onto the floor.

A long, desperate whine meets my ear as Mike rakes his fingers over my chest, down to my stomach, where he traces the faint line of hair with a single finger, all the way down to the waistband of my trousers, while I dig my fingers into his hips with more force than I intended. It makes Mike’s cock twitch, causing it to bump against my thumb, which lures a sharp gasp from me.

Mike reacts to it and the expression that has appeared on my face in the meantime without my knowledge, and certainly without my consent.

“Okay,” he taunts, “my pretty boy wants to play in the big leagues then?”

Despite my nerves, I find myself nodding in reply to his question, attempting once again to swallow the tightness in my throat away.

Mike kisses me, softly but enthusiastically—and most importantly: repeatedly—as he lies down next to me. Heat rises to my cheeks as he flashes me that goofy smile of his.

I was always under the impression that I found that smile particularly annoying. I guess I was wrong.

The one hand that is still on his hip relentlessly attempts to capture my attention, begging me to acknowledge its proximity to the part of Mike that currently has my imagination spinning completely out of control, but I can’t allow myself to comply with its demands just yet. Lord knows I’ll be swiftly rid of any ability to speak, which would be… unfortunate, to say the least.

Not that that particular ability isn’t greatly impaired to begin with, but we needn’t tempt fate further, I would say.

“I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know, Melot,” Mike whispers softly as he moves closer to me. It’s the strange fish-on-dry-land-esque performance attached to it that makes me laugh—and much louder than I had intended, too. In fact, I had no intention to laugh at all…

I snap my mouth shut and look away. Surely, my cheeks must be so red they are in fact aglow right now, mustn’t they?

Mike groans loudly, which twists the uncomfortable knot in my stomach, greatly worsening the unwelcome tightness I was already feeling.

To say I am in no way prepared for his words, would be an understatement.

“Mel, dude, Melmel, babe, Melly, my good sir,” he sighs, “where were you when they sent out the memo that this”—he gestures wildly at the both of us—“all of this, like… sex, is supposed to be fun?”

“Well, I—” Just hearing him describe what we’re doing as ‘sex’ brings forward a host of emotions I can either not identify or desperately wish I couldn’t, and it certainly helps my nerves in no imaginable way.

“Like, babygirl, I get it,” he continues, as I try to prevent having to invent a new shade of red to describe the color my cheeks will turn after this one, “you’re nervous. You’ve never done this. You’ve been told not to do this, with… well, pretty much anyone but definitely not another dude—which I’m sure will come back to bite you in that sweet little butt of yours, and we’ll deal with that fall-out together. But if we’re doing this, I need you to lighten up, okay?”

“But… How?” In my entire existence, I have never struggled to speak two simple words the way I did just now.

“For starters, there are two people here who I’m going to need you to not take too seriously,” he says matter-of-factly. “The first one is me, which is already true for… most scenarios outside of this one, I’d say. And the second one is you. You’re allowed to laugh, okay?”

The way he nips at the tip of my nose makes it impossible not to laugh. “Good boy,” Mike muses as I struggle to figure out why it feels so good to hear him say those words.

Without thinking about it, mostly for fear of discouraging myself, I wrap my free arm around him, pulling him tightly against me as I kiss him.

The added pressure of my arm against the small of his back is not enough to satisfy my need, so I boldly and unthinkingly lower my hand until it cups half of Mike’s backside.

Despite my lacking intentions to lose control of myself like this, I find myself feverishly grasping him, pulling him even closer as I dig my fingers into the flesh of his rear.

It’s surprisingly soft, yet surprisingly firm, and I find myself surprisingly eager to explore it further—the whole situation would best be described as, well… surprising, really, and Mike’s ardent whimpering tells me that he is not at all inclined to put an end to my endeavors.

Due to my sudden preoccupation with Mikey’s lovely behind, I am almost robbed of awareness of the fantastic experience of Mike, gently but greedily sliding his hands into my pants as he gently sucks my bottom lip into his mouth.

My grip around his waist slacks as he pulls his face back, still holding my lip firmly between his teeth, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, giving me the courage to mimic his movements.

For a moment, I am surprised to find that Mike is not wearing underwear, and then I remember who I’m in bed with. I’m not saying I should have expected this, but to pretend it’s in any way uncharacteristic, would be a lie.

His skin is smooth and warm, and the salacious moan he lets out catches in his throat, where it morphs into a gasp as my lips seek out his neck.

The urge to bite is strong, and I already know he wouldn’t mind, so…

“Fuck, Mel,” he moans sweetly as I bite down, effortlessly piercing his skin again and again, until his neck and shoulders are littered with marks.

Mike reaches behind his back, grabbing my wrist in order to drag my hand away from his ass, and towards the front of his sweatpants, where his erection strains against the fabric.

He presses my palm against the sizeable bulge while he begs me to bite him again, and I find myself more than happy to oblige.

A chuckle rolls off my tongue as soon as my teeth connect with his skin, and I softly squeeze his twitching cock, which draws the sweetest whimpers from Mike’s gorgeous lips.

“Mel, please,” he whispers, barely managing to squeeze the words out in between soft swearing and labored breaths as he puts his hand over mine and slowly slides it down his hip, into the front of his sweatpants. “I… I need you to…”

My voice is barely more than a breath as I stammer my concerns about my nerves, lack of experience and the fact that I haven’t a clue what to do.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mikey whispers in reply, “just touch me. Please.”

Heat rises to my cheeks again as I desperately attempt to resist the urge to pull my hand back and flee the room. “I-I really don’t know what… how…”

Mike lets out a whine that is a mix between impatience and complete and utter frustration. “What do you mean you don’t know? You have one of these, what do you do with that one?”

Lying to him now would probably not be in my best interest, so I ignore the ever-increasing temperature of my face when I tell him: “I, eh… I don’t really, ehh…”

“Mas-tur-bate,” Mike says with a smile. “Jack off. Jerk off. Beat your meat. Tickle your pickle. Flog your log. I can come up with dozens of these, but I think you got the point. But, like… ever?”

I shrug, fighting the resistance of Mike’s hand against my shoulder as I try to hide my face from him. “Not never, but…”

“We can stop, if you want?” Mike says carefully, even though we both know that’s the very last thing I desire right now. “Or take a little step back?”

I shake my head surprisingly decisively. “I want to try,” I whisper. “I want to make you feel good.”

Mike leans closer to me, bringing his lips up to my ear. “Try again,” he says, the amusement in his voice clear as day, because once again he knows as well as I do that I’m not voicing my true desire.

In truth, I’m burning with violent need, and I am utterly bewildered that it’s even possible to feel nervous enough to overshadow that feeling. Yet here we are…

A low growl escapes me completely involuntarily. “I want to hear you moan and feel you squirm in my arms,” I snarl with more vigor than I originally intended. “And I want it to be because of me.”

His sweet moan, right in my ear, makes me tingle all over, and I barely manage to choke back a whimper of my own.

“Mel, please,” Mikey pleads with me again, “stop overthinking and just grab my d—”

He’s forced to end his sentence with a strangled, high-pitched noise that makes me chuckle as I wrap my fingers around his length.

He presses his forehead against mine as I cup the side of his face with my free hand, trailing my thumb lightly over his cheekbone.

The softest whimper stumbles past his slightly parted lips, and I gladly give in to the urge to touch them as well, savoring the feeling of Mikey’s hot breath against my fingertip.

When his tongue darts out, I take my own lip between my teeth, biting down as he sensually sucks my thumb into his mouth. I admire his confidence as he stares straight into my eyes—into my soul—as he does so.

Slowly, he rolls his hips, thrusting carefully into my hand.

His jaw tightens, and every sound he makes, escapes from behind gritted teeth—the way he’s grinding them almost makes more noise than he does, which I have to admit I find quite bothersome.

“Why are you holding back?” I ask quietly, as I attempt to silence the part of my mind that tells me I must be doing something wrong.

“Because I still can,” he admits reluctantly.

So I am doing s—

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he says, smiling devilishly as he shimmies out of his sweatpants a bit further. “But truth be told, it’s missing something, eh…”

I patiently wait for him to continue, listening to the whiny noises he makes in protest as I don’t do him the courtesy of pausing the apparently good-but-missing-something handjob I was giving him. Mike is adorable when he gets flustered, and I am more than happy to be responsible for the rosy color on his cheeks.

“Fine,” he grumbles, giving in to his desires at last. “Top drawer of the nightstand. There’s a bottle, you really can’t miss it.”

I venture to retrieve the bottle. It’s… A chuckle escapes without warning as I read the label. “Mikey, why do you own cotton candy flavored lubricant?”

“Because it doesn’t come in jelly bean flavor,” Mike says casually before bringing my attention back to the—pardon me—task at hand. “Don’t be stingy with the stuff, I like it wet.”

Rather than simply not being quite sure what to do—or how much lubricant is an appropriate amount, since I’ve never used anything like it before—I am suddenly overcome with anxiety over the fact that I am now forced to look what I’m doing.

Slowly, I lower my gaze, taking in all of Mike’s body I can along the way. I barely notice how my fangs pierce my lip again when I bite down as my eyes reach their destination.

Mike snatches the bottle from my hand and kindly helps me out by pouring some of the liquid in my hand. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I bring my hand to my mouth, quickly dipping my tongue in the small pool of fluid in my palm.

Unsurprisingly, it’s extremely sweet.

Mike spends this time glaring at me, impatiently squirming and making his displeasure known through a series of whimpers, not stopping until I wrap my hand around his cock again.

As soon as I do, a serene smile spreads across his face, and he sighs while I proceed to coat his member with the slippery substance on my hand.

“Better?” I ask him.

He nods, resting his forehead against mine again. “Fuck yes.”

Apparently, the only thing Mike thinks will stop him from becoming excessively loud now, is crushing his mouth to mine and kissing me like his life depends on it.

His hips move erratically as he thrusts almost frantically into my hand while moans, grunts and desperate whimpers stumble from his mouth into mine.

After some time, I feel his hand close around mine, guiding my grip and the rhythm of my strokes while the fingers of his other hand dig into my back nearly hard enough to draw blood.

He swears, softly at first, but becoming louder as he loses more and more of his restraint.

Even with a vision providing me with advance knowledge of what is going to happen—which is technically so predictable that I should have been able to come up with it myself—I am unprepared for the moment his orgasm arrives.

In hindsight, aiming might have been a good idea, but I honestly couldn’t think of a better place for his release than my stomach.

“Sorry for the mess,” Mike pants against my lips. I can feel the lazy smile on his face in the way his mouth moves against my skin. “Can I help you clean that up?”

The implication in the devilish question sends a jolt of electricity down my spine, and before I can answer, Mike has pressed his lips to my neck, marking the beginning of a slow, teasing descent downward with a playful bite.

As he moves down my body, he turns me onto my back, leaving me helplessly mesmerized by the sight of this gorgeous man making his way down my chest, licking and sucking at my skin every chance he gets.

The feeling is absolutely unmatched by anything I have ever felt before in my life, and I can’t hold back any of the sounds that well up in my throat of their own volition.

The enthusiasm with which Mike licks his own semen off my abdomen is almost awe inspiring, and I watch him closely, barely aware of the fact that my mouth hangs open, which I’m sure must make me look like a complete and utter fool.

When he finishes his task, he shoots a glance up at me in which lies a burning question, and without thinking, I nod in reply.

Eager hands drag down my trousers and pants until my cock springs free, and for a moment, panic takes hold of me. With some effort, I remember the look on Mike’s face when he was ‘accidentally’—if one chooses to believe it was an accident, which I can’t bring myself to do—presented with an opportunity to look at my erection.

The image manages to calm me down fairly effectively.

My reaction when Mike carefully drags the tip of his tongue along the full length of my cock is admittedly quite embarrassing, but I try not to dwell on that thought, electing instead to enjoy the incredible new sensations brought to me by Mike’s mouth.

“So sensitive,” he muses quietly, trailing a teasing finger lightly down the same trajectory as his tongue. “And so pretty.”

I barely manage to resist the urge to cry out in frustration as Mike abandons my member and instead kisses my stomach, hips and thighs, putting his lips absolutely everywhere but where I so desperately want them.

His hands tease me: playful, eager fingers travel up and down my sides with the lightest touch, threatening to drive me completely beside myself with lustful yearning.

“Please!” The word barely makes it out, my voice so strangled I momentarily wonder if Mike even understood me—his devious chuckle confirming that he did.

In the pit of my stomach, pressure simmers. A pressure I probably should have familiarized myself with a lot more over the past fourteen centuries, but it’s recognizable enough as is.

There is no doubt in my mind that Mikey would succeed in bringing me to orgasm without laying another finger—or any other part of his body—directly on my cock.

Shame heats up my cheeks once again as I am forced to admit that, quite frankly, I’m about to burst.

And it is precisely this moment in which Mike decides that the best course of action is to swallow my whole length down to the root.

It's the hideously arrogant raising of that miserable eyebrow of his that ends up dragging me over the edge, and without any warning, I spill my seed into his mouth.

If dying of embarrassment was a possibility, I would have done it dozens, if not hundreds of times over the course of my existence, but none of those instances could hold a candle to what I’m feeling in this moment.

I could positively die of shame.

Mike, however, seems to be completely unfazed by the circumstances. It’s typical, of course, but it’s also infuriating.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, smoothing a hand over my hair. “Don’t feel bad. Come on…”

The next moment, he’s next to the bed, holding out a hand.

“Shower time, Melmel,” he muses happily.

I follow him in silence. Even as he strips me of the pants I put back on before making my way over to the bathroom, or when he ushers me into the shower stall, or when he sweetly and gently caresses me all over to rinse off the remnants of our relations, I remain quiet.

Until we are back in the room, and Mike dives under the covers, leaving me standing there…

“I… Mike, I think I should g—”

“Yeah, that is, like, so not happening,” Mike says, rushing towards me with alarming speed. “You are staying, and that’s an order. Besides, we’re just getting to my favorite part.”

“Didn’t we just do your favorite part?” I ask, my voice thick with bewilderment.

“Ask our girl,” Mike chuckles. “I’m a little cuddle monster.”

He takes both of my hands in his and gently attempts to pull me along. “Back to bed, now.”

I can’t seem to move, other than the involuntary shiver that travels through my body when Mike suddenly appears behind me, pressing his smiling lips to my neck and grabbing my behind. “Are you going to listen to me, or do I have to spank my pretty boy?”

I’m not proud of the way his words bring my cock back to life, but I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed about it, either, even when Mike chuckles devilishly in my ear.

“Was it ‘pretty boy’ or ‘spank’ that’s making this happen?” he asks as he gently palms my stiffening cock.

“Both,” I admit surprisingly willingly. “And ‘my’ might have had something to do with it as well.”

“Do you want to go another round?” Mike asks carefully, no doubt to attempt to hide the heady edge to his voice, as if his growing desire isn’t literally poking me in the back right now.

“I thought you wanted to cuddle,” I whisper, gritting my teeth so as not to moan loudly as my erection pushes more and more firmly against Mike’s hand. Thank God, he’s keeping it still, otherwise I would be completely lost.

“I do,” he whines. “But look what you did to me!” He grinds his cock against my ass. It feels heavenly, as does the feeling of Mike’s breath on my neck as he chuckles when my cock twitches against his palm.

This time, I allow him to push me towards the bed again, and when we reach it, I don’t protest when he bends me over—at first.

Panic briefly washes over me as I think about what he might do to me, but I trust him. I know he would never attempt anything beyond my boundaries, so I relax again, leaning into his touch as his fingers close around my length again.

He strokes me in time with the movement of his hips against my ass as he thrusts slowly between my cheeks, pushing his cock down with his other hand.

When Mike disappears, I whine at the loss, and I try to right myself to see where he’s gone, but his hand, firmly pressing down on the small of my back, stops me. The drawer of the bedside table opens and closes, and the top of a bottle clicks. Moments later, Mikey’s hand, now slick with lubricant, closes around my cock again.

His other hand—now also quite sticky—hooks around my thigh, pulling me back a few steps to give him more space to work with, and I moan in delight as I feel my ass hit his hips again.

Mike gently shushes me, squeezing my ass in a strangely reassuring way when the feeling of his hands running down between my cheeks has me worried for a second. “Don’t worry,” he says calmly. “Just wanted a little less friction.”

I must admit, it feels even better this way. For him, too, if the higher speed of his thrusts and increasing volume of his moans are any indication.

When Mike plants a firm kiss on my spine, between my shoulder blades, I can’t fight back a loud moan as I relish the feeling of his weight on top of me. At the same time, I am terribly disappointed when he stops moving his hips.

“I want to try something, okay?” Mike says. His hand stops moving too, and much to my displeasure, it disappears altogether barely a second later. The only redeeming aspect to this unwelcome behavior, is the trail of sloppy, wet kisses Mike leaves down my back.

I resist the urge to swat him in the head when he sinks his teeth into my rear, and I heal the wound immediately in protest.

Mike, in all his silly, playful Mike-ness, retaliates by making another mark, which I treat in the same manner.

We go back and forth like that for a minute, until Mike growls in frustration. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute, Melmel.”

I can hear the pout in his voice, and a grin appears on my face as I spread my legs for Mike without thinking when he moves to grab my cock again, this time by reaching between my legs.

His arm hooks around my hips, holding me in place, and I barely get a second to wonder why.

Mike was more than right to hold me down, because when the tip of his warm, wet tongue touches the tight ring of muscle—

“Mike!” I hiss angrily while I squirm against his solid grasp. That… place has been an exit only for fourteen hundred years, and if he thinks—

A soft kiss on my bottom eases my surging anger. “Put down the pitchfork,” Mike muses, “I just want to touch you. Well… eat you. Give it an honest chance, please? If you don’t like it, you don’t like it, but I think you should try it.”

Mike certainly has a way of inciting one’s curiosity… I take a deep breath before nodding decisively, accompanying the gesture—which Mike can’t see—with an affirmative hum.

Mike continues to stroke me while his tongue gently laps at my puckered hole.

When Mike made his plea, I never pictured a scenario in which I would enjoy this, but to my shame, I must admit that the sensation is quite pleasant. Perhaps a bit more than ‘quite’.

Alright, it feels nothing short of absolutely heavenly! That doesn’t mean I am quite ready to admit that, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Mike seems to get plenty of confirmation from the way my hips involuntarily move in time with his tongue, rather than his hand.

In fact, after a while, he abandons stroking my cock altogether, using both hands to spread my ass cheeks so he can gain better access to my hole.

I occupy my own hands by pressing a pillow firmly against my face, while crying a continues stream of moans and the occasional expletive into it, and when Mike tentatively passes a fingertip over the tight ring of muscle, I find myself begging him to continue.

“Is this something you want now, or something you know you’ll want in the future?” His tone lets me know there is only one answer he will accept, and it’s not the one I think I want it to be now.

I desperately cry out into the pillow, wanting to voice my protest but finding no words, and I turn onto my back rather dramatically while Mike skillfully dodges my legs.

He remains where he is, raising himself up on his knees so he can lay his head on my hip. The sweet smile on his face as he looks up at me annoys me greatly, and I put the pillow over my face again and scream, before glaring down at him as I prop myself up on my elbows.

“If you’re not going to do to me what you know I think I want you to do to me but don’t yet, then at the very least do to me what we both know I’m incredibly amenable to you doing to me,” I growl.

Mike chuckles. “That almost sounds like you’re asking me to blow you,” he teases.

On a whim, I sit up. With the fingers of one hand twisted into his curls, I pull his head off my thigh.

Mike’s swallows audibly, his eyes wide as he stares up at me. My jaw tightens as he bites his lip, and I cock an eyebrow at him, silently asking my question.

He responds by nodding furiously, and when I attempt to pull my hand back, he grabs my wrist.

With unwavering enthusiasm, he pours some more lubricant on me before getting to work, coating my whole length using both of his hands.

It feels divine, and without thinking I ball my hands into fists to prevent myself from swearing.

Mike lets out a long, sweet moan, leaning into my touch as I unintentionally pull his hair, the noise making me all the more disinclined to relax my grip.

He looks up at me, that godforsaken eyebrow taunting me, and the rest of his face guilty of the exact same thing. He’s clearly testing my patience—and to my surprise, I find that I quite like that.

Stil, no matter how much I enjoy his defiance, my annoyance is real and intense enough to be a leading factor in my behavior.

“You know what I want,” I groan, putting pressure on the back of Mikey’s head, urging his mouth closer to its desired location.

His eyes narrow, and his lips pull into an insufferable smirk as he continues to work my length with both hands, and I attempt to keep my composure while the urge to smack that grin off his face surges to previously undiscovered heights.

Mike’s reaction has me staring at him in shock, his yearnful moan dying down as soon as he sees my face, and his expression morphing into something completely different that has his ears and cheeks turning red in a staggering tempo. It’s…

“So sweet,” I mutter as I loosen my grip on his hair and run my fingers over his scalp in circles. “Be good for me, my love. Let me feel that beautiful mouth.”

When he looks up at me again after pressing a sweet, brief kiss to the underside of my tip, the color on his cheeks has deepened.

I am unsure of the reasons behind the effect it has on me, and right now, I could frankly not care even a hair less.

He’s still challenging me, but the shy approach makes it endearing rather than infuriating. I can’t even convince myself fully that he’s putting on an act: He’s never been particularly good at hiding his true feelings.

Before we started this—all of it, from the very first kiss onward—I never would have imagined that I’d see myself in control of any of this. I pictured myself, completely at the mercy of Mike and his fickle whims. No vision I had could have prepared me for this.

For this sense of agency, and of… dominance.

For the overwhelming sense of pride, and the much more intense yearning for this sweet, eager boy between my knees than I had ever imagined possible.

“Sweet, precious Mikey,” I sigh as he delivers the smallest lick to the tip of my cock. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I watch him squirm beneath me. My best guess is that I’m not the only one who enjoys being called sweet things.

Where I find the words, and how on Earth I suddenly manage to not only use my voice but also seem to accurately remember fourteen centuries worth of English—though it would be remiss not to acknowledge that I never really caught on to the last two centuries or so—is beyond me, but the fact of the matter is that I do.

Words of encouragement flow freely from my lips as I gently nudge Mike’s head forward. “Wrap those pretty lips around me, sweetheart. I know you want to,” I say softly. “I’ll be so proud of you.” Mike whines, staring up at me with big, innocent eyes. “Be a good boy for me, Mikey. You’d make me so happy.”

Strangely, though the only thing missing from my words are the ones that would make this an outright plea, I don’t feel like I’m begging whatsoever, nor do I feel like I’m somehow pressuring Mike into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

Due to my lacking experience, I should be lacking every shred of confidence I feel, shouldn’t I? I shouldn’t feel so at peace with this, I—

My doubts die a swift, magnificent death the second Mike wraps his lips around my throbbing erection, and I soon find myself completely bewitched by the sight of him as he works more of my length into his mouth.

He’s dropped one hand into his own lap, and the other soon moves to my thigh, where his fingers dig into my flesh every time he goes down. With every stroke, he takes me deeper, until I’m fully seated in his mouth.

When his throat tightens around me briefly, it startles me, and I involuntarily move my hips, forcing Mike to withdraw, sputtering and struggling to breathe.

I, in turn, gasp for air when he spits on my cock. There’s something wildly erotic to it, and to the thin thread of saliva that runs from my tip to the center of his bottom lip.

“Keep going, beautiful,” I gasp. In no way am I too proud to admit that I’m positively aching to feel his lips around me again. “You’re doing so well. You’re such a good boy.”

Mike whimpers, briefly moving the hand with which he’s pleasuring himself quicker, before leaning forward again.

Emboldened by his enthusiasm, I put light pressure on the back of his head and gently thrust my hips forward.

His eyes open wide, and he moans desperately. The vibration created by the sound feels heavenly around my cock, and I push my hips forward again, luring another moan from Mike’s throat.

“Do you… like that?” I ask hesitantly. Surely, it’s better to be safe than sorry in these situations?

Mike hums a vigorous confirmation, his brows drawing together in a deep frown when I ask him—superfluously, apparently—if he wants me to stop.

On instinct, I move closer to the edge of the bed, tightening my grip on Mike’s hair as I thrust forward again—and again… and again.

Soon, there are tears in Mikey’s eyes, and instead of being overwhelmed by guilt, I simply can’t stop thinking about how beautiful he looks—and how incredibly impressed I am with his achievements.

Now, I am hardly under the impression that I have a particularly intimidating manhood where size is concerned, but I would happily place myself somewhat above average without adding any inches for vanity, and on top of that, I’m hardly being as gentle with Mike as I probably should be, thus, I consider my amazement justified.

Mike announces his approaching climax through a series of delectable moans and an increase in the pace at which he sucks me off, his movements stopping exactly when I’m teetering on the edge of orgasm myself.

He pulls back, until the tip of my cock rests on his tongue, and with a few strokes, he seals the deal.

I bite down on my lip while I watch as several thick ropes of my release coat his tongue, the visual so wildly arousing that I briefly worry I will never find anything else even remotely enticing ever again.

“Show me.” I mouth the words, unable to find my voice, as I trail my thumb lightly along Mike’s bottom lip. Audible or not, my words seem to light a devious little fire under him, and after heeding my request, he promptly raises himself up, supporting himself with his hands on my thighs.

My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow hard as Mike leans forward, pressing his lips to mine with vigor.

I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to be disgusted with myself and my behavior later, but right now I want nothing more than to taste myself on Mike’s tongue—I get slightly more than I bargained for when I open my mouth and feel my thick salty seed flow from Mike’s mouth into mine.

At first, I can’t bring myself to swallow, resisting the urge to spit until an idea takes root in my brain.

I can see the apology on Mike’s lips, but before he speaks, I put him on his back on the mattress, taking a moment to rake my eyes over his chest and abs.

Without wasting any time, I lick the evidence of his orgasm off his stomach, and straddle his hips, bringing my nose to his.

There’s no need for further provocation: Mike opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue so I can deliver on my silent promise.

This should feel disgusting. By pretty much any standard, but most of all mine—or rather; the ones that have been pounded into me over the years, either figuratively or, if I was particularly unfortunate, literally.

Instead, a serenity that borders on a sense of heavenly bliss washes over me while Mike and I go back and forth spitting a combination of our semen and saliva into each other’s mouths…

I—

Mike chuckles and falls back to the mattress, taking a moment to catch his breath before pulling me down on top of him. “If I came in while you were trying to watch a movie and I randomly spit a fat load of cum in your mouth, you probably wouldn’t appreciate that,” he says. His words seem so out of place that at first, I struggle to wrap my head around them, until I realize I must have looked… I couldn’t tell you how I looked, exactly, but my face must have expressed my thoughts in a way that prompted Mikey to launch into an explanation. “Welcome to your first ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’-moment. It won’t be the last.”

“That doesn’t dispute the accusation that it was, in fact, disgusting. At all,” I mutter against the skin of his neck, hiding my scorching—and therefore probably beet-red—face from him.

Mike sits up again, wrapping his arms around my waist as he does, pulling me even closer. “Melmel… Sex is kinda disgusting. And embarrassing.” He punctuates his words with small kisses to my shoulder and neck. “And sticky, and sweaty, and messy.”

“You might want to put a positive spin on this,” I grumble. “Soon.”

“The point is,” he replies, pulling my head off his shoulder and holding it in both hands so that I’m forced to look at him. “When you’re with the right people, none of that matters.”

One look into his eyes, and I know…

“Well, I’m glad I’m with the right people then,” I murmur, leaning in for another kiss.

When Mike breaks away, he suggests we take another shower, and I’m hardly inclined to decline the offer. He wasn’t exactly lying about ‘sticky’ and ‘sweaty’ in his list of less-than-ideal side effects to sexual relations.

This time, Mike is the one that goes strangely quiet while we clean ourselves—and, both notably and regrettably, not each other—up.

“Mikey?” I ask carefully. “What’s wrong?”

My heart breaks when Mike drops to the floor, suddenly sobbing uncontrollably, crawling back into the corner and sitting there with his arms locked around his knees, vigorously shaking his head in reply to my question.

“Mike,” I say sternly as my attempts to pluck him off the floor fail miserably. I do, however, manage to pull him off the wall just far enough that I can sit down behind him, and when I lock my legs around him, he knows he won’t be going anywhere, so he gives in to my touch. “You will talk to me.”

When he moves again, I let him, both knowing that he might be a fool, but not such a big one that he expects to be able to run from me, and knowing—vision-wise—he won’t try. He simply wants to turn the shower head our way because he’s cold.

He sits down in my lap, and I wrap my arms tightly around him, waiting patiently until he feels ready to speak about what’s going on with him.

Another deep, shaky breath, and he starts talking: “This just took a turn… And you’re so new to all of this, I never thought… I should have… But I couldn’t have known, so… And everything was going well, and it was all good, and I was teasing you and so stoked to be showing you all these new, wonderful things and… And then things got turned around, somehow… and suddenly you were… you… And I… I…”

I let him cry for a while, just holding him, tucking him tightly against my chest as I smooth my hands over his back and sides, repeating the phrase ‘shh, it’s okay’ more times than I care to admit because I simply can’t come up with anything else.

After a while, his breathing steadies, and the sobbing comes to an end. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “Not in a ‘I have something to apologize for’ kind of way, but more like… ‘I feel bad for dumping this on you all of a sudden’ kind of way.”

“That’s alright,” I reply truthfully. “All I want is to take care of you and to make you feel better.”

Mike laughs through the last of his tears. “That’s great,” he says, “because you’re going to have to.”

“Just tell me how,” I say. “And, if at all possible, try to explain why?”

“Right,” Mike says on a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “First off, I shouldn’t have let this happen. Like…” He throws his head back and lets out a frustrated cry. “Okay. During that blowjob just now—I don’t blame you if you didn’t even notice, but…”

“I remember suddenly feeling far more… in charge?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Mike nods almost enthusiastically. “I really wouldn’t have blamed you—you looked pretty overstimulated—but, damn, I’m glad you noticed. Eh, long story short, you ended up Domming me—dominating, I mean, like… the kinky kind. And you were really good at it, too! So no worries about that, okay? But I should have stopped you, because I know I’m quick to slip into subspace—I’ll explain that later—and it was stupid… well, a little naïve, I guess, of me to think it wouldn’t happen, and…” He takes a moment to catch his breath, and I rub his back while he does.

“A little longer,” I say calmly when he tries to continue his story. My visions are exceptionally helpful in this type of situation, and I don’t want Mike to start hyperventilating.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely after a few more deep breaths. “The… I just… I freaked out because I need someone to take care of me—you, to be specific—but I should be the one taking care of you after your first time… Things just got a little messy.”

“Is there any reason we can’t be taking care of each other?” I ask, taking a moment to think about my own needs at this time. The very first one is for Mikey to feel better. “I think that, after this shower, I would like to watch a movie in bed, and stay very, very close to you.”

“Yeah,” Mike sighs happily. “That works for me.”

When we finish our shower, I dry myself off quickly, only to find Mike still standing next to me, soaking wet, when I’m done. He hesitantly holds his towel out to me.

“Please take care of me,” he mumbles, his voice small and soft. He’s avoiding eye contact, biting his lip and constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I never want you to be afraid to ask me that, Mike,” I say slowly, enunciating every word carefully as I take the towel from him.

There’s something wonderful about this. I dry every part of Mike’s gorgeous body with extreme care. When I first resist the urge to press my lips to his skin, Mike laughs.

“You can still kiss me, Melot,” he muses. “Actually, I’d really like it if you did.”

At that moment, things finally connect in my head. “You need to feel loved.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, nodding slowly. “Put bluntly, I need to know you see me as more than the piece of meat you throatfucked back there.”

Before I can respond, he continues: “I know you don’t see me that way! I mean, maybe you did when you—”

“I was mostly very impressed with your skills,” I admit reluctantly. It’s my turn to blush once again. At least we’re both suffering that terrible affliction this time.

“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “Decades of practice.”

“I think you have put in more hours than most people your age,” I joke before nipping at the tip of his nose.

Mike glares at me. “Well, apparently I have put in more hours than some people your age, so…”

“Hey!” I stick my tongue out at him. “Stop bullying me, or I will—”

“Whatever you say next,” Mike interjects quickly, “never threaten to skip aftercare. Just… little PSA, I guess.”

“Oh, I was simply going to suggest we put on an episode of Downton Abbey and I point out all the historical inaccuracies,” I say plainly.

Mike shudders. “That would actually be worse…”

Mere seconds after we finally get settled in bed, there’s a knock on the door—of course, a few seconds after that, there’s an actual knock on the door. One that isn’t a figment of my… Well, I suppose both ‘figment’ and ‘imagination’ would be inaccurate.

Still, Mike and I look at each other, neither of us in any way inclined to actually see whose unfortunate timing we’re dealing with.

“Melot, can I see you for a second?” It’s Marshall.

Even though I’m wearing pants, I scramble to find the nearest pair of sweatpants and put them on—after Mike gives it a quick inspection. Quick thinking on his part, I must admit.

When I open the door, I open it wide enough to speak to Marshall, but not so wide that he can look into the room.

It makes him chuckle. “I’ve seen him in much worse states than simply naked,” he muses, but doesn’t otherwise protest the minimal state of ajar-ness of the door. “August and I thought you could use this.” He holds out a tray. One side is loaded with snacks—cheese, fruit, crackers… the lack of jellybeans might disappoint Mike—while the other side holds two bottles of water, glasses, and a pitcher of strawberry lemonade—Mike’s favorite. “Keep him warm and hydrated. And see if he wants to eat something. He’ll say he’s not hungry, but… Take care of him, okay?”

“I will,” I promise as I let go of the door to take the tray from Marshall. As soon as I do, someone—must be Mike—yanks the door open. He narrowly misses me as he practically jumps into Marshall’s arms.

“Thank you,” Mike mutters as Marshall hugs him tight to his chest, indeed not caring that Mike is still very much completely nude. “I love you.”

“I know,” Marshall replies with a somber smile. “I love you too. Always have, always will. Go be with your… boyfriend?”

“Official status TBD,” Mike chuckles as he releases Marshall from his grasp. “But at the very least I think we can say we’re hooking up.”

“Well, whatever the case, take care of each other. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He disappears before either of us can say another word, so we take the food inside and close the door behind us again, making sure to lock it as well.

“What happened between you two?” I ask carefully as we get comfortable under the covers.

Mike shrugs. “Nothing happened. It’s like… We’re as close as we’ve always been, just in a different way. We could never be in a monogamous relationship with each other, that would be weird, for some reason, but with Sweetcheeks in the mix, some old stuff has been coming back, and we’re figuring that out. Not in a very proactive way, I have to admit.” He picks a cube of cheese off the plate.

“So I might have to share you with another person, then?” I ask, jokingly poking at his ribs. The thought should devastate me. Shred my insides like a swarm of angry wasps is wreaking havoc on them.

Instead, I feel completely calm.

“I’m a bottomless pit of love,” Mike says with his mouth already full—yet he stuffs three more cubes of cheese and a few slices of cured sausage in there.

“You know, there’s fruits and vegetables on this plate, right?” I say when he swallows the obscene amount of food—which I’m sure he considered ‘a bite’.

“Fine, you have discovered the limits of my affection,” he jokes. “Hey!”

The first grape I chuck at his face bounces off his forehead, and I catch it before it hits the plate again. On the second try, Mike catches it in his mouth.

The third lands directly in his lap—I can’t seem to come to an agreement with myself as to whether or not that happened on purpose, but I happily put the situation to good use by retrieving the rogue fruit with my mouth, not neglecting to press a teasing kiss to Mikey’s soft cock.

“No,” he warns me, drawing out the ‘o’ as he shakes his head. “I mean… Yes! But no.”

For a moment—one of the kind that sets your soul alight and seems to last forever—we just smile at each other as we stare into each other’s eyes.

In my entire existence, I have never felt as safe as I do now.

Or as loved.

Or as at home.

Or as at peace.

“You were right,” I whisper after a while, as I let go of my fears, and my doubts, and my past.

Just for now.

And for him.

Only for him.

“I’m entirely unsurprised,” he chuckles. “But, eh… what about?”

I swallow hard before looking him right in the eye.

“I like boys.”

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wildlife4life · 10 months ago

Text

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @devirnis @lover-of-mine @theotherbuckley @jesuisici33 and @daffi-990 Thank you! You are all so amazing and I can't wait for all your upcoming works!

Alrighty ya'll, I am super tired, and I literally just threw this snippet together, but it is part of the noted NFL Buck plan. Here is some more Buck perspective before coming to LA. (Everything NFL Buck can be found here!)

Somehow, he and Eddie went almost eight months without having the whole Buck not being out in public discussion. There had been some tossed away comments, 'I'm just your dirty little secret.' and 'What would the fans think if they knew pretty boy Buckley liked to suck cock?' and even 'Apparently you're the schools most eligible bachelor. If they only knew.' But no actual conversations. To Buck it was a hypocritical unspoken agreement between, him, Eddie, and the handful of people who did know. Let the world see Evan Buckley as the handsome, college football star, bachelor who isn't looking for true commitment with a woman at the moment. Once the door to it all is closed, he is Buck, bi-sexual college student who was deeply in love with a single father paramedic with the most amazing kid. The very man, who used to be so very deep in the closet and was still working through his well ingrained internalized homophobia, that Buck called him out on all those months. Buck shouted and cried and spewed out every part of his heartbreak. Each lash of pain he felt when Eddie failed to hide his disgust and panic at Buck's physical affection. The misery he pushed away each time the paramedic hesitated to return it. All the extra weight he took in his heart for Eddie because Buck could see how the ex-solider tore himself up by being with him while the internal voices of his upbringing raged within him about the wrongness of it. Then with one last ragged breath, Buck ended their lopsided two month relationship that was hurting them both. The break up was less than 24 hours, but Eddie came back with the commitment to be with Buck and to be better. Six months later and there Eddie was, still with the college quarterback, sharing his son and his life with him, and making an effort every day to be proud openly gay man. Eddie was being better. And yet, Eddie never once called Buck out on his unwillingness to be out himself or the effort the younger man puts into keeping their relationship a secret. It had Buck twisted in immense guilt and anxiety. He just kept waiting for the day Eddie would project all his own heartache and anger at Buck for being a hypocritical asshole. So far it hasn't happened and Buck spiraled further each day it didn't. Eventually, he broke, Buck always did when all the remorse and nerves became too heavy. He just wished the dam of emotional turmoil didn't burst while Eddie's mouth was inches away from Buck's half hard cock. And he really wished the end of his internal spiral didn't present itself with the statement, "I hate this."

Getting the mindset of a man who isn't closeted to those he trusts, but needs to be to the rest of the world. This will also be the set up into the agreement of their secret relationship that's been brought up in the past. Hope you all enjoyed!

Tagging (no pressure): @bekkachaos @diazsdimples @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @wikiangela @rainbow-nerdss @spaceprincessem @fortheloveofbuddie @athenagranted @eddiescowboy @evanbegins @elvensorceress @malewifediaz @911onabc @911-on-abc @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @try-set-me-on-fire @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @thekristen999 @shortsighted-owl @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @eowon @princessfbi @honestlydarkprincess @vampbuckley @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @glorious-spoon @buddierights @prosperdemeter2 @gayedmundodiaz @lemonzestywrites

#wip wednesday #tag game #my wip #911 show #911 abc #911 on abc #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #nfl #evan buckley #eddie diaz #quarterback buck #firefighter eddie #secret relationship #internalized homophobia #buck spirals #itty bitty smut #boys need to talk

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wen-kexing-apologist · 11 months ago

Note

Top 5 meals/food-related moments?

have a good day :)

oh ho ho ho so I see you have decided on a nuclear option. Well, do I have just the thing for you

Kayoko telling Kenji that Shiro Talks About Him in What Did You Eat Yesterday? Season 2, Ep. 11

Shiro has a really hard time verbally expressing love, especially about Kenji to Kenji. Which is why you, me, Kenji, everybody has to understand Food As Love is Shiro's entire shtick. In season 1, Shiro outed himself to Kayoko because she thought he might attack her and she calmed down about Shiro immediately after she found out he was a lawyer. And we see Kayoko ask Shiro about Kenji from time to time. BUT in Season 2, Kayoko sees Kenji in the supermarket and instantly recognizes him off of Shiro's description of him alone. And she treats him like a celebrity because of how much Shiro talks about Kenji. So you can imagine that I was absolutely bawling my fucking eyes out when Kayoko said this to Kenji at dinner:

"But you know, I already knew your preferences so well. When I go shopping with Kakei-san, he talks about you all the time...He says it with a smile"

Complete with flashbacks of Shiro talking about Kenji, what food he likes, why it's okay to get something a little more expensive. Kenji is a loud, proud, more femme gay man who is not able to hide his queerness the way that Shiro has. Kenji is also an incredibly patient and understanding man who knows Shiro is grappling with a lot of internalized homophobia, the weight of knowing he can't give his parents the grandchildren they want, parents who struggle with his sexuality. Kenji knows that Shiro loves him, but we know he can be hurt by it sometimes. So Kenji hearing from Kayoko how much Shiro talks about him was something that was so fucking needed. Not necessary, but needed. And I could not hold back my tears to see Shiro smiling away talking to Kayoko about his boyfriend, because he has so few people he can and will do that with.

Making "Magic", Our Dining Table (Bokura No Shoutaku), Ep. 5

gif by @bubblegeon

gif by @troubled-mind

Absolutely one of my favorite moments in the entire series is Tane appearing with this instant ramen package in his hand asking if Minoru wants to make "magic". I love it for so many reasons. I love it because Minoru has sacrificed so much in his life to help take care of Tane and because of that, because of who Minoru is, because of who his father is, because of who his mother is Tane is an extremely extremely emotionally aware kid. My sweet, sweet, beautiful baby boy can tell something is up with Yutaka after they run in to his older brother at the grocery store, and he can tell something is up with Minoru after they meet with his ex-girlfriend at the restaurant. And Tane repays all the care he is giving by these two by trying to find a solution he thinks will help make them feel better. Which is of course to make ramen fried rice.

Now. There is even more to this than Tane just picking up this meal his mother used to make a lot. Because Tane's mother died when he was two. He would have little to no memories of his mother, but Minoru would. Which means Minoru would have had to teach him this, carrying on her memories, her stories, her comfort to his baby brother. Minoru teaches Tane how to smash the ramen the same way their mother taught Minoru to do it. AND there is even more to this that is not really addressed but is something I (and I'm sure others) realized a bit later. Because I have made this meal multiple times and it is...so easy. I mean, 20 minutes rice in the rice cooker the day before, smash the noodles, I microwave them for 3 minutes, drain the water, and then five minutes later I've got a complete dish. It takes almost zero energy and it is great for my high pain days or my super low days. Minoru talks about his mother being sick, and how she really didn't let on to it. But the ramen fried rice is a good indication to me that she was hiding her exhaustion, her illness, her pain with fun, easy meals like this that require minimal effort and energy.

Amane having dinner with Ryuji's family, If It's With You (Kimi to Nara Koi Wo Shite Mite Mo), Ep. 3

gif by @jimmysea

I will never not love characters who are deeply deeply sad and hide the pain they've suffered and the melancholy they carry with them behind kindness and smiles and light. Amane brightens up every room he walks in to...well, every room that has anyone else but Ryuji in it. Ryuji is incredibly incredibly good at seeing straight through to Amane's core and calling him out on trying to hide himself and his feelings away. But here, in Ryuji's home Amane is well and truly feeling happy. He is understanding what family can look like, what family can feel like. Something he has never known because his parents worked so much he always ate alone. Amane deserves to experience these things, and I am so glad that he was able to have this moment because if and when Ryuji gets comfortable with dating Amane and brings him home again, it's good to know that Ryuji's family is kind and that they already know him, love him, and are comfortable enough to tease him immediately so Amane won't have to worry about their reaction.

Charn eating with Tinn's family, Laws of Attraction, Ep. 5

The fucking!!!!!!! GAHHH!! As much as we have all obsessed over the chemistry between Jam and Film, how hot Maya and Rose are, how unhinged Charn are Nawin are, how fucking awesome the grandmother is, we really do not talk enough about the fact that Laws of Attraction is first and foremost a tragedy. In the short time we had with her we knew Tonkhao was happy, and funny, and loved and she was just trying to help ease the burden her uncle had by going shopping for him and died as a result. That's Tinn's baby girl, he's raised her since infancy, and he lost her in such a horrific way. I reblogged something about grief the other day that talked about how grief in fiction and grief in reality are so different because grief in reality is so mundane, your world may be turning on it's axis but you still have to go grocery shopping. Stories like this one do more to bridge that gap, Tonkhao is dead, but you still have to find a lawyer, Tonkhao is dead but you still have to run your restaurant, Tonkhao is dead...Tonkhao is dead. And her memory and the love her family had for her is being tarnished in the news, this familly's grief is on full display, is questioned, is attacked. And I really loved this moment and the conversation that Charn has with Tinn immediately afterwards where Tinn talks about Tonkhao and how he wants her to be remembered, and I love this so deeply for what it shows about grief. That you can't just turn it on and off, here they are: grandma, Tinn, and Charn in a good mood, chatting away and then all of a sudden watching Charn eat and enjoy the soup just triggers a memory of Tonkhao that brings a ton of pain bubbling to the surface out of nowhere. Tonkhao haunts the narrative, even after justice has been served, she is still there with them, her little doll sitting in a chair at Tinn and Charn's wedding.

Jim shares a beer with Li Ming, Moonlight Chicken, Ep. 7

There is something about the death of a community pillar rocks the community at large, and how the tragedy and grief of losing someone that important to so many people can finally spur people in to action. Jim has been watching Li Ming grow up before his very eyes, but he's like many other parent/guardians and has spent so much of the show having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that Li Ming is growing up. Jim spends so much of his time stressing out about Li Ming, his financial situation changed dramatically probably right around the time he took Li Ming in, Jim is worried about how much Li Ming has struggled and may continue to struggle and is having a hard time not blaming himself for that. And finally we get the release of the all the stress and tension with Jim acknowledging Li Ming is stepping in to adulthood. I love everything about this scene, I love the acknowledgement, I love the apology, I love Jim teasing Li Ming about Heart, and I especially love the conversation about Jam because I think it shows Jim that Li Ming is capable of complex, nuanced, adult thoughts and feelings. He helped with the funeral, he stood up in support of Heart, he talked back against injustice, Li Ming spent so much of this show coming in to his own, and this is the moment all that work, misery, stress, anger bears fruit for the single most important relationship in Li Ming's life.

ASK ME MY TOP 5 OF ANYTHING BL 2023

#ask game #best of bl 2023 #what did you eat yesterday?#kinou nani tabeta?#our dining table #bokura no shokutaku #if it's with you #kimi to nara koi wo shite mite mo #laws of attraction #moonlight chicken #mlc

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spaceofentropy · 5 months ago

Text

It was supposed to be a quick thing, when I started writing it. Instead, my fic for the Harringrove Corner Pride Event grew and grew until it became the 38k-word story it is now.

My prompt was "Find me in the future" and what I offer you today is a story about time travel, paradoxes, pining, the fear of screwing up, and also monsters, titled

Time travel is real

On ao3

Rated E for blood, not sexy times

Pairing: Harringrove (but the last chapter is all Munver because I am a self-indulgent fool!)

Relevant tags: Time Travel AU; Canon Divergence; Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse; Blood and Injury; Homophobia; Internalized Homophobia; Protective Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper; Robin Buckley is a good friend; Fix-it fic (if by fix-it you mean I fuck things up even more and the body count is higher); Whump; Pride Parades; references to HIV/AIDS Crisis; Billy Hargrove tries to be a decent brother (results may vary); Karen Wheeler and the married ladies of Hawkins being creeps

Summary: It's the summer of 1981 and one of Billy's friend bets that Billy won't have the guts to go and spend five minutes talking with the naked weirdo that's hiding under the pier. Billy's 14 and he has no idea of what consequences accepting that bet will have.

It starts like this:

"There's a weirdo under the pier."

From where he's propped against the wooden parapet, Billy stops letting his gaze float over the people walking by them on the pier and turns to look at Stab. The rest of their group does the same, all keeping their eyes politely away from Stab's busted lip and swollen cheek even as they look at him.

"As if the whole beachfront isn't full of weirdos every day," Jimmy Z. says in a dismissive huff.

Pudge and Lily nod, and she's already back to drawing little black toothy monsters on the green fabric of her shoes. There's a hole in the sole of her right shoe. She said her mom's waiting for her next weekly pay check to buy her a new pair. They've been waiting for the right pay check for two month.

Billy looks away and stomps down the jealous resentment over the fact that at least her mom seems to be the kind of parent that will never stop trying. Unlike his, or some of the parents of the others in their group.

"A different kind of weirdo," he hears Stab insist.

Billy does his best not to snicker when Jimmy F. eyes Stab with all the skepticism a five-foot-nothing kid can muster. Which is a lot, if your name is Jimmy Fernandez.

"Define different," Jimmy F. says.

"I think this one ran from an asylum or something like that."

"Like Roaming Maggie," Jimmy F. is quick to supply.

"No, different! This one doesn't have shit."

"So, like the poncho guy."

"No. He's naked."

"So, like Perv Guy last summer," Lily intervenes without even looking up, and Jimmy F. nods.

"No-ooooh!" Stab is getting closer to the end of his patience. "This one is not approaching anyone."

"Ok, so, like the high lady with the tattoos and the−"

"No, he's not talking to the sirens−"

"Kraken," Pudge says while exhaling a plume of smoke. "The lady with the orange bush said her talking to the kraken was what kept it from eating the pier."

Billy pulls a cig from his own pack as he tunes the diatribe out. There's a good chance they're gonna go on for hours. They've done it before. It's the first weekend of summer break and they still have fuck all to do: inane chatter is perfect for them to waste time but not money.

He likes when it's like this. When they can just sit around, or swim, or talk about shit that doesn't really matter. He likes when they can forget life is shit, parents are a mess, school's a drag, and the future is on fire. Nothing better than to let his friends' words wash over him and make the world seem a little less fucked.

He has just finished his cigarette, making sure to smoke every last bit of it, when he registers what Stab's saying:

"I bet Billy wouldn't."

"I wouldn't what?"

"Find the balls to go and talk to the weirdo under the pier."

#my stuff #my fanfiction #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #with a tiny side of #munver #tigerfreak #time travel AU

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jensensfanfic · 2 years ago

Note

can you do prompt 71 with ellie williams 💘

WHISKEY FOR A SONG

pairing: ellie x fem!reader

prompt: “God, I love you.”

warnings: reader is a potty mouth and a ho*ny b, homophobia – just one person being a dickhead :), also a nice lil makeout sesh,

a/n: so, this is one of those fics that got away from me. it was meant to go one way but kept drifting. anyway, i hope you like it. ++ reblogs are so helpful 💖

☆•°°•☆°••°☆•°°•☆°••°☆

Ellie finishes her song with a final strum of the guitar and a shy smile. She blows out a breath and then rests her chin on the wooden instrument, staring at nothing in particular on the ground. She then turns to look at you, her fingernails tapping in staccato on the body of the guitar, and she tilts her head a little. "So?"

"It was gorgeous." You whisper, eyes sparkling with admiration. "You're gorgeous."

"Yeah, right." She snorts, turning away and wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. When she turns back, you can still see a hint of the blush she was clearly trying to hide from you. "You have to say that, you're my..."

"Girlfriend?" You grin. "I wouldn't lie to you, you know. Besides, we made that deal like a month ago, before we were even dating."

"Right. You share the biscuits and whiskey you found, and I play you a song." She chuckles.

"That was it."

"Well, the deal is done." Ellie picks up her guitar and rests it against the wall of the house. Facing you again, she asks, "So what now? Should we go have dinner?"

"Hm, nah. I have a better idea. Since you played for me so beautifully..." You push her back by the shoulders so that she's fully resting in against the bench. Swinging one leg over both of hers, you sit so that you're straddling her.

"Oh?" Ellie's surprised brow quirk last mere seconds, immediately replaced by intrigue and need as she grasps your waist. "Maybe I'll play for you more then."

"Please do." You take her face in your hands and rest your forehead against hers. "I mean it, Els. You're so good."

"Sure." Her eyes fall shut as she smiles to herself, her hands running up and down your back slowly, sending goosebumps along your skin. "Anything for you."

You smirk and then force Ellie's eyes to meet yours for a moment before crashing your lips together. Your fingers find their way into her hair as you try to get as close as you possibly can, wanting to feel all of her against you.

Ellie's own hands travel down to your demin-clad butt, giving each cheek a squeeze. You moan and gasp at the delicious feeling of her groping hands that cause a stirring in your stomach. Your mouth is slightly open as she palms you, and she uses the opportunity to slip her tongue into your mouth.

"El..." You sigh.

You kiss Ellie back with just as much - if not more enthusiasm, your body starting to heat up and writhe against her. You pull back from her lips, eyes flashing as you voice your eagerness via a husky, "Mm! You're so..."

"What?"

"Fuckin' hot. Just..." You slap your hands over hers on your ass and move them around, adding more pressure. "Keep doing that."

"Whatever you want." Ellie laughs, amused and a little smug, but it is cut off when you dive back in, kissing her again. You leave a few gentle nips on your path along her jaw to her neck, where you start working a bruise into her skin.

A little whimper escapes as Ellie's hands cease their fondling. You are about to protest when you feel her hands slide around to the front of your jeans. She pulls away enough to be able to nudge your cheek with her nose, grabbing your attention.

"Can I?" She asks, her eyes flicking down to where her fingertips are ghosting along the slither of exposed skin above your pants.

"Yeah... fuck, yes, do it."

Ellie smiles, and you expect to hear the familiar sound of your zippper being opened, but instead, an unfamilar voice dampens the passionate moment between you.

"Get a goddamn room! Fuckin' disgusting." The man yells.

Startled, your head snaps in the direction of the voice, finding it easily and frowning. You've never seen this man before. He's standing stockstill watching the both of you, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. He takes a pull of it and then blows out the smoke before continuing his abuse.

"You gotta be all gross right out here, make us watch."

"Hey." Ellie, knowing you all too well, grips your arms when you move to stand up. "Babe, don't. Just ignore the asshole."

"Fuck, no." You push her hands away and stand up, facing the guy. "What is this prick even doing here? Huh?"

"Listen, bitch, I came out for a smoke, not a fuckin' show."

"Dude." You shoot him a menacing smile. "You need to fuck the fuck off, and when you get there fuck off again."

The man spits on the ground and then heads off, muttering something inaudible under his breath.

"Okay, Els, don't go giving me any shit about ignoring fuckers like that. I didn't go over there and break his nose, so, I'd say I was pretty..." You slowly turn around and find Ellie sitting with her legs wide, a hungry look in her eyes. "...chill."

"I can't lie, that was hot." Ellie pats her legs and juts her chin. "God, I love you."

"Oh, yeah?" Your anger is completely forgotten. You saunter back over to your girlfriend, straddling her once more, and link your hands against the back of her neck. "Does me yelling at ignorant twats..." You press your groin into hers, forcing a little 'ah' from Ellie. "turn you on?" You finish.

"Hm, maybe." Ellie grips your hips and ruts up against you again and again. Your lips meet in a frenzy of teeth, tongues, and gentle nips, as once more, her fingertips brush your stomach and then fall to your zip. "Now, where were we before that rude interruption."

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#my writing #mine #millerswritings #millerswritings/millerstation #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams smut #(sort of)#tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tw homophobia

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robinsno1lesbian · 2 years ago

Note

older!nancy who is the mother of the reader’s best friend and after getting to know each other after the readers frequent visits to her house, they end up getting closer than you think 🙈

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒, 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒, 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐄 - 𝐍.𝐖.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when your best friends leaves to go to college, and you’re left behind in that little bookstore you run, you're surprised to see nancy wheeler there. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4487

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mature content! (MDNI), implied age gap (reader is 18+!!), mention of teen pregnancy, period typical homophobia, bottom!nancy wheeler & top!reader, vaginal fingering, oral, nancy is really inexperienced, scratching (?), first time with a woman on nancy's end, not proofread (let me know if i missed anything!)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: aaaah @cinnamoncunt i love your requests!!! i promise the professor!robin headcanons are on their way! anyway i didn't really get into the friendship between reader and nancy's daughter because this was written in a bit of a rush lmao- i hope you don't mind <3 (especially the ending. i might edit it later today-) also i kind of added some stuff to it because I'm currently reading "last night at the telegraph club" and i couldn't stop thinking about that book somehow lmao

the weather is keeping customers away, which leaves no one but you in the bookstore. it's your mother's, but she can't take care of it all by herself. this is why you stayed in hawkins, even years after graduating: to help her.

you know she can use all support she can get.

looking back at it now, you're thankful that you've stayed; running a bookshop is better than you had imagined. it gives you the perfect opportunity to ramble about your favorite hobby and you get to know the people in town better. you've even met your best friend in your store.

she's a couple of years younger than you and still there was something intimidating about her: she did not seem like the girl you would normally befriend. if anything, she seemed like the type of person who would've made fun of you back in highschool. turns out you were wrong.

she came around more often, buying a new book from you every time. eventually, you began talking more until her visits became annual hangouts in the store, which led to the two of you hanging out at your or her place at least three times a week.

and then she left to go to college.

of course you don't blame her for leaving, even though you admire her for doing so. you will probably always be here, in the small town of hawkins, stuck behind the window of your bookstore as the world goes on somewhere outside.

you flip to the next page of the book and shake away the thought of your best friend, who is somewhere at the other end of the country. maybe one day you will find the courage to leave too. you're about to start the next chapter, but the familiar noise of the bell at the entrance rings through the store. you get up from your spot between the shelves in the back to see who is crazy enough to leave their house to go book shopping with this kind of storm going on.

it catches you by surprise to see nancy wheeler in the doorway.

she's your best friend's mother and even though you never interacted much, you could never deny the fact that she is absolutely gorgeous. she had her daughter at a young age and raised her all by herself, that you do know. but she never talked about it much, and you didn't want to bother her with questions about this.

now nancy wheeler is standing right in front of you, water dripping down her soaked jacket.

"ms. wheeler" you greet, your voice thick with surprise that you try to oppress.

the brunette is wearing a wide coat and a light beige blouse underneath; one that's been entirely soaked by the rain and hides little from your eyes.

no, you remind yourself, no, no, no. stop that right now.

"y/n, hi" she smiles quickly. "i- uhm-" nancy glances through the store. she's never been here before, at least not that you can remember.

"i didn't have anything to do today so- with how much my daughter told me about this place, i thought why not go there myself"

you wonder if nancy ever gets lonely these days. the absence of your best friend has already settled heavily in your heart. you can't even imagine what it's like for a single mother who only ever had her daughter around.

"oh of course" you nod. "well...nancy-" her first name feels odd on your tongue but you try to go with it. "are you much of a reader?"

you could punch yourself right then and there. what kind of question is that? and why did you choose to focus on that, out of all things?

"oh" she raises her brows. "well...in the past months i didn't really have time to read that much but now- i think i'd like to read a bit more, yeah" she fumbles with the button of her coat. is she nervous? flustered? you wish you could tell. "okay" you nod. "well do you have any preferences? any genre you like?" "oh- uh- i didn't think about it that much" her cheeks flush a soft shade of red.

she's definitely nervous, that much you know now, but you can't seem to figure out why.

"you can look around a bit if you like" you offer. "I'm always here in case you have any questions"

she nods with a tight-lipped smile and steps toward one of the many rows of shelves but turns on her heel just before she can reach it.

"what do you read y/n?"

that question catches you off guard, especially since the erotic lesbian fiction novel is still hugged to your chest. you think of the shoebox that you have hidden underneath a loose floorboard in the back of the store. of all the books that are stacked up in there, each one of them carefully annotated and marked by your own hands.

books that could probably get you killed in this town.

now it's your turn to blush.

"ms. wheeler- uhm- nancy- i don't think you would like the books i read" you mutter. "oh but how would you know silly?" she chuckles before nodding her chin in the direction of your crossed arms. "what's that one about?"

"this? oh it's nothing i- i was just..sorting it in...back there" you look over your shoulder, to the corner where the floorboard is still laying around carelessly, leaving a gap in your floor. one that contains the filthiest lesbian books in all of hawkins. you send a quick prayer to whatever higher power there might be that nancy won't go there to check.

"well" she reaches out her hand. "i think i'm gonna take that as a sign" "nancy i don't think that's a good idea" you warn.

but she is determined, puts one hand to her side and furrows her brows. you cruse yourself for carrying it with you so mindlessly. "fine, I'll take the risk" the second you hand her the book, regret creeps through your body. this is the end, you think. she'll go straight to the police with that and they will probably raid your store for selling inappropriate content. or worse, they might even arrest you. you've heard of the things they do to people like you. all across the country. you gulp audibly as you watch nancy in horror. she turns it in her hands before reading the backside.

you know the words by heart and by the way her eyes scan the pages, she's about to get to the part that will make your whole world fall apart.

nancy does raise her brows, but the gesture doesn't seem to be one of disgust. she tilts her head slightly and looks up at you, the book still firmly in her hand. her cheeks are reddened in a way that you can't seem to figure out.

"oh- so that's why-" she gasps.

you avoid her gaze. every single nerve in your body seems to be on fire as you try to come up with an excuse, an explanation at least.

"look nancy- i'm sorry- i told you this wouldn't be what you-" she cuts you off and simply says; "i'll take it" "what?" you're taken aback by her answer. albeit you're still extremely flustered her reaction is something you least expected. nancy wheeler, however, just shrugs. "i'll take it" she repeats. "this seems...interesting" "how about that" you offer, knowing damn well this book isn't listed on the register of books you sell. "you can borrow it, and if- if you don't like it you can bring it back?" cold sweat is running down your spine. "deal" she nods.

you quickly check her out, give her a paper bag to carry the book and watch as she leaves.

"it was nice seeing you again y/n" she says and takes your hand in hers for what is supposed to be a shake. except that she doesn't let go immediately. her hand lingers in yours as your eyes meet.

you can't fall for nancy wheeler, you remind yourself. you can't.

⋆

the air has gotten colder over the past few days. a sign that autumn is right around the corner. in the darkness of the night, nancy wheeler can see the condensation of her exhales as she walks.

she's carrying a small paper bag with her, and her heart is racing in excitement. she has spent the last nights staying up late to read the book you have given her. nancy doesn't know what she expected but it hadn't been that. it hadn't been a strange kind of heat coiling in her lower abdomen, hadn't been the strange urge to press her thighs together at the words written on the page.

she has never read something like that before, but she somehow knows that she needs more of that.

she looks down at her feet, her heels clicking against the cold ground. she's wearing a dress that's way too cold for the weather and her coat hardly does anything to warm her at all. she pulls it tighter around herself as she heads in the direction of your store.

⋆ "ms. wheeler" you raise your brows. you were about to close when she shows up. "back already?"

if you're being honest, you didn't think you would ever see her again after she has taken your book with her. but there she is, standing in your doorway, and she is carrying said book with her, packed in the same bag still.

"call me nancy, please" she reminds you. is that nervosity in her voice?

"i- uhm" she steps further into the store and the door falls shut behind her.

"i read your book" now this does surprise you just as much as seeing her again. "my- my book?" "yeah" a smile flashes across her face. "well" you push yourself away from the countertop that you've been leaning against to cross your arms over your chest. "how did you like it?" there is an obvious shake in your voice. "you didn't mention that you read it too" she shoots back. "the annotations are yours, aren't they?" you inhale sharply. "what about it?" "i- i never read anything like this before" she mumbles in thought. "i didn't even- i mean- is it really like that?"

suddenly you understand; nancy must've spent all those years alone. you never heard anything of a boyfriend, let alone a husband in all these years that she spent raising her child. you wonder if she did anything at all in all this time. if she ever even had the chance to explore her sexuality any further.

you look out on the dark street nervously.

"come with me" you say and take the lead to walk her to the back of the store. you're hidden from the view of the street and have a place to sit.

"so" she says as she lowers herself onto the sofa that you have bought in an antique store years ago. "is what really like that?" nancy clears her throat. "being with...a woman" you sit down next to her. you don't miss the way your legs touch hers. the past days felt like torture; not just because you didn't see nancy, but also because you couldn't help yourself but think of her: her brown curls spread out on bed sheets while she's reading, her delicate fingers flipping through the pages. her beautiful back arched while your head is buried between her thighs... "y/n?" her voice snaps you back to reality. "tell me" "yeah" you breathe softly and nod. you're aware of the indirect confession you've made. but somehow you don't think that nancy will judge you. or at least you hope she won't.

"have you- have you been with many women before?" maybe you're imagining it but it seems as if she's leaning in closer and closer as the seconds pass by. "i- uh- no" you shake your head. it's hawkins in the 80s after all. when your eyes glare back at hers, she has definitely gotten closer, her face lingering just inches away from yours. "show me" she murmurs and you can feel her hot breath against your skin. for a second, you just stare at her; her eyes dark while she holds your gaze. nancy's head is tilted sideways just the slightest and if you were to lean forward now you could just... the woman in front seems to draw you in magnetically. and the closer she gets, the more your doubts start to vanish.

until you are so close that you can feel her open mouth on yours and you share a breath. your hands sneak behind her body, and grab her by the back while her fingers curl up in your hair. "nancy" you mumble with your eyes falling shut. "we- we shouldn't" she opens her eyes and nods. "i know"

and then her mouth is on yours. you can taste the sweetness of her chapstick and inhale the expensive scent of her floral perfume. nancy wheeler is filling all of your senses until all you know is the sound of her voice, the smell of her body, and the shape of each letter that makes her name. her lips move in sync with yours, and she only leans back occasionally to get some air. this kiss is so different from anything else you've ever known. her lips are somehow softer, her movements slower. it's like you've never wanted anyone or anything as badly as her. when she parts her lips you gladly slip your tongue into her mouth. you hum satisfied when she gasps at the new sensation. it might've been years since she's been kissed for the last time so you make sure to give it your all. your hands roam her sides and dance over her ribcage while she pushes her body more into yours. eventually, you give in and grip her by the hips. she yelps as you lift her up and sit her down on top of you, her legs straddling your hips. she puts her hands on your cheeks and caresses your skin softly.

"is it always like this?" nancy whispers. her voice is shakier than usual. "no" you chuckle and bite your lip. "no, it's never been like that before"

"i want you" she admits, carefully watching your face for any reactions. "i want you the way they had each other in your book. i want you to show me"

your mouth falls open slightly and you nearly choke on a moan. her words are clearly enough to drive you mad.

"are you sure?" nancy nods firmly. "i had time to think about it. i- i couldn't stop thinking about you" "yeah?" "yeah" you close your eyes and take in the weight of her words. does she really know what she's asking for? is there a way for this to be right? nancy's hand sneaks its way under your chin and she lifts your gaze upon her. "please" she mouthes. "it's been so long y/n...i need you. please" a sense of desperation is written all over your face. it's the knowledge that you can satisfy this desperation that gives you the courage to continue.

"undress me" she rasps, her own fingers already pushing the first button through its hole. but you push away her hands and make quick work of pushing her coat to the floor and unbuttoning the front of her dress.

she's wearing a light, lacy bra beneath. it hardly covers anything, just a thin layer of fabric over the soft skin of her breasts.

you run your fingers over her chest and lean in to pepper open-mouthed kisses over her jaw, all the way down to her neck. she shivers when your fingers crawl up her back to unclasp her bra. "is that okay?" her head has fallen back, exposing her neck to you, and her eyes are closed. her chest is rising and falling rapidly and she's breathing through her open mouth.

"please" you do as you're told and the item lands on the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

"nancy" you hum. "you're so beautiful...so beautiful" delight and pride wash over you when you see a soft blush creeping up her chest. "am i?" she sounds genuinely surprised by your praise.

"of course you are" you lock eyes with her when you lean in and wrap your lips around her nipple softly. "y/n what are you- oh" her eyes roll back and she moans. "you're absolutely gorgeous" you whisper in between kisses to her bare breasts. the feeling sends waves of heat between your legs.

nancy's hands cage you in when she pushes your face further against her. "oh god" she bites her lip. "that- that feels so good" you don't even have to open your eyes to push the opened dress down her body. it pools on your lap leaving her completely topless. "you like this?" she nods enthusiastically. you take note of the way she grounds herself down on your lap involuntarily the more you suck on her breasts, alternating between her tits. "what do you want?" she furrows her brows and shakes her head. "i- i don't know, i- you-" that is when you remember that she probably never had anyone with the ability to make her feel good. especially not another woman. "it's okay, it's okay" you assure. "i'll show you, okay?" nancy nods her head so hard that her curls bounce around her face. "okay" you smile softly. "get up and take of your dress" she does as she's told, which leaves her in nothing but a matching pair of lacy panties. you're still sitting in front of her and wrap your arms around her lower abdomen to pull her close to you. you press soft kisses to her lower belly until you're satisfied with the goosebumps that have risen beneath your lips. instead of lowering your lips even further, you tap your thighs and gesture for nancy to sit back on your lap. her eyes are glowing with excitement and lust while she wraps her legs around your hips. you can feel the heat that's radiating from her through your jeans and it takes all your strength not to touch yourself right then and there. you crane your head back and nancy's lips are on yours immediately. her palms hold your face as she kisses you hungrily. you gladly let her kiss you the way she wants to until your lips are puffy and sore. "i think- i always thought you were so pretty" she admits. "i just never thought this was possible" "oh we're just getting started" nancy watches you with curious eyes when your fingertips run down her bare spine. "but keep talking" you encourage her. "i wanna hear everything" "i- god-" her hips rock forward again and you grin. "i- i thought of you while i read...of your pretty face and...your hands on me" "my hands?" you raise your brows and, to test your theory, let your index finger slide between her thighs. to your own surprise, you can feel the wet patch of her arousal even through her panties. your index grazes over where her entrance is up to her clit. you hook your finger over the little bud of nerves and nancy gasps loudly.

"like that?" "yeah" her voice is raspier than you've ever heard. "more of that please" you know you could tease her for hours but you choose not to. her wetness is enough to tell you how badly nancy needs this. you press one hand to her hips while you use the other to move her panties aside and gather her arousal on your fingertips. "fuck you're so wet nancy" "fuck" she whimpers her first curse of the night. "more" you're not sure nancy actually knows what she's begging for but you know that you will give it to her. show her. you circle her clit a couple of times and take in the way her legs shake around you. "can i?" you whisper as you move your digits down to her throbbing entrance. nancy wraps her hands around your back and her nails dig into your flesh. her lips are right next to your ear and her sinful whimper of "please" burns itself into your memory forever. it's nothing, whatsoever, to the long and high-pitched moan that leaves her mouth when you slowly push two of your fingers into her. you move them inside her until the first knuckle, giving her time to adjust to the fullness. "y/n" she cries out. her nails scratch down your ribs. nancy's hips ground themselves down on your fingers, taking them all the way in so the base of your knuckles meets her cunt. you carefully watch the way her face tightens in concentration and pleasure. her eyes are still closed but her mouth has fallen agape again.

you stroke her neck and whisper sweet praise into her ear. "just like that nancy. you take me so well..." after a while you pull out her her slowly but she doesn't give you a chance; her hips chase your fingers and she whines desperately. "no please...feels so good" you hush her. "i won't stop, look at me nance" her eyes meet yours and she lets you pull out your fingers until you only have your fingertips inside of her. then, without your eyes ever leaving herm you thrust into her again and she nearly screams. "shhh" you try to soothe her and stroke her hair out of her. "is- is that it?" nancy asks. you can't help yourself but chuckle. "oh no, that's not it yet"

with that you start pumping into her at a quicker pace, the heel of your hand hits her clit and she rocks her hips in the same rhythm of your thrusts.

the sensation of her slick running down her thighs has a wicked idea occurring in your head. you curl your fingers up at a particularly deep thrust and nancy's eyes roll back. "oh my god, there, right there" she babbles. you slowly withdraw yourself from her, leaving her entirely empty this time. "no" nancy whines helplessly. "no don't stop" but you hold onto her and flip both of you over so that she's laying on her back. you kiss down her torso and her eyes widen when she realizes what you're up to. when your kisses reach the hemline of her panties, you hook your fingers underneath them and, with one final nod of nancy, you pull them down her long legs and she kicks them off.

she is beautiful and glistening in the dim lights of the room. you run a finger through her and her body whole shudders. nancy spreads her legs wider for you, giving you the chance to see all of her. oh and you do; gladly taking in every inch of her body. she smiles and stretches arms above her head, making her own back arch off of the sofa. you place a palm on her belly and move it down slowly, feeling soft skin passing by beneath you. finally, your gaze falls upon her needy cunt. the sight of it is enough to make your own pussy throb in your pants. her clit is practically aching for you and who are you to deny her that? you look her in the eyes and lean down, placing your first kiss on her clit. nancy's mouth opens wider and pleasure is written all over her face. without further undo, you dart your tongue out and lick a stripe from her entrance up to her clit. her taste has you moaning for the first time of the night. "fuck you taste so good pretty girl" you mumble with a mouth full of pussy. "that's- that's disgusting" nancy stammers but you can tell by the sound of her voice that she's enjoying this. she's just struggling to find the right words. "no one's ever gone down on you?" you ask and lean back. it doesn't surprise you when nancy's hips buck up and go after your mouth. she shakes her head in the pillows, her fingers gripping the soft, velvet of the sofa right next to you. "n- no- feels so different-" she slurs. "more"

"thought so" you grin and get back to lapping at her cunt. at the same time, you bring down your thumb and rub circles on her clit. her hands find a hold in your hair and she pulls your closer, guiding your tongue to where she needs you the most. but you let her, regardless of the stinging pain in your skull at very hard pulls. "does that feel good?" "y-yeah" she moans. "spread your legs a little wider for me baby" you put a palm on her inner thigh. "and I'll make this even better"

once she has done so, you bring your fingers back to her entrance and focus your tongue on her clit. you lick into her once more before pushing your fingers back in and coaxing another loud moan out of her. you set a faster pace than before but she takes it all, just moaning and whining for more the entire time. your hips move at their own accord, trying to gain some friction from the crotch of your jeans. "it's too much y/n" she yelps. "i feel- feel like- i don't know i-" "it's okay" you look up at her for a second, never stopping your fingers from thrusting into her. obscene squelching noises fill the entire room. "just let go" and then your head is back between her legs and nancy does as you tell her. "fuck, fuck, fuck" she cries out and her walls flutter around your fingers. "fuck y/n-" and then she cums.

you add a third finger just when her orgasm starts washing over her. her back lifts off the sofa and she lets out a beautiful cry of pleasure. you can even see a tear running out of the side of her eye. her cum coats your chin and the sofa below you but you will take care of that later.

for now, you're too focused on licking up as much of her arousal as you can get while she comes down from her height.

you sit back on your knees once you've cleaned her up with her tongue and watch her with loving eyes. she's so beautiful like this. her chest still rises and falls rapidly and the aftershocks of her orgasm make her legs shake but there's a wide smile on her lips. nancy's eyes are still closed when she speaks up again. "i've never felt this good" she admits.

#nancy wheeler #nancy wheeler x reader #nancy wheeler x fem!reader #nancy wheeler x female reader #nancy wheeler x y/n #nancy wheeler x you #nancy wheeler imagine #nancy wheeler smut #nancy wheeler fanfic #nancy wheeler x jonathan byers #older!nancy wheeler x reader #stranger things #stranger things x female reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader

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alice-after-dark · 8 months ago

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So...the falling out (ft. why Vox is in Hell)

(Getting this out of the way, I have VERY mixed feelings about Valentino. On one hand, he is a great character. On the other had, he is an absolutely horrible person and I just can't bring myself to like him the way I love Vox and Velvette. I am very interested in seeing what the show does with him and how he is handled, considering the concept is all about redemption and the dude has done some pretty heinous shit)

But ultimately this post is about Alastor and Vox and their falling out and what - or rather who - caused it.

TW for implied sexual abuse, abusive relationships, gaslighting, manipulation, and other canon-typical triggers. Also gonna put homophobia with the disclaimer that Alastor doesn't actually mean it that way, but that's how Vox hears it. Perceived homophobia is more accurate. This also technically contains StaticMoth but I'm not tagging it because it's not exactly in favor of the relationship and I don't want to dump it into the tag of people who enjoy the ship.

See, while Alastor may be a serial killer, we see that he has his own twisted moral compass, so someone like Valentino rubs him in all the wrong ways. He greatly dislikes the moth and detests the idea of any association with him.

Vox on the other hand, well, scumbags are a dime a dozen in his industry. From his perspective, it's just something that comes with the territory, a necessary evil. You want to succeed in this industry? You put up with some nasty behavior. So when he sees Valentino rising to power and creating his own empire, he only sees the business potential. His industry has already well trained him to turn a blind eye to things like Valentino's unsavory nature for the sake of progress and his own success. How he feels about things on a personal level doesn't matter. The industry doesn't care about your sensitive little morals (will probably expand on this further in a different post, but I do believe that Vox learned the hard way that no one cares and you have to do what you have to do to get ahead).

So when Vox initially proposes an official partnership, Alastor is actually down...until he learns Valentino will be a part of the package. This leads to them arguing, Alastor basically telling Vox he has to choose between them, the first time Alastor calls Vox a "pathetic sell out," and the Radio Demon flat out accusing him of whoring himself out to Valentino for a business deal (this one particularly hurts because, again, the idea of sleeping with someone to get a better deal is just par the course for Vox. He's learned to push down those feeling of self-disgust and now here Alastor is dragging them out into the spotlight and shaming him for it). Alastor utterly refuses to be associated with Valentino and is disgusted that Vox would even entertain the thought and this ultimately ends with a fight and them parting ways, both feeling self-righteous, betrayed, and offended by the other.

And Valentino, having witnessed the entire thing and ever one to take advantage of a situation, gets his claws deep into a VERY insecure and hurt Vox by just reinforcing that Alastor never cared about him and was just using him for entertainment.

"But don't worry, Voxxy. I care about you..."

And now Vox, who has spent his entire human life hiding that his attraction extended to men as well as women and is desperately looking for comfort after losing someone he allowed himself to care very deeply about, falls right into the moth's trap, ironically getting himself into one of those situations he always turned a blind eye to (it is Hell after all and what is Hell without ironic suffering?).

Meanwhile Alastor has lost one of the few demons he viewed as a true ally and friend and to make it sting all the more he lost them to someone like Valentino. The very idea that Vox picked a disgusting creature like Valentino over him is crushing. He feels used, discarded, and worthless (which is a state ripe for some bad deal making, wouldn't you say?).

Tis all for now. Would love to hear people's thoughts on this!

#radiostatic #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel #hazbin headcanons #valentino hazbin hotel

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thewhumpcaretaker · 1 month ago

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No because if Chad Stahelski doesn't drop the Impossible Task, I will write it myself and it'll be WickedSaint. I even have ideas, so Chad... gimme, but I'll still write my version bc yes. I need desperate Santino, I just need Santino feeling proud bc John Wick asked HIM for help (crush asked him out, date idea was killing ppl <3). Imagine, Santino was trying to prove himself to his father, who always had higher expectations, and apparently nothing was good enough, but then JOHN WICK THE BOOGEYMAN asked specifically Santino for help. His father must be rolling in his grave but fuck him, Santino was suffering. And the trust between Santino and John, you could see in the movie how much they trusted each other (until that trust got unfortunately broken). So something definitely happened, John doesn't just trust people. Yes, the marker and all that but still there was some level of respect. (And kissing).

I yapped a lot but I wanted to hear your thoughts on the Impossible Task AHAH

Soooooo I learned a little bit about how to write a film treatment (a kind of outline written before the script) and I went ahead and wrote one for The Impossible Task! I tried to make this completely canon-compliant and something that Chad Stahelski could actually make without breaking his franchise (even if he won't T_T). So, it's short and action-packed, and isn't exactly how I'd like to think things happened, but it fits better with the John Wick movies somewhat than what I usually write for wickedsaint. I have a lot of conflicted feelings about it, especially with how it compares Helen and Santino, but I did my best. This was fun to make!!

P.S. it also relies on some of the plot points from @mrssimply's story, because I'm not that good at coming up with what the impossible task was actually all about. I think she wrote that it was about killing all the crime lords in the area at once, and I reused that idea.

♥♥ The Impossible Task ♥♥

Log Line: John Wick asks his former lover to help him one last time in escaping the business, resulting in a nostalgic, heartbreaking postmortem on their doomed love affair.

TW: canon-typical violence, alcohol, homophobia from Santino's father, what could be interpreted as suicidal ideation from Santino but it's not overt

We open on a dreamy sequence, similar to the opening of John Wick Chapter One. It's cutting between a young John Wick in the Tarkovsky Theater, reading The Little Mermaid (the sad, Hans Christian Anderson version), and a young Santino reading the same book. Santino is dressed in all black, and so is John. Eventually we see that Santino is hiding from everyone at his mother's funeral. He is called away from his book to talk to important people. He refuses, but is dragged offscreen anyway. John is also called away, by The Director, who is scolding him that he should be practicing. He quickly hides the book and runs offscreen too. But we see both boys look back towards the places where the two books are hidden.

We cut to some five years before the events of the John Wick movies. We see John raise his head from under bloody bathwater. Helen is bathing him. She begs him to quit his work and come to her world. He agrees, and kisses her.

Next, we see John coming to Viggo, requesting to leave. He’s “dressed for a resignation.” Viggo thinks, and says that in return, he must kill every other crime lord in the New York tristate area. John protests that it would have to be done all at once, or they would warn each other and flee. Viggo shrugs and says that is the impossible task.

Realizing he can’t do this alone, John sneaks into the D’Antonio estate in Rome. It’s a reversal of the similar scene from John Wick 2. Gianna sees him and tells him that he shouldn’t be here, and to stay away from her little brother before he gets them both killed. John protests that it would be his own funeral, not Santino’s. Gianna says he knows better, implying how violent Giovanni (Santino's father) is, but Santino walks in at that moment.

John and Santino talk, with John explaining that he needs someone who the New York crime lords trust to gather them all in one place. It’s tense. We get the sense that Santino dumped John at some point, but we don’t know why. John doesn’t seem to know why either. John says that he remembers what Santino told him, to come back if he ever seriously needed help. Now he does. He wants Santino to gather everyone in one place, which he is trusted enough to do. Santino asks for his oath in blood.

The next thing we see is the two of them exchanging the marker back in New York, with Winston as their witness. The scene is intercut with flashbacks to a sex scene in a Continental hotel room (it’s fairly PG, but there are some very intense kisses and Santino begging and moaning). Santino’s dirty talk includes asking John to swear that he’ll always serve him when he’s needed. John swears, with “the devil” as his witness. Back in the present day, the two of them conclude the marker ceremony and return to their respective hotel rooms alone.

The two of them suit up for the day. It’s a classic “John Wick getting dressed” scene, except that we’re seeing the same thing for Santino as well. In addition to getting suited up, John buys weapons, including bombs, while Santino starts making phone calls inviting everyone to a boat party that will take place on the New York bay that night. We can see that the plan is to place bombs on the boat, and that Santino will not be onboard once the bombs detonate. He will leave via life raft. We also see that Santino can’t persuad everyone - John has two people to kill who declined the invitation. So he won’t be around while the boat party is happening.

While John is planting the bombs on the boat an hour or two later, we see that Helen is watching from a car nearby, with a medical kit in the vehicle. She is tailing John, presumably to protect him. She looks scared but determined. He doesn’t see her. Meanwhile, Santino shows up at the boat. John scolds him for being there - it’s important that it look like Santino had no involvement in the plot and that this is risky. But Santino just jokes around and hovers over John, seemingly wanting to take this last chance to be close to him. He says he is coming with John on the first kill, “for old time’s sake,” and he’s not bringing his bodyguards. John will be his bodyguard for now. There will be plenty of time to get back to the boat, he says. John reluctantly agrees. He looks painfully nostalgic - we can see that he misses Santino on some level. Finally, we see Helen watching them together, but we don’t see her face. Is she jealous, or no?

They attack the first target early in the day, around noon. The target works in a high end fashion design business as a front, and the store is full of wedding dresses (yes, we’re going full camp.) Things get complicated when the target’s guards get involved, chasing them throughout the building. John takes a lot of trouble to ensure that Santino’s suit is not damaged for the party later. There are lots of antics with the wedding dresses - white dresses covered in blood, white heels used as weapons, etc. Santino is getting increasingly manic throughout all of this as he contemplates John getting married to someone else and eventually ends up with a wedding veil over his head somehow, trying to joke about a situation that hurts him deeply. The fight scene ends. They’re both severely wounded but John has managed not to get much blood on Santino.

Helen comes in and reveals herself to give John medical supplies. John is very upset that she’s there, as he says it’s too risky. Santino seems to take this personally - it’s too dangerous for Helen, but it’s fine if he risks himself? Of course, that’s different because he has training with weapons and she doesn’t, but it doesn’t feel that way for him at the moment. Also, he and Helen are in the same room and it’s awkward. It’s clear that Santino feels threatened and insecure but Helen does not. She thanks Santino for helping to set her future husband free. Santino looks miserable and says something snappy. John gets mad at him - no one treats Helen like that. And it was Santino’s choice to give up on their love. Pretty rich of him to be jealous now. Frustrated, Santino leaves to get back to the boat. There’s not much time left.

John heads to the second target. He doesn’t bother to send Helen away this time - she’s coming no matter what, and it will be better if he can keep an eye on her. They double-team the second fight, which takes place in a butcher shop. Helen stays at a distance but she’s still very helpful. We see the contrast between John and Santino fighting together versus John and Helen fighting together. In both cases, John is protecting the other person and it’s distracting. But in Helen’s case, she seems to be protecting John in return. Instead of egging him on, she tries to minimize collateral damage. She brings an element of innocence to what’s happening and even apologizes to him that he had to do that. To Santino, John’s killing is a beautiful thing, a marriage of their skills as crime lord and assassin. To Helen, it’s butchering, it’s carnage, and she wants to save him. They are both drenched in blood at the end and he kisses her and thanks her for taking him away from all of this. She says she’s sorry his ex still has to be caught in that world. John says regretfully that it’s what he chose.

Then, John gets a call from Gianna. She says she did something stupid: she told Giovanni that Santino is planning something with him. Giovanni is being rash. He has sent people to kill Santino. John and Helen get back in the car and start rushing to the boat to protect him.

Santino gets back to the boat. He looks nervous as hell while greeting the other guests. He’s shaking, etc., but he’s doing his best to hide it. He has already started drinking before the other guests arrived. He’s ignoring his messages from John. We see a suspicious looking group of people board the boat just before it can launch.

John kisses Helen goodbye and leaves her on the shore - he insists she can’t come this time because the whole boat is rigged to blow up and anyway, he’ll be right back. Helen tells him to live for her, and that he can’t die with the old world. He has a new world in front of him. John steals a speedboat and chases the party boat out into the bay.

With the boat out at the center of the bay and detonation coming soon, Santino prepares to board the life raft. But the people sent by Giovanni corner him and prevent him from leaving. (They don't know about the bombs on the boat or exactly what Santino is planning.) It’s interspersed with flashbacks in which we see Santino being beaten by Giovanni after his relationship with John was discovered. This is the first time the audience knows for sure that that’s why he left John.

John climbs up the side of the boat and starts killing, just killing everyone. He ends up killing everyone who would have died to the bomb anyway as he tries to get to Santino. There are boat related fight scene antics (there’s a seafood table and he stabs someone with a crab claw, etc.). Eventually John reaches Santino, but he is so distraught that he refuses to go to the life raft.

There are only seconds left until detonation. John throws Santino overboard and drags him to shore while the boat explodes. Onshore, Santino breaks down. John tries to cheer him up, referencing The Little Mermaid rescuing the prince, and saying he will always save his prince, even if they’re from different worlds now. Santino says that he wanted to be John’s prince but he’s always been the monster, the sea witch, and whether he grants John access to a better life or not, his own life is damned. He tells John the truth about why he left him - to protect him from Giovanni. John cries with him, mourning their relationship and the way that the High Table tore them apart. He says that the real Impossible Task is to walk away from Santino after knowing all of this. He asks Santino to leave, and find love in the ordinary world. To find his “soul” (another little mermaid reference). He says he wants Santino to have a good life like he has with Helen. Santino says he can’t. He will wait for John to come back to HIS world instead. John walks away with Helen while the sun sets.

#wickedsaint #john x santino #john wick x santino d'antonio #john wick film treatment #the impossible task

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ccrisntok · 1 year ago

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Heathers au part 2 💀

Okay, off the bat, this one is worse. this post is much sadder than the first one.

TW// Blood, Death, Corpses, Suicidal thoughts/actions, Guns, Homophobia, Violence, Eating Disorders (Again, basically anything that happens in Heathers: The Musical.)

Also, spoilers for Heathers, and DRDT!!!

As I said, this post is a bit more serious than the first one. You need to read the first part to really understand this one btw. sorry. I'm too lazy to explain things again hdafkjlds

This post will have the sad parts of the au, since it's basically a story run-down, but imma still try and keep it a little silly at least.

But there will be a part 3, since I literally can't post all of the images (I have over 30.) And part three will be a lot more light-hearted (just fun doodles, and some cut images from this post), so if this ones too intense, just wait for that one <3 or. dont. thats cool too. Btw I'm gonna re-use a few drawings from the last post for story progression <3

Again, credit to @another-danganronpa-fan for the original au concept!

(First off, a better rendition of the Heathers + Xander. I didn't make any other full body refs because I got lazy. Anyway, I wanted to talk about these guys a lil more in this post. Character relationships and whatever.)

I feel like the Heathers as a unit all fucking hate each other. David guilt trips Arei into staying and threatens to reveal that shes queer if she argues with him, Arei makes fun of him for having severe mental health issues, and Arturo belittles both Arei and David, constantly commenting on their appearances, which he considers "Barely acceptable", basically its a cesspool of toxicity.

Xander, your average, emotional totally not British boy, doesn't really see any of this and thinks the Heathers have it so easy, and even idolizes them a little, especially David. Or rather, whatever persona David gives off to others.

This leads to him being recruited, in combo with his forgery skills, and his British accent. Cuz, yk, British accents are hot to some people.

So Xandy gets to be an honorary Heather. This is fine for like, 5 minutes before he is immediately asked to humiliate the shit out of Eden, which he does, begrudgingly. He does this by forging a note to Eden from her crush, Arei, inviting her to a party Ace was hosting that night. Arei doesn't know about this plan until it happens.

at some point between this and the party, Xander sees Teruko beat the ever-loving shit out of Levi and Ace, and he's like "oh wow 😳", which is the first time he ever notices her.

As the party starts, Xander starts getting drunk as hell, and during so, makes some kind of jab at Ace in relation to his ED (I couldn't really find a way to incorporate Heather Duke's bulimia into David, so, sorry Ace.) This leads to Ace fucking hating him with a passion.

this does not end well btw

Xander parties rlly hard, and that ends up escalating to him accidentally publically outing Eden at the party (while wasted & high), which leads to Eden being humiliated by the partygoers. Arei, who does actually like Eden as well, obviously doesn't out herself and helps in Eden's humiliation for the sake of self-preservation.

Eden's like "wha" bc she still thinks the note was real, and is super confused and hurt by Arei's reaction.

I don't believe the two would be childhood friends, like cannon Heathers, I feel like they would just. Like each other. Steal glances occasionally, wave, and smile. Stuff like that from someone like Arei would mean something, at least to Eden. And seeing what she thought was so clear shatter would hurt her a lot.

After this, Xander fucks off because him and the Heathers get in a huge fight, and he finds Teruko like. In the bathroom or something hiding from the party. I didn't really want to make him break into her house so. I didn't :) they uh. hold hands or something, and then they fall in love wooooahhhh whoda guessed

So Xander vents about his imminent death bc Art's mad at him, and Terukos like, "yeah... lets go apologize....." (she does not want to apologize). so they pull up and Xander's like "I'm sowwy Art i wont do it again" or something and then uh.

(why is the family guy death pose so hard to draw) Art drinks some Kool-aid or something that Teruko mixed with drain cleaner and dies.

Xanders like, "NOOOO WAHT THE FUCK" and Teruko, who obviously wanted him to die, is like "oh. we need to cover this up as a suicide". They do just that, and in the wake of his death, Arturo is seen as even more of an icon than he was in life, since the fake note portrayed him as an actually kind, tortured soul.

Arturo's ghost haunts Xander from this point on, basically just calling him stupid the whole time.

so after this, David and Arei are like, "Aye uh. Art's dead. You wanna hang out in the woods with us and Levi and Ace?" And Xander, desperately trying to not seem suspicious, says yes. Arei didn't really want to do this, but David forced her, and brought tons of alcohol with the intention of getting Levi and Ace drunk so they would fight and it'd be funny. He hasn't taken up Art's spot yet, so he's still kinda chill.

they. do fight, and Xander's kinda like "oop", but David's hoping it gets violent, for funnies.

it gets kinda personal..

Then it gets REALLY personal 💀

And Levi ends up beating the shit out of Ace.

Now, not unlike canon, I don't know what circumstances got Levi disowned by his parents. I feel like in this au, he probably moved in with Ace and his folks, which would give him another reason to put up with Ace's shit. Out of literal necessity. And like, they are probably friends to an extent.

Anyway, after this, rumors spread that Xander was actually the one who beat the fuck out of Ace, unprovoked. Since Ace is like 3'2 or some shit, people think Xander just beat him up bc he was an easy target without Levi around or something.

This happens because of a combo of Ace not really remembering what happened, his spite towards Xander, Levi lying about it, and David agreeing with the story (again, for his own amusement.) Arei doesn't really care enough to speak out, and Xander's reputation goes from already dead, to decomposed.

He vents to Teruko about this, cuz that went soo well last time, who makes up a plan. She tells him to tell Ace and Levi that he really wanted to fight them, and she would bring a "fake" gun to scare them with. (btw shirtless levi just to warn you) (and a dead body. and blood.) (prob shoulda put those first)

This goes about how you would expect (can you tell I gave a bit more of a shit about these guy's deaths than I did Art's....sorry homie). Instead of doing what Kurt cannonically does (hauling ass in the opposite direction), Levi actually tries to help Ace, with no luck.

I made a longer version of this but Im trynna stay in the image limit so. Anyway, Teruko is like "look what you diiidd Levi he trusted what you said and now he's dead! Ok bye" and then shoots Levi too.

Xander is losing his fucking mind, and really upset, obviously. But Teruko is like "I did it because I love you...." and manipulates him into really believing they did somewhat the right thing, because Ace and Levi were bullies, and ruining ppls lives.

They frame Levi and Ace's deaths as a double suicide. Teruko convinces Xander to portray Levi and Ace as gay lovers who, "killed themselves to escape an unaccepting world", since they contributed to Eden's harassment over her sexuality.

This leads to Ms. Hu publicly speaking up in support of queerness, which leads to the harassment following Eden, and the fear holding Arei back to subside a little, as the student body is moved by Levi and Ace's super real emotional romance.

Ace and Levi's ghosts join Arturo in haunting Xandy, and Xander regrets like. Every choice he's ever made.

Xander and Teruko's relationship is kinda deteriorating, and David decides to take officially take the mantle in the aftermath of Arturo, Levi, and Ace's deaths.

He gets kinda goofy, and starts harassing Arei more severely. This takes a head at an assembly Ms. Hu throws for teenage mental health, where she encourages the kids to vent their frustrations and grievances, which would "set them free."

Arei finally takes the opportunity, and confesses about her turbulent home life, David and Arturo's harassment, and that she struggles with suicidal thoughts. David takes this as a personal attack on his reputation since she mentioned him, and berates her, until she decides to try and end her own life in the school bathroom.

Xander stops her, and tells David to fuck off.

This ends with Arei and Xander becoming better friends, and they start to bond over their shared care for Eden. This reminds Xander how bad he fucked up with his best friend, and reminds Arei that she really does care a lot about Eden, even if she wishes she didn't.

Speaking of Eden, after everything that had happened, the deaths, the harassment, and what she thinks is the loss of the two most important people in her life (Xander and Arei), she also decides to take her own life, Ace and Levi's suicides nailing it into her head that she didn't belong. She wanted to escape to a world that wouldn't judge her, like Martha, and death was the only way she felt she could do that.

She jumps off of a bridge, but ends up surviving.

Xander, obviously fucking horrified, rushes to her side. After seeing how hurt she was, he kinda realizes how serious death is.

He killed people, all because Teruko felt they needed to. He realizes his relationship is toxic (only took a kill count of 3), and decides he can't do it anymore.

He ends things with Teruko, and goes home. He figures this is the end of it, but the ghosts haunting him tell him that Teruko was coming back, and she was mad. Oh no!

After Teruko breaks into his house, Xander locks himself in his closet and listens to her mad ramblings.

She says she's going to bomb the school, killing everyone inside, and she wants to do it with him. The whole school was basically in the building for a pep-rally, and she wanted to frame it as a school-wide suicide pact, with a signed "suicide note", a fake petition she'd passed around the school during the mental health assembly.

Xander, out of options, ties himself to the ceiling and pretends as if he has hung himself, which he hopes will stop Teruko's rampage.

Instead, Teruko decides even if Xander was dead, she was going to kill everyone anyway.

After Teruko leaves, Xander chases after her, grabbing a kitchen knife as protection, with the intention of killing Teruko, and probably himself, for the sake of the school.

After realizing Xander is alive, Teruko doesn't stop her plan. She's even more dedicated to it, and Xander is dedicated to stopping her.

The two physically fight for the bomb, and in the scuffle, Xander ends up stabbing Teruko in the stomach. He takes the bomb, and begins to leave with it, with the intention of using his body as a shield so that the school wouldn't be damaged if he ran out of time.

Teruko stops him, and in one more act of weird, toxic, love takes the bomb from him, and says she will blow up herself, and only herself.

Xander lets her take the bomb, and Teruko walks out to the front of the school. Xander watches as she lets it go off, killing her instantly, and tells her to say hello to God, having faith that maybe her death could grant her forgiveness, if there was a higher power out there to forgive her at all.

........

annnnndddddd I'll draw the aftermath in part three!

Holy fucking shit, I HAVE BEEN TYPING THIS UP FOR LIKE 5 HOURSS AAHH

I'm proud of it, though! There are quite a few images I had to cut, since Tumblr has an image limit and I made way too much, but that's what part three is for, in combo with a little of the aftermath! I just didn't want to split up the story into two parts, since I wanted it to flow well. I hope I managed to do just that.

Hope you enjoyed this fucking roller coaster, and I hope to see you back again for the DRDT Heathers finale! Which... wont be that epic, or anything, but hopefully fun!

#drdt fanart #drdt #drdt spoilers #ace markey #eden tobisa #xander matthews #teruko tawaki #arturo giles #arei nageishi #david cheim #levi fontana #hu jing #tw blood #tw death #tw violence #tw murder #tw ed #idk what xander and teruko's ship name is dkfasf #heathers the musical

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wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart · 1 year ago

Text

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

(can be read as a standalone)

STEVE LOOKS AT HIS BIG EMPTY HOUSE AND THINKS FUCK IT

(ft. a heartbreaking realization followed bi gay panic and way more Eddie than initially intended. Also: Steve becomes a dad)

cw: drinking, mention of drugs, mentions of homophobia, Steve going through it once again

cool and correct steve playlist

Bullshit.

Steve is good at being alone.

He is even better at pretending that he isn't lonely. That being lonely and being alone is the same thing. Because not being alone is easy. He can do something against that. Throw a party. Fill his house with people until he can barely take a step without stumbling into someone. Say stupid shit in class so that everyone has no choice but to be aware of him. Study with Nancy even if the material refuses to get into his head no matter how often he reads over it and he just feels so fucking stupid. Drive the kids around even if their screaming gives him a headache (his mother said that headaches have always been in the family anyways).

Your love is bullshit.

In fact, he got so good at this over the years, that he almost started to believe it himself.

And isn't it funny how, as soon as he can't run away from the truth anymore, cannot deny that he is so fucking lonely that it hurts and that he has never not been, that he tries again and again but it never works and the problem must be with him, right? Even Nancy has Jonathan, and all Steve has is bullshit - as soon as he admits to himself that he is fucking lonely, he wants to be alone.

It isn't fair, because parties were always his escape. Music that is loud enough to drown out his pathetic heartbeat, longing and screaming for another one with every pump. Enough alcohol for him to lose count of how many days, weeks, months it has been since he last saw his parents. Enough bodies rubbing against one another that it starts to get hard to tell where one ends and the next begins.

And it is in a party that Nancy Wheeler breaks his heart. She takes that pathetic trembling little thing, with so much to give but nowhere, no one to give it to. She takes this wretched beating monstrosity and smashes it in her fists. Digs her nails into it and squeezes until he can't breathe. Grabs each end and opens it, rips it apart until he can't hide or run away anymore.

The music is so loud he can pretend that he didn't understand her for a few seconds longer. She drinks enough for her eloquence to leave her, for her to see straight into the heart of the whole shit show and to summaries everything in the most concise and yet fitting way possible. The alcohol finally gives her the courage to say what has been coming for months. You are bullshit, she says. You are alone, he hears. And the bodies that have been his refuge for so many years turn into obstacles getting in the way of fresh air.

As if fresh air can magically turn him into a decent person. (into someone who deserves love)

And suddenly he realizes how futile that all was. How stupid he is. Inviting people he barely spoke three words to into his empty house. Screaming into the void in a crowd of people until he can't differentiate his voice from the others anymore. He invited everyone so they could admire this character he wore like an ill-fitting mask - and then what? Did he want to be applauded for it? Congratulations, you force yourself to be what everyone around you wants, and YOU'RE STILL FUCKING ALONE.

He finally manages to go outside and he doesn't know what the fuck he is supposed to do now. There are still people everywhere. The air is still heavy with weed and smoke and vomit. His head aches to the beat of the music, although it might also be because of the tears he is trying not to let fall.

So there he is. In a party full of people and yet alone in a way he has never allowed himself to be before.

He wants to leave, but the thought of being in that empty house just makes his anxiety grow. He wants to go back inside, but the thought of the whole school being witness to Steve "The King" Harrington's Fall from Grace part 2: electric Boogaloo makes his skin crawl. He needs to be gone. He can't be alone. He needs to think. He can't bear the thoughts tormenting him in his head.

He sees a relatively empty patch of grass and runs. The fence digs against his back but he can barely feel it. He has never been so fascinated by good old boring grass as he is now.

"Oh wow, someone kick your puppy or something? You look so pathetic, I might even give you a discount, your highne- fuck are you crying?!"

Steve looks up and can't hold in the sigh that escapes him (he pretends to himself that it doesn't sound as tremulous as it does, thinks he can allow himself this one concession in this already disastrous night).

"No", he lies.

Now it makes sense, why this patch is so empty. Nobody wants to be seen spending time with Eddie "The Freak" Munson. The only reason he is even here is the metal lunchbox he always carries around. Steve always had a sort of admiration for him - not that he could ever let anyone know that. Because Steve was - as Nancy so kindly put it - bullshit. He laughed as Tommy shoved kids against the lockers because that was what was expected of the popular jock. He threw parties because that was what teenagers are supposed to do when it is the weekend and your parents aren't home. Girls he didn't even know the name of asked him out and he accepted because he could feel the entire school staring at the back of his neck. And as soon as he stopped doing that - when Nancy finally gave him the courage to say no when he didn't want to - everyone left him. Including Nancy.

But Eddie? Eddie didn't care. Eddie didn't give a fuck that people called him a girl because of his long hair, he just let it grow and it looked fucking good. Eddie didn't give a fuck that Tommy called him a fairy because of his painted nails and jewelry, he just put up his middle finger, showing off the biggest fucking ring Steve has ever seen. Munson is unashamedly himself and every year a new group of freshmen nerds join his table of weirdos. They only leave when they graduate.

Now, with alcohol buzzing in his veins and his heart shattered into a thousand pieces, he can admit that he is kind of...jealous. Munson is brave in a way Steve has never managed. He jumps on tables and screams about conformity or shit and he doesn't give a fuck. Hell, he brings his lunchbox full of drugs to school like it's the most normal thing in the world. (Sometimes he wonders whether some teachers know and that is the reason he can't get through his senior year.)

"Would be more convincing if you weren't currently sobbing, pretty boy." Eddie's arm is extended towards him, almost as if he is going to touch him. But when Steve looks up he quickly brings it back to his side.

He feels his cheeks heat up. "...pretty boy?"

He looks fascinated as Eddie takes a lock of his hair and twirls it around his finger. The ring finger in his left hand, to be more precise, ironically the only one not adorned with a ring. He vaguely wonders if that is intentional. Eddie's fingers are long and slim. Piano fingers, his father would say. Didn't he play in a band or something? He continues watching entranced as Eddie lifts his finger and starts chewing on his hair. His lips are chapped. Paired with his big brown doe eyes, the effect is weirdly.... adorable.

"-heart?". It is only when those ridiculously red chapped lips move that Steve realized that Eddie is talking to him. His gaze seems to betray his confusion because the older boy sighs and presumably repeats himself. "I asked, are you doing okay?! Jesus H. Christ I'd think I was dreaming except that you aren't on your knees"

Steve doesn't think he was supposed to hear this second part and he frankly does not have energy to unpack that, so he makes the executive decision to ignore it. He has also already failed in his quest to not cry, and the only person he wants to talk to is the current reason for his distress, so he thinks, fuck it. (It's not like Munson really counts as a person anyway, a voice whispers in his head, but he ignores it. He does not want to be that person anymore)

"I think my girlfriend just broke up with me"

"You think?!"

"I am pretty sure my girlfriend just broke up with me"

"What?!"

"I said-"

"No, I understand. I just find it hard to believe. A lowly peasant captures the heart of the king- nay, the emperor- nay, the god of this hellish kingdom we call Hawkins High. And she, without mercy or remorse-"

"Don't call me that." Eddie freezes, his hands still raised from wildly gesticulating before. Steve absentmindedly notes that his rings glimmer orange from the bonfire.

"Don't call me king or, or emperor or whatever-"

"God."

"whatever, because that's not me. I- I don't want to be that person anymore. I know I was an asshole and- and I want to do better. So...yeah."

"Stevie, Stevie, Stevie" He tries to ignore the goosebumps, tries not to stare too hard at the mouth lovingly forming this single word. When was the last time someone called him a nickname? Even Nancy just called him by his name. Maybe that was one of the signs he overlooked. Maybe- (stop thinking about it stop thinking about it stop thinking about it) (lonely lonely lonely lonely)

He looks back at Eddie and sees that he isn't looking at him anymore (big doe eyes just like hers) He follows the older boy's gaze hoping something will distract him from spiralling. He doesn't know why he feels disappointed when the goal turns out to be Billy Hargrove: cigarette in his cherry red lips, some girl he isn't even looking at under his arm, icy eyes so intense they seem otherworldly.

"Oh yeah, I forgot that you were dethroned. Really not your year, is it?"

And Steve isn't sure what it is. Maybe Nancy's words are only now really sinking in. The fact that now he has neither girlfriend nor friends. Maybe it is the shame of realizing that Eddie actually isn't a bad guy, that he used to make his life hell for no fucking reason. And maybe a petty part of him is angry at how easily Billy filled the whole he left, how years of friendship apparently mean nothing to Tommy and Carol. Maybe he hates himself for missing them sometimes, even though he knows that they aren't the kind of people he wants to associate himself with. Or maybe it's just fucking infuriating how fucking big and warm Eddie Munson's fucking eyes look in the orange light. All he knows is that one second he is talking to Eddie "The Freak" Munson with blood roaring in his ears and the next he is sitting in his car. He grips the steering wheel so tightly his fingers turn white. One blink and he is parking on his driveway, another and the door is slamming shut behind him. (Dad will be mad, the ten year old in him cries, but he tells him to shut up, too)

And here he is now, sitting on his ridiculous white leather sofa staring at his grey concrete walls. (alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone)

When his father is home, he almost exclusively spends time in his study. The one Steve isn't supposed to go into. And yet he is also the one who meticulously planned the living room. The whole house, really. He saw pictures in a business magazine and ordered someone beneath him to get it done. Everything is color coordinated: grey and white and the occasional pop of brown. It doesn't look like people are supposed to live in it. It is lifeless and clinical and Steve feels like an intruder in his own home. But he doesn't dare change anything. Once his mom tried to place a red vase with purple flowers on the coffee table. The fight ended with her sleeping in a hotel for a month.

Steve can handle sleeping in a hotel. It isn't like it would be all too different from his current situation. If he had to finance it on his own it would be a different story, but his parents would never allow him to sleep in the streets. He can already hear his mother's shrill voice "what would that look like, Stephen?!"

What Steve can not handle is being the only living being inside these trist walls.

(alone alone alone alone)

The thought is so overwhelming that he breaks into his father's liquor cabinet. When he finally falls asleep, bottle still in hand, he dreams of flowers and trees and waterfalls and life.

The next day he takes an aspirin against the pounding in his brain and drives to the hardware store. (He will probably be too scared to actually go through with it if he has the ability to think clearly). He parks his Beemer (please don't get dirty with soil please don't get dirty with soil shit maybe he should've brought plastic plane or something to cover the leather seats) and waves hello to the poor guy manning the register (he thinks he remembers him laughing around Billy yesterday night. He slams the door extra hard behind him and can't help the schadenfreude when he sees him flinch. It hurts like a bitch but it's completely worth it) and goes straight to the plant section.

For a moment he just stands there. It feels kind of insane. Here he is, standing in front of a shelf filled to the brim with living beings. Beings that need oxygen and sun and nutrients and water just like him. And he can just buy them for like five dollars. What the heck. (Is he just going to be trafficking a bunch of little guys into his house?!?! he feels a weird mix of fear and excitement when he realizes that he will actually have to take care of everyone he decides to take home with him. He will be needed.)

He sees a plant with leaves so large that it is almost pushing it's neighbours out of the shelf and into the deadly hard floor below. It kind of reminds him of Mike, the way that little asshole is always trying to get him to leave Na- to leave his sister alone. (Do not think of Nancy do not think of Nancy) (Bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit) (alone alone alone alone)

The thought is so amusing he immediately adds the newly dubbed Mike Jr. into his cart. (For a moment he feels incredibly idiotic. What would the others think if they saw him?! Naming a plant he is only buying because he has no friends. But then he remembers that the entire reason for this little trip is that there isn't anyone to stop him, so he proudly glares at Mike Jr. in his cart like a disgruntled mother and continues on in his journey.) The next few minutes (hours? days? time is a social construct anyway) are spent trying to find the leafy reincarnation of the rest of the little party. Max gets a cactus with a beautiful pink flower blooming at the top. Dustin gets a succulent that falls on his foot like the fucking menace it is and is still somehow in one peace. Hard-headed just like it's namesake, Steve thinks and adds it to the cart. Picking the one hanging from the ceiling with the leaves majestically growing towards the ground because it reminds him of El's nosebleeds may be kind of morbid, but as long as Hopper never finds out it should be fine. Lucas gets the tall ones that almost look like a miniature palm tree. (He finds it kind of genius. Steve isn't sure what exactly it is about miniature trees that tickles his fancy, but Tall Lucas may be his favorite. Don't tell the others.) Human Lucas is the tallest of the bunch and is starting to show interest in basketball, which gets Steve weirdly emotional when he can't sleep at night. Will is the hardest. He is the quietest of the bunch and he doesn't drive him around as often as the others because his mother doesn't want to let him out of her sight. He settles for a bamboo in the end. It fascinates him to see it thriving even though it is so far away from home.

When he is preparing himself to leave, his eyes catch a bright yellow flower. (Rings glimmering in the orange light). He doesn't think too hard about it when Eddie Senior finds it's way into his cart.

On the way home he stops by the library. He doesn't think he has ever been here unless Nancy forced him. He's surprised at the amount of people that are actually here. He picks out as many books about botanics as he can take home at once (he may not be a fan of reading, but he will bear it for the sake of his new roommates). Back in the house he places all his kids on the coffee table (ha, suck it dad!), makes himself the biggest cup of coffee with a frankly concerning amount of espresso shots, and sleeps for the rest of the day.

When he wakes up the sun has already set. (nobody noticed he had been gone all day). He looks at the books, looks at the plants, and makes the executive decision not to go to school on Monday. Only to be able to take better care of his new charges, of course, no other reason. (He can already hear the whispers. "Oh how the mighty have fallen" "did you see that his girlfriend dumped him?" "look how pathetic, all alone" "dethroned")

He expects to need to force himself through each page. He expects to return the books without opening even half of them. He expects to just give up and abandon his babies in a park or something, it's not like they can be home when his father returns anyway.

What he does not expect is to be wakened out of his trance-like state by his own growling stomach. The first thing he is aware of is that the sun is already high up in the sky. The second is that he really really needs to pee. And eat. And drink. And find the exact right spot with the perfect amount of sunlight for each plant. And make a plan of when he has to water each one. And make sure that the vases are all big enough for the plants to properly thrive. And go buy the correct soil.

Maybe he would feel a bit bad if Nancy was still up his ass about school and attendance and punctuality and all this shit (don't think about her don't think about her don't think about her) but as things are he runs to the bathroom, whips up a quick Spaghetti al Sugo and runs back to the hardware store.

He tries to remember everything he learned. Apparently Will The Strong is actually a bamboo-type that is native to North America (the so-called arundinaria appalachiana) but that is fine, too. He should probably get bigger vases for all the plants now that he is thinking about it, even if they don't necessarily need it they deserve to have a bit more space. Would it be overkill to get a sun lamp?? Steve makes to horrifying realization that the store in Hawkins does not have Cactus or Succulent soil on sale (seriously, this is so ridiculous. How can you sell cacti with a straight face and not have any soil for it in the shop?!) He goes back to his car and goes to the next town over. (He goes a bit over the speed limit but nobody catches him so it is fine. The thought of leaving his beloved plants alone for too long make him feel kind of bad for some reason.)

It is there that the shopkeeper shows him the marvelous world of Bonsai. They are like Tall Lucas, but better. Because they are real trees, like the big ones, but in small. They can even grow real fruit. And the fruit keeps it's original size, even if the tree is tiny. Steve sees a mini apple tree and it is fucking love at first sight. He leaves the store with five new roommates (he has to find them a name on the drive home), more vases than he actually needs (they just looked so pretty, it would be cruel to make him choose), a watering can he doesn't actually need (he will have to look this object in the eyes every fucking day he deserves to actually choose it okay), more types of soil than he thought existed and two books about Bonsai.

(he finds it fascinating for some reason. Taking something as tall and strong and imposing as a tree and taking it into your home. Having something so fragile be dependent on your own two hands. Bonsais are not easy, the clerk had said. You need to be careful, gentle, loving. Cut their leaves every day. It shows when you don't take proper care of them, even if it is just a single day.)

He knows this is a fight he cannot win, but as soon as Hargrove dares to put his hands on Lucas any rational thought leaves him. The last thing he sees is a fist coming towards his face. The last thing he hears is a plate breaking somewhere above. Then everything is dark.

When he comes to he is in a car. He needs a second to recognize the car as his own. He needs another to realize that nobody else in the car should actually be driving. He wishes he didn't have that second realization, he has enough of a headache as it is. The only thing worse than finding out that a twelve year old is driving his beloved BMW is knowing where exactly she is driving them to.

When he sees the monster coming, he knows he can't let it get to the kids. He is the oldest. (He is alone). He will make sure that those fucking dipshits make it back home if it is the last thing he does.

When he knows that he is not going to make it out of this one alive, when he feels it in the depth of his bones that it is either him or the kids and truly, is that even choice to begin with?, he thinks of his plants. He feels bad for Rose Nylund and Dorothy Zbornak. His miniature trees were coming along so well....

Apparently it is not abnormal to lose ones brain-mouth filter for a bit when one has a concussion. Or ones ability to think clearly.

After everything is done for the second (and hopefully last) time. Hopper says they should have another Congratulations We Survived This Shit Again-dinner, and Joyce looks so devastated Steve doesn't have the heart to say no even though his head still isn't 100% back to normal (the doctors said that maybe it never will, but he tries not to think about that.)

This one is somehow worse than the first. The first thing Hopper does is loudly complain about the lack of Lasagna on the table. Steve sits as far away from Nancy as possible and tries not to look at her. (Tries not to look at her and Jonathan's intertwined hands). She tries to speak with him, but he somehow manages to avoid her. Hopper tries to force the Byers into conversation, but they just stare into their plates with a faraway look.

Unsurprisingly it is Mike who starts it, the little shit could never pass up the chance to make fun of him. He screams about how Steve kept talking about leaves and trees and plants and about watering "his kids", and Steve doesn't say anything because Mike's voice sounds so tiny and desperate in the silence and it hurts him in his very soul. Dustin adds that he sometimes spoke in another language, and he thinks the looks of horror on their faces are a bit exaggerated when he reveals that he is half-italian from his mother's side.

He ends up showing them his babies, and the kids somehow manage to weasel their names out of him. Max looks appropriately smug when she sees her badass cactus, and Dustin is insulted when he sees his Succulent. He does not look happier when Steve explains the origin story. (He changes the subject when Will quietly asks why the bright yellow flower is called Eddie)

He starts driving Max back home from school while Billy isn't allowed to drive. Nobody knows how the drugs got into his system. (He has his suspicions but sometimes it's just easier not to ask)

One day she enters the car with dirt underneath her nails and a bouquet of Petunia in her hands. "This is Non-Concussed Steve", she proclaims proudly. "It doesn't look like it, but it is actually very resilient". Just like you, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway. He tries not to cry and fails spectacularly.

Unexpected talent #2: gardening

-> a comprehensive list of all of Steve's babies

#my aro ass actually googles if it is possible to have a crush while you are in love with another person #so i can safely tag this as #steddie #in case you were wondering why steve drank coffee to fall asleep #its because he has ADHD #tbh i think golden girls only came out after the season happens #but if the duffer brothers themselves don't care too much abt their own timeline i don't have to either #i want to do a post showcasing all of Steves plants later if i do it itll be in the reblogs #also some other things that are very important to me personally:#italian steve harrington #steve and max #are siblings<3 #steve harrington #steve stranger things #king steve secretely being jealous of freak eddie because he is just unashamedly himself #(he doesn't realize it is a crush yet)#nancy wheeler #nancy stranger things #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #max mayfield #max stranger things #steve x nancy #steve x eddie #stranger things fic #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #enjoy :)#stranger things season 2 #fuck it saga

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