#braking in denim

[rafesangelita]

kook!sweetheart reader that gets rafe to teach her how to drive because her rich parents shelter her and don’t want her exposed to the dangers that comes with driving 😓

warnings: bsf!rafe, rafe calls reader ‘babe’, terrible driving (she’s me i’m afraid), rafe has a lot of patience in this one

a/n: i screamed when i saw this!! thank you for the req, mwah <3

“wait, i’m scared!” you took your hands off the steering wheel, your heart beating in your ears as the engine of rafe’s truck roared to life. “look around us, it’s nothing but empty space, it’s impossible to mess up, ‘promise.” he reassured you, taking your hand and putting it on the shift gear. “is your foot on the brake?” you hummed, glancing at him before you put the truck in drive.

“alright, now just ease off of it slowly, it’s gonna go by itself.” once the vehicle started moving and you looked a bit more comfortable, rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “atta, girl..” you ignored the butterflies in your tummy, keeping all of your attention on the parking lot in front of you. “okay, you could give it a little gas now— hey!” rafe shouted, making you jump and slam on the brakes.

“see! i can’t do this!” you cried, rubbing your palms on the denim of your jeans. “yes, you can babe, it’s just- i said a little bit of gas, and we nearly flew across the island.” rafe sighed, closing his eyes momentarily. you stayed silent, already regretting asking rafe to take you out today. “hey, it’s alright, okay? m’sorry for yelling.” you swallowed thickly, slowly stepping off of the brake.

“this is good,” rafe sat up in his seat, “take a turn up here after the white line.” you did as he said, both of you cheering when you turned smoothly into the next parking aisle. “i did it!” you clapped your hands, quickly recovering when rafe grabbed ahold of the wheel. “let’s keep our hands on here, alright?” he laughed nervously. “s-sorry, that was stupid.” you huffed, cursing yourself in your head.

“no, you got it. let’s try parking, yeah?” you didn’t even want to imagine how terrible your parking was about to be. sure enough, you and rafe found yourselves standing in front of his truck, examining the position. “well.. you definitely parked.” he rested his hands on his hips, the sun beating down on both of you.

two parking spots. you took up two parking spots. “you know what, i’m just gonna have you drive me around everywhere, sound good?” rafe agreed without hesitation. “let me take a picture before we leave.” later on that day once rafe was in the comfort of his own bed, he did what he did every night and looked at your socials.

you had two new stories on your instagram, the first one being the photo of his truck from earlier with the text ‘i’m just a girl </3’, and the second being an off guard of rafe with one hand on the steering wheel, the words ‘my chauffeur is hot, yours is not!’ making a smile form on his lips.

[gutsby]

Cry, Baby

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That’s all.

Warnings: 18+. Dacryphilia (kinda). Unprotected p-in-v. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Daddy kink. Jealous Joel.

Notes: Sorry for using pussy pronouns. It will happen again.

Joel Miller was a man of few words in most every place except the one where he found himself about to beat the brakes off your pussy. Then he never shut the fuck up.

“Uh-huh…just a little more…I know, sweet girl, I know.”

You had your hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel of his ‘71 Ford F-100, but rather than driving anywhere, your ass was comfortably parked on the front of his jeans—straddling his lap backwards while you rubbed your half-clad cunt over stonewashed denim. It was hell.

You’d been grinding against the bulge beneath those jeans so hard, and for so long, your white cotton undies had parted to the side, and your pleasure was nearly stretched commensurate with just how pathetic you felt.

Your head dropped between your two hands on the black molded plastic of the wheel, and you let out a whine.

“Joel—”

“Keep goin’.”

“This ain’t fair!”

Without hesitation, the hands that were holding your hips tightened their grip, and now Joel was raking your lower half over his. Rutting your core back and forth.

“You wanna know what ain’t fair?” he seethed.

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“How much she’s been droolin’ over me all night.”

‘She’ meaning your unfucked cunt, of course.

Joel then punctuated his sentence with a particularly hard press of his palm—forcing you to lay flat on the steering wheel, hips tilted back to him. With just one callused finger of his other hand, he found you soaked between your folds. He dragged it from your clit to your aching hole, and you heard him sigh, as though sad.

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Joel said. Lamenting.

You were almost lost to the sensation of his finger rubbing you up and down, but somehow, you managed, ‘W-W-What is, Joel?’ in between soft, plaintive sounds.

Sometimes you forgot how much older he was than you. Sometimes you said he was just like the boys your age. Other times he had you pinned like this, breaths calm and cruelly measured while you damn near came apart beneath his hand, and then you remembered everything.

“You just couldn’t wait ‘til we got home,” he grumbled.

Using the same hand he’d been stroking you with, Joel laid a quick slap to your cunt, and you jumped. Your head narrowly missed the roof of his truck; still, you groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Joel,” you keened.

You weren’t. The old man knew you weren’t.

The hand that had been splayed over your back sank in. The force of that push pressed your belly to the chipped Ford logo at the center of the steering wheel, and with the added pressure went the blare of the car’s horn.

The sound might’ve lasted two seconds before you scrambled back, desperate, into Joel’s broad chest. A couple old-timers making their way from the bar to their cars in the parking lot cocked their heads curiously in your direction a couple yards away. Seeing nothing of note, they lost interest just as quick and kept walking.

“Sorry for what?” Joel said.

At the moment, he didn’t seem to notice, or care, that his truck was parked a mere stone’s throw away from the Tipsy Bison, and bar-goers were milling freely between the building and the cars all around you. His belt unbuckled all the same, zip came down in a blink, and his thick, veiny, throbbing, and angry cock came to rest between your cheeks. He started to push you forward.

“Sorry for— for flirtin’ with Tommy,” you stammered, sucking in a breath when you felt him run the head of his cock between your lips. You could hear a soft squelch.

“And Lucien?”

“And Lucien.”

“And—”

“And Dieter, and Frankie, and Javi, and Marcus.”

Rattling off the names of all the men you’d been flirting with at the bar to make Joel jealous and take you back home to fuck you became an embarrassing chant.

“And?”

“…and Mayor Garcia,” you completed, sheepishly.

Back in there, you hadn’t been too proud to stoop to a politician’s level, even. That was how needy you’d been to get attention, and now Joel was giving it to you.

As hard as he could—he didn’t wait for the ‘OK’ before seating you on his cock. You were simply pulled back from the wheel and into his lap, onto his stiff erection, and before you could steady yourself, he started drilling.

“Even through these panties—” Joel tugged at the cream-colored cotton he’d easily slipped past, “—even through that slutty little skirt, I could feel how wet she was.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, and your hands found purchase in the torn-up leather of the seat, fisting strings and patches of fabric in a helpless sort of plea as Joel took over. With the buttons of his dark green flannel searing a stripe down your spine and his grey-speckled chin coming to nudge between your neck and your shoulder as he fucked you, you felt content. Secure.

Spilling more for him, then. Seeping rivers down the length of his shaft as he breached your walls and made you his all over again. And again. Leaving trails of arousal with every thrust, and rolling your head, limply, into his.

“She cryin’ for me?” Joel breathed, “Or somebody else?”

As if on cue, his cock hit the most sensitive ridge inside you, and you felt yourself gush even more. Dripping now.

“You.” Your voice was raw.

“Me?” Joel’s degradingly sweet.

Before you could answer ‘you’ once more, the driver’s door cracked open beside you both. For one panicked, terrifying second, you thought someone from the bar might’ve caught you two—then you were stunned to look over and see it was Joel’s own tough, steel-toed boot that had propped the door open to the cool night air.

The truck was facing the bar’s front door, shielded only by some foliage and a hatchback car about half its size. Other than that, you were exposed to whoever happened to pass by the big, bay window and take a look inside.

Joel felt you tense, and he pressed a kiss to you neck. Then he slid you carefully, almost tenderly, to the left until you were perched over the side of the seat with your legs dangling out of the truck—still filled to the hilt with his cock and pressed tight to the front of his chest.

“Cry a little more,” he urged.

Then, when your pussy gave an involuntary clench and drenched him some more, he slipped a hand around your front and started toying with your clit. Your gaze was wide, almost frightened as you stared ahead at the bar and saw patrons making rounds about the tiny place, fearing one might see you and Joel, but it felt so good. And wrong. And reckless, having this man who was easily decades your senior bouncing you up and down on his cock and letting you soil the front of his Wranglers.

“Pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, pretty girl,” Joel let out a chuckle and gave your shoulder a playful bite when you pulsed around him again, “Squeezin’ me real tight, too.”

It was like your body was beyond your own control. You scarcely even realized your cunt had him gripped with such force, much less made a mess of his old denim. He just held you to him and kept pressing rough, stubbled kisses to your shoulder, reminding you over and over how sweet you were, how well you were taking him, how nice and tight and goddamn pretty that pussy must’ve looked gushing around daddy’s cock—maybe we can fuck in front’a the mirror so we can see it later, huh, baby?

You would’ve said yes to anything he said, you reckoned.

Especially when his arms moved over your front and you felt him grin, and he hugged you while he fucked you—nobody made you feel quite as special while they were splitting you open. Nobody’s balls felt quite as heavy and firm and full while hitting your ass by turns, and certainly no one but Joel could make you cum just as quick when he leaned into your ear and said, ‘Let go for me, darlin’.’

You did, and you felt his warmth follow inside you with the friction of just two more thrusts. Your head fell back on his shoulder, a moan clawed out of your throat, and the warm, euphoric feeling of release washed over your senses in waves, one trembling sensation after the next. Joel’s groans were quick to spill into your own, and, likewise emptying himself, he held your hips to his and made sure every drop stayed right where he wanted it.

His spend was always heavy, but this load felt larger than usual—like he’d been aching to fuck you full of his cum. Just as you both were coming down from your highs, you couldn’t help but key in on that soft, sticky warmth, likely to come oozing as soon as Joel pulled out of you.

In fact, you got to be so focused that you jumped when you felt something press to your cheek a second later.

It took another moment to register it as a kiss from Joel.

Then his tongue, dragging softly up the side of your face.

You started to laugh, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, when you felt a tear slip out of your other eye. With the sudden, sharp influx of pleasure, the moisture had leaked out without you even feeling it. Joel grinned.

He gave your cheek a light squeeze, wiped the other tear with the pad of his thumb, and kissed you again before mumbling in your ear, almost teasing as he said it:

“Crybaby.”

[guess-my-next-obsession]

the alchemy | i. the return (joel’s pov)

pairing: no outbreak!dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

chapter rating: Mature [18+ only, minors dni, dbf/secret relationship, age gap (joel is 34, reader is 24), just joel pining in secret, mention of cheating (past relationship), one mention of joel fantasizing about a blowjob]

summary: joel takes us through his inner monologue the day of reader’s return.

wc: 1k

the masterlist

She was back.

The woman who’d starred in every depraved fantasy I’d had since the day I met her had made her return to Austin, this time to stay.

I’d been mentally preparing for our reunion for weeks now, ever since her father let the news slip. I told myself that this time I’d finally be done with my little crush on the woman nearly a decade younger than me, but I knew how this story went.

Every time she came home to visit during her breaks from school, I told myself the exact same bullshit. And every time I came face to face with her, it all went to hell again. All she had to do was walk into a room, and I was back to secretly pining over her like a lovesick boy.

This time was no different.

When her and her dad pulled into the restaurant parking lot, I was already sweating. When she stepped out in those denim cutoffs, I’d melted completely.

She was the type of beautiful that required no frills to make a man fall to his knees. She could wear a burlap sack and I’d have no choice but to believe she was nothing less than a goddess.

I tried not to let my tongue wag too much as she walked over to Sarah, hugging her tight and complimenting her on her new braids. Her dad offered me a bit of distraction as he complained about needing to change out the brake pads on his truck, but even that wasn’t enough to tear my eyes away from her. From the woman I knew he’d never approve of me being with.

I couldn’t say I’d do any different if it was my own daughter in question.

When her eyes met mine, I felt the need to justify my ogling with a greeting.

“Welcome home,” I said, instead of what I longed to say—things that would’ve earned me a punch in the gut from her dad.

She mumbled a thanks in response, but seemed entirely disinterested in any further conversation with me. So I let it end there as we walked into the mexican spot that was apparently her favorite, according to her dad. I made a mental note of this new information. For what reason, I had no clue. It wasn’t like I’d ever be taking her out.

She avoided me at all costs throughout dinner, leaving me with no choice but to coax her into paying me some attention by asking her if she was still interested in babysitting. It was a genuine enough question. Sarah did need someone to look after her over the summer, and the last babysitter just never managed to click with her the way that she had. But I’d be lying if I said that it was strictly business, my asking.

When she said yes, my heart all but leapt out of my chest with relief. If she had said no, I would’ve had no excuse to see her, no excuse to talk to her.

I watched with greedy eyes as she sipped her drink through a straw, her lips wrapping around the bit of plastic. I instinctively licked my lips as she pulled away, swiping her tongue over her lips to collect the bit of lime-flavored liquor that coated them.

God, that mouth.

I’d thought about it almost every night. Even when I was with Mia, my ex, it was her I imagined. Those plump lips wrapping around me, working me until I came. And as horrible as it was to say, I never felt guilty about the fantasy. Especially now, knowing that the entire time, Mia had been having her own fun on the side.

I couldn’t imagine that the girl in front of me would hurt anyone in that way, and that drew me towards her all the more. She was so kind, so good that it hurt. I hoped whoever she had been with in the past had treated her with the same sort of respect that I dreamed of giving her, but I knew all too well what it was like to be a twenty-something year old boy. They’d likely not even noticed the gem that they held in the palm of their hands.

At the end of dinner, she gave Sarah a thorough goodbye, promising to come over the next day for a swim. I thanked God that it was a weekend, that I’d be home to catch a glimpse of her.

When I stepped over to tell her goodnight, she blew me off completely. I tried not to let the rejection sting. I had no reason to feel slighted, to feel disappointed, but it cut through me nonetheless.

Her dad muttered an apology, saying that she was likely just tired from a long day of unpacking, and I let myself believe him. It was better than thinking that she wanted nothing to do with me.

Even if I knew it was true.

Why else would she have agreed to go out with Tommy last summer? And according to him, the date went well. He refrained from spilling all the details, but from what he let on, I could’ve only assumed it ended with her in his crumb-filled sheets. It took me weeks to get the image out of my head, to be able to look my brother in the eye again.

Maybe one of these days I’d ask her about it myself. I wouldn’t let on that I disapproved of the two of them being together, either. Instead, I’d play the role of a nosy older brother who simply just wanted to know whether his brother was treating her right, or if he was fucking things up like he so often liked to do when a good woman entered his life.

But truthfully, it didn’t matter what the two had going on. She could hate him or love him, I didn’t care.

My crush was here to stay.

Even if I had no chance in the world with her.

[urhoneycombwitch]

howdy, honey!

part I

older!cowboy!Eddie x honey!reader

foreword: idk what this is. other than the start of a new series I may or may not have time for lmao. just… love the idea of honey!Reader and wanted to show the origins of cowboy!Eddie into their life <3 honey!Reader is a bit of an abrasive spitfire but I heart complicated women and Eddie is the right amount of gruff to put up w/ that bratty ass <3 I’m sorry if any truck stuff is wrong I swear I researched a bit but dear god I am not a car girly plz forgive me

cw: Appalachian no magic AU, cowboy!Eddie, older!Eddie, age gap (Eddie is at least 40, R implied as younger), R is on the run from a Troubled Past ™, R has breasts (non-sexual mention) and a tattoo (no skin tone/color mentioned), smut planned for following chapters, as always +18 mdni!

wc: 5.3k

The last thing you want to hear behind you approaches: a vehicle slowing down, tires crunching to crawl at your walking pace in the gravel ditch of the road. 

Maybe it’s just a concerned citizen. You soothe yourself internally, even as your guard surges up to take stock of the environment, to calculate the quickest route to safety. 

To your left- a rusting red pickup, its unknown driver, the flat expanse of tarmac and heat lines rising blearily for miles on end.

To your right, just a sprint away- the line of a lush, thick forest, unfamiliar birds calling amidst the Appalachian wilderness.

Then, an even worse sound of the truck's window being rolled down. 

“Not interested, pal,” you call out, in a tone you hope is commanding. “My thumb ain’t out. Keep driving.”

“I just-” it’s a man’s voice, because of course it is, who else would stop in the middle of an abandoned road to harass a young thing like you- “It’s about a hundred degrees out. Hotter than a two-buck pistol and you’re hiking in it.”

“Mind your damn business.” You don’t know this guy’s angle, but you don’t really care- if there’s anything you’ve learned from the past two weeks on the road, it’s Don’t trust strange men and keep your wits. 

Heart thumping an unsteady rhythm, you swallow the fear and hike your duffle bag higher onto your aching shoulder, resolute, even as the guy sighs. As if he has the right to sound weary. “Darlin’. I don’t wanna see you die of dehydration, is all. Got some water in the back, ‘least let me offload some onto you.”

The offer is tempting enough to still your steps- your canteen is empty, ran out about an hour after being filled at the last town’s hostel. Constant thirst has been an unfortunate side effect of this journey; so far it seems you've been the only one desperate enough to actually be outside in this unrelenting heat.

The man must take your pause for acceptance because he rolls to a stop just ahead of you, brake lights giving one quick flash before the engine cuts out. Both boots hit pavement at the same time, revealing a tall, lanky figure in dark denim and a cut-off tee. 

As he rounds to the trailer bed, you notice a smattering of tattoos- bats flying up one arm, a lariat and a floral piece on the other, some sort of mythological creature sitting over his heart (only spotted as he bends to unhook his truck bed’s latch, shirt shifting forward to reveal a pale expanse of skin beneath).

He’s a confusing, delightful mix of punk and cowboy- jeans just a touch too tight for working, silver hoops lining the shell of his right ear. You’d probably get a better sense of his age if his hair wasn’t hiding in a bun too shadowy to see properly, nestled under the brim of his black cowboy hat.

Eyes dark as bittersweet chocolate but kind and calm turn towards you, observing silently with crossed arms in the ditch a yard away. He closes the gap, wiping his palm on the black bandanna lining his pocket before stretching an appeasing hand towards you. “Waterin’ time.”

A laugh would signal comfortability, and you prefer to keep your cards as close to your own chest as possible, so you smother the noise, turn it into a disapproving twist of your mouth before taking his proffered hand. 

He’s stronger than he looks, pulling you up to the road with an easy flex of his forearm; his other hand automatically fits to your low back to steady you as your pack shifts with the climb, but he drops all points of contact as soon as you’re stabilized.

There’s a thunk from the nearby truck, the sound of something dull hitting into the metal. On instinct, your hand snaps to the butterfly knife tucked into the front of your bra band, hidden by the extra padding but close enough to whip out at a moment's notice. 

A dog sits eager and obedient in the truck bed, black and leggy and long-snouted- some type of Shepherd, if you had to guess. His long feathered tail hits the wheel with each enthusiastic wag, oversized ears perked forward.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. 

Adrenaline leaves you feeling sticky and strung-out, even more than the heat. Between your breasts, the knife sits waiting, metal cool to the touch and reassuring through the fabric of your tanktop. You hope it just looks like you scare easily, hand over your heart with nerves and jumpiness instead of trained defense mode- cards to chest, and all that. 

Safer for you, to be underestimated. Always harder to see a hit coming from someone unexpected. 

This time, though, you aren’t fixing to hit. The back of your hand, like some gravitational force, draws you to the mouth of the truck bed. 

A slash of pink tongue splits the all-black dog’s mouth when he licks you, thumping tailbeat picking up speed. 

The man who owns both truck and dog leans a hip against the wheel, watching as you smooth your palm over the silky head of his companion. “Name’s Goblin.”

“So, your parents were hippies, I gather?” A joke slips out before you can catch and wrestle it back to be the most unassuming version of yourself.

The man laughs- full and rich, crow’s feet bursting like sunbeams, dimples springing into his cheeks- the action knocks a decade off his face. 

You’re transfixed, unable to look away, Goblin nudging your hand for more pets while you memorize the way this stranger looks, laughing on the side of the road in the middle of goddamn nowhere. 

“The dog is Goblin,” the man says, humor twitching at the corners of his plush lips. He takes off his hat to rest against his chest, chocolate eyes still twinkling. “I’m Eddie.”

In the truck bed next to Goblin, there’s a bulky case laying sideways, a handle on one end for carrying. It’s the last push you need, apparently, as the logic part of your mind speaks with finality: Ted Bundy never played guitar. 

So you give Eddie your name. Your real one. You haven’t used it in weeks, opting for anonymity and the comfort of a pseudonym at the seedy spots you’ve been staying.

As soon as you say it, something loosens in your chest, flutters free into the bright blue sky as Eddie repeats it like something precious- like he’s known you for ages. 

“Well.” As if a matter has been settled, Eddie puts his hat back on (you weren’t quite done memorizing the long pattern of his curls, shot through with grey, pulled taut against his skull to settle in a bun at the nape of his neck). “More’n welcome to take the water and send me packin’, but now that we all know each other’s names, how about a lift to town?”

Eddie scratches Goblin behind the ear, absentminded as he adds, “Could even sit in the back, ‘f you wanted. That way you could just jump on out if you think I’m tryna pull something.”

Your shoulder suddenly aches with the weight of your duffel; you let the straps slide to the crook of your elbow, then set it next to Goblin who seems happy for something new to sniff.

Unfortunately for Eddie, you’re starting to like him, which means the filter for your sarcasm and teasing has completely eroded. “Ri-ight. Like I’m gonna just sit in the back of your truck when you could floor it and fling me over the side like a ragdoll.” 

Those big, doey eyes of Eddie’s roll skyward. “You always this stubborn?”

“Only on days that end in Y.” 

“All right.” There’s something in his tone that makes your spine straighten- not from fear, just… something else that you’re trying hard not to analyze right now. “So sit in the damn front and put a seatbelt on, since you’re so worried ‘bout my driving.”

Eddie shuts the pickup’s gate and mutters all the way to the driver’s side door, some comparison being drawn between you and one of his cows that gets herself stuck in the fenceline, refusing sesnsible help. 

The air in the cab is stale and still, warmth from the cracked leather seats soaking into the back of your shorts and bare thighs as you get in and buckle up. You’re suddenly aware of how desperately you need a shower, being in an enclosed space and next to someone with (presumably) a working sense of smell, but luckily Eddie’s already rolling down the windows.

“Air’s broke,” he says by way of apology, waving in the general direction of the AC vents before reaching to open the sliding rear window.

Something cold and wet presses against your ear- Goblin, saying hello. By the time your giggle is over, the grumble of the engine has kicked on, and the dog has found a headrest in the form of your pack, his tongue lolling into the fabric with rhythmic panting. 

“Radio?” You ask, already reaching to twist at the knob on the dash- a crackle of static, and then, bliss. Johnny Cash croons from the speakers. 

In trying to keep your delight casual, you slip up, telling Eddie as he straightens out the wheel to pick up speed- “God, I haven’t heard music this good in months, not since-”

Fortunately, whatever system in your brain still holding on to good sense chops the sentence in half. To cover, you clear your throat, cross your arms, and keep your eyes fixed forward when you change the subject. “So, you play guitar?”

If Eddie notices your lapse he doesn’t comment on it, picking up conversation with an easy charm. “Nah. That’s just a cover for if Sheriff Hop gets me for speedin’. That case is filled with coke and guns and all sorts’a contraband.”

You fix the side of his head with a glare, and even without seeing it full-on Eddie sputters a chuckle and admits, “Fine. I play guitar, sometimes.”

While Eddie’s eyes stay on on the road ahead, you let your own gaze linger on his face in profile: the slope of his nose, the freckles that scatter across the apple of his cheeks and neck, the tail end of another tattoo winding up his collarbone.

Eddie catches you staring, this time, jolt like an electric shock coursing through your whole body when you lock eyes for a moment, before he flicks back to the road. “Looks like you got some ink, yourself.”

He must be doing his best to remain respectful, because he doesn’t ask what the J stands for, even as your other hand jumps instinctually to cover the breadth of your wrist, hiding the little inked letter from view. “Yeah. I get one every time I kill a man. In remembrance.”

Amusement twitches at the corner of Eddie’s mouth when he asks, “Yeah? Only one so far? Would’a thought you’d be racking up your letters by now. Fierce as you are.”

“Well, we’re in public. I can’t very well take off my shirt to show you all the rest.”

This earns you another laugh, and even with the wind whipping through the cab, it fills every inch of the space. Rattles into you like a thunderstorm, knocks dust off some deep part of you kept dormant ‘til now.

You like that he called you that. Fierce. You’re loath to admit it, but you also like the pet names. Most boys are condescending or double-edged with their diminutives, but when Eddie calls you darlin’ with that Southern drawl, it feels… endearing. 

Equal parts terrifyingly disarming and captivatingly charming. That’s how you’d categorize Eddie, so far, though you’re not sure what to file away about his arms- stretched out at ten and two on the Ford’s big wheel, soft white underbelly of his forearms fading into a natural freckled tan, smattering of dark hair over both. 

For now, you file it under Trouble and focus on the upcoming road sign.

It looks like someone stripped a big tree and cut out a thick middle piece just to drive it at a slant into the ground. The hand-carved words appear to have been painted over many times, discolored and weathered, obscuring some of the letters.

WELC ME TO C LINE

”It’s a nice town, Celine,” Eddie says conversationally as the sign gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “Small, but good community. Lots of farming folks, like me, some strays and stragglers, like you.”

Johnny Cash gives way to an unfamiliar folksy number; you drink in the ramshackle buildings that make up the heart of the town. It’s reminiscent of old cowboy movies you grew up watching with your brothers- flat roofs, red brick, clapboard. A hitching post outside of a General Store, a group of kids tearing around on bikes in the empty lot of the movie theater. 

All that’s missing is a lone tumbleweed flipping lazily end over end across the road.

Eddie pulls his truck parallel with a stretch of curb outside a long building, another handmade sign that reads Celine Public Library. He leaves the engine running but shifts the gear to park, pointing to the phone booth just beyond your window.

“Phone’s just there, if you got someone to call. Figure’d here’s as good a place as any, if you wanna part ways now.”

Oh, right. Eddie offered you a ride to town, and he made good on it. Now is the part where you get out, collect your duffel, and wave while pretending to make a phone call until his truck has disappeared.

But you don’t. There’s lively guitar plucking over the speakers, twining with the purr of the engine. Eddie’s hands flex and unflex on the wheel, horseshoe tattoo on the first segment of his middle finger rippling with the movement like he’s working up the courage to say something,

You’d better not stick around to hear it. Fighting the thing that’s sticking you to the seat, you reach for the door handle. “Well, thanks, Eddie. ‘Preciate the lift.”

Your fingers are just grazing the handle when Eddie speaks again. “Wait-”

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t-

His eyes are just as beautiful as before, when he’d laughed- and now they’re on you, longing and hopeful and a little unsure as he speaks, gaining speed as if from nerves- “I’ve got a spare room. Spare shack, technically- it’s not much, but I used to live in there real comfortably ‘til my uncle moved and I got the house. Please come stay, at least for the night. Please?”

With a hand still on the door to your other, safer option, you pause; though the main emotion that washes through you is one of relief and gratitude, you sink your teeth into the little flare of irritation, pulling it up to the surface like one last play. “I don’t want charity.”

��Do I look like the church-goin’ type?” A bright flash of Eddie’s teeth as he grins (he knows he’s got you, goddammit). “And the shack door locks from the inside. Deadbolt. In case you’re worried about… I’m not askin’ anything from you. Just- please.”

Your hand drops from the door, falls limply into your lap as you breathe out. “And you’re not in some… weird, cowpoke-Satanic cult where you’re gonna use me as human sacrifice?”

“What part of deadbolt do you not get,” Eddie retorts, pleased, hand at the gear shift. “And my cult only meets on the full moon, so. You’ve got a few weeks of safety, at least.”

A genuine laugh bubbles up out of you, and the smile that Eddie fixes you with would’ve knocked you sideways had you been standing. 

You’re both relishing in the moment too deeply to notice the bicycles approaching from behind; Goblin gives an excited yip, front paws planted on the lip of the truck, wagging up a storm as the group squeals to a halt, surrounding you and Eddie on all sides. 

One of the kids, a boy with a curly mop of hair who looks on the young end of 15, slams a hand down on Eddie’s open window. “Hey!”

Eddie is the one to nearly jump out of his skin this time, hand flying to the top of his hat and cursing. “Fuck. Christ, Henderson. Whaddya want?”

“Do you require our assistance at the market this weekend?” The kid speaks in a funny, oddly formal tone as Eddie sighs and sets his hat on the seat between the two of you. 

“Unfortunately so.” 

“C’mon, Eddie, don’t be like that.” The boy is practically leaning through the window at this point with eagerness, one foot on the ground to keep his bike from tipping. You smother a giggle at the way Eddie’s jaw ticks. “School’s out, we’re bored as hell, and-”

He stops mid sentence when he spies you in the passenger seat, eyebrows jumping up to the curls covering his forehead. “And who might this be?”

“None of your damn business,” Eddie grits out, but you ignore the all-bark-no-bite tone to stretch across and offer your hand in introduction.

“I’m Dustin,” the boy says, in answer to your own name, and rapid-fire points at the various figures loitering around the truck, naming his friends too quickly for you to store them long-term. “Now, Edward, about our payment…”

There’s a girl with red braids near your window, the only one not on a bike. When you give her a friendly smile, she glowers and plants a sneakered foot on her skateboard, rocking it aimlessly up and down the asphalt. 

In the back, Goblin is basking in the attention of the rest of the group; another boy with a close-cropped Afro rubs the dog’s head lovingly, while a girl with serious brown eyes and shoulder-length curls (Eddie’s relative, maybe?) makes tentative strokes down Goblin’s side. 

There are two other kids- boys, you think- near the back of the trailer, but their backs are to the group, close as two people can be while still on their own bikes. Dustin’s conversation floats back into your comprehension- he’s making a valiant attempt at twisting Eddie’s arm where ‘payment’ is concerned.

Untwistable, Eddie shakes his head. A few strands of hair have come loose from his bun, curling around his jaw with the overdramatic move he makes to throw the gear shift into drive. “All right, enough, ya scoundrel. Round up your crew and go be a pain in someone else’s ass.”

Unperturbed, Dustin straightens, grasping his bike’s handlebars with one hand and wrapping a tight fist around the metal of the truck’s side mirror. 

This seems to be some sort of signal, because the rest of the group latches on like some choreographed play- hands, one from each kid, coming up to grip at any free space left on the truck, shoulders hunching forward as if preparing to be shot forth like a rubber band. 

“Damn kids,” Eddie grumbles, but you can hear the fondness in his voice as he lifts his foot from the brake.

The truck lurches forward, and with it, the extra wheels; Goblin’s revved-up barking joins the excited chatter and whooping of the kids hanging on, a joyous cacophony of sound as you all head further down the empty street together.

Eddie picks up speed; there’s a twinge of fear as you watch the speedometer tick up to 10- and then he honks, once, and in perfect synchronicity all the kids let go. Some of them pedal furiously to keep up the momentum, others- like the girl on the skateboard- take advantage of the added speed to simply coast.

Soon enough, their cheerful waves and laughter recede into the distance along with the rest of the town as Eddie keeps his boot on the gas.

The heat in town was dizzying, so you’re relieved when the road dips and bends into the comfort of shade- courtesy of the wild forest flanking either side. 

It’s about a ten minute drive to Munson Farms, and on the way, Eddie tells you all about it. You learn that his Uncle Wayne raised him, taught him how to work and live off the land- when Wayne retired and moved a few miles down the road, Eddie took over.

“Not really a lucrative venture, farming,” he says, trees passing in a blur as he navigates the road curves with ease. “But the end of summer Town Fair pays well, ‘specially for sheep penning demonstrations. Got a couple of dairy cows, chickens that won’t stop laying- between that ‘n Wayne’s orchards, we got more than enough to get us through the winter months.

And then there’s the hives-”

“Bees?” Unable to help the interruption, your head whips in his direction, interest piqued. 

“Yup. Got about six hives right now in the southern pasture. Don’t know much about ‘em, truthfully- got a friend named Chrissy, comes once a week or so to make sure they stay maintained. I mostly just help come harvesting time, and try to stay out of her way for the rest.”

There are about a thousand other questions you want to ask- what kind of bees? Are they near your garden plot to promote pollination? Any bears in the area?- but you tamp down your excitement, settling on a neutral, “Cool,” before looking out the window again.

The sign for Munson Farms is handmade, too, but upkept much better than the one in town- it swings gently in the breeze on metal links as Eddie turns down the adjoining dirt road. About a quarter mile in, you start to see signs of life- fence lines running through the trees and the shush of a nearby water source- and then, a house.

It’s small, probably no more than a bed, bath, and kitchen inside. There’s a red brick chimney separating the straight lines of the blue-painted wood planks, ivy crawling up one side to frame the eastern-facing window. 

On the covered porch, a big, long-haired white dog lifts its head at the sound of the truck pulling in. Goblin gives a greeting bark, practically tripping over his oversized paws to launch out of the truck even as Eddie gripes at him to “Be careful, dammit!”

As you follow Eddie out of the truck and to the porch, the white dog shambles over on a stiff back leg, ignoring the playful jumping and licking Goblin gives in favor of coming up to sniff you. 

“This is Rosie,” Eddie says, patting her greying muzzle with a gentleness that twists something in your stomach. “She’s near older than me, was a great livestock guardian ‘til her age caught up. Been trying to train up Goblin to take her place but between you ‘n me I think his head might be full of rocks.”

As if he’s aware of the insult, Goblin gives an indignant yip and paws at Eddie’s knee; he gets laughed off by the two of you, zipping away with a deep sense of importance into the nearby forest while Rosie shambles back to her cozy porch spot.

It smells incredible, here, surrounded by so many trees- you take a deep breath, inhaling the rich pines, the verdant underbrush. Just past the house, there’s a fenced-in area with various plants spilling out of raised garden beds. You can almost smell the summer strawberries and crisp veggies. 

On the other side of the fence is a plastic-sheeted greenhouse, LED lights inside making the whole thing glow artificial purple. Eddie catches you staring, then gives a wink, laying one long finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t go tellin’ the Sheriff on me and I’ll give you a joint for your troubles.”

“Deal.” Wasn’t a hard sell at all- at the rate this is going, you’re dying to get high with this man. 

Eddie grabs your pack out of the truck bed and leads you across the dirt road, pointing out the fence lines in the distance, and a barn that you can just make out through a gap in the trees. 

“Sheep, cows, horses, all that way. This way-” his hand rests between your shoulder blades, steering you towards a boot-worn path, “-is the guest shack. Beehives’ll be just down the hill from where you’re stayin’.”

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at you- “I’ll take you to see ‘em tomorrow. Promise. I just don’t want you goin’ by yourself and getting stung to death, y’hear?”

Not for the first time today, you wish, desperately, to tell him things you shouldn’t. I was actually an apprentice beekeeper for a year, I know my way around a hive. Studied entomology and agriculture in college before I lost myself in the worst mistake of my life. You know that pesky little J I’ve got on my wrist…?

But if you start talking, you won’t stop. And besides, you’re not planning to stay here long enough for your secrets to matter.

So instead, you press your lips into a line, looking solemn, nodding in agreement until he’s satisfied and continues on. 

The dirt path leads right to the shack, and Eddie opens the door to let you in. It’s about the size of a studio apartment- wood stove and sink next to the bathroom door, twin bed draped with a thick quilt budged up under the single window. Small, but homey and clean.

As you take it in, spinning in a slow circle, Eddie sets your duffel next to the bed and runs a hand over the top of his head, haloed frizz of his hair springing back into place. “Ain’t much, I know- usually just host the town rascals; they bring their sleeping bags and fight over who gets the mattress. But the sheets are washed, and-”

“Eddie.” You stop his rambling with a hand to his arm. “Seriously, it’s great. Better than great. I was probably gonna end up sleeping on the streets tonight, and you saved me from that. So… thank you. I mean it.”

The vulnerability in your own voice catches you off guard, but you decide to lean in to it. Eddie’s been nice for no reason- or, rather, because he seems to be a kind person- and you want to make sure he hears how grateful you are for a place to stay.

He’s staring down at your hand on his bare arm, eyes clouded with something you can’t parse out; you draw your hand back, which prompts him to speak- “Shit, darlin’. It’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you like.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist, arms crossing over your chest, rocking back on your heels. There’s a sudden swell of panic rising like bile in your throat; this morning, you were hell-bent on leaving, and now, you think it’ll kill you not to stay.

“Listen-” Eddie’s eyes snap up at the urgency in your voice, but you manage to push through- “I know I didn’t tell you much, about where I came from, or what I did to end up…”

On my own. The words stick in your throat, tears pricking threateningly at the corners of your vision. “...out here. But I grew up on a farm. I’m used to working livestock, riding horses- I can be helpful. Can earn my keep over the weekend, at least, doing whatever you need-”

Eddie interrupts with a shake of his head, your stomach plummeting until he says, “Got enough farmhands as it is, honey. Don’t need you getting your pretty hands dirty.”

“There has to be something. I can’t cook worth a damn, but I can clean-”

“Hey.” Eddie’s tone of voice slips into a low, soothing register, like you’re a spooked animal caught in a trap. He steps closer, and when you don’t flinch, he settles his big hands on the tops of your shoulders. “Shh. It’s okay. Like I said earlier- I’m not expecting nothin’ from you. Okay?”

There’s gotta be some sort of magical effect happening, an old Celtic carving under the floorboards, maybe a witch's spell braided in with the dried herbs hanging on the far wall. You’ve never felt so looked at before, like you’ve swam beyond your depth and Eddie’s hands are a life raft.

His eyes flit around your face, taking in the expressions you’re surely flickering through before he says, quietly- “If you want, how ‘bout you stay ‘til the end of summer. Help out where you can, and come Fair time, I’ll deal you in on the profits.”

You open your mouth to argue, and smooth as butter, his right hand slips up your shoulder, tattooed fingers wrapping firm around the back of your neck, thumb tapping the pulse point under your jaw, insistent- “This way, you’ll have cash enough in your pocket to go anywhere you want. It’s a good deal and you damn well better take it.”

You wonder if he can feel the jackrabbit pulse of your heartbeat under his thumb. When you nod, he gives a dimpled smile, satisfied. “Good. Now I’ll let you settle in and get washed up for supper. Come on over to the main house when you’re ready.”

Before the door shuts behind him, Eddie adds, “And don’t get too excited. I ain’t much of a cook, neither.”

After his footsteps have retreated down the path, you collapse onto the mattress, springs squeaking. You flip to stare up at the ceiling, running your fingertips over the ghost of his touch branded against your neck, almost nauseous from elation.

A whole summer. On Eddie’s farm. With Eddie. 

After a few minutes of deep breathing, you get up to unpack your duffel, then fold your meager clothes supply neatly into the top drawer of an old oak dresser in the corner, still room enough for your canteen.

The last thing in your bag is a twine-wrapped leather pouch. Your butterfly knife makes quick work of the knots, and then, the last of your most precious things in the world are laid out on the bed. 

A certificate of completion from Indiana U’s Beekeeping Department, folded and creased but still valid, signed by your last field mentor. 

A driver’s license with your old address, square photo of a younger and more hopeful you smiling back.

And lastly, an engagement ring. Gold, with a teardrop-shaped diamond center and sparkling accent stones trailing up either side of the band. 

It twinkles when you hold it up to the evening sunbeam streaming through the window; reflective pinpricks of light scatter and dance across the quilt.

In quick succession, you slide everything back into the pouch, securing it with the drawstring before burying it inside the hidden pocket of your bag.

Then, you shove the duffel under the bed until it hits the wall, and turn away to wash up for dinner.

[slytherinshua]

SEA BREEZE KISSES

genre. fluff. warnings. kissing. not proofread so sorry if there are mistakes specifically in tense cause i usually don't write in present tense rip. pairing. wonbin x fem!reader. wc. 757. request. no. a/n. it's taken me this long to write for wonbin which is low-key embarrassing BUT WE'RE HERE FINALLY ‼️ also watermelon by lucy is so perfect for this fic just saying <3

The fabric of the vintage denim feels rough under your fingertips— your thumbs tucked securely in the belt loops of your boyfriend’s jeans as you hold onto his waist tightly, making sure there was no chance you could fall as he pedals along the oceanside road. The wind from the coastal sea breeze sends the subtle notes of his cologne to your nose, and you relax your cheek onto his back, completely at ease.

You almost feel as if this moment couldn’t get any more perfect. You have absolutely everything you could ever ask for. Your boyfriend who you haven’t seen in almost 5 months, your favourite sundress perfectly tailored to show off your best features, the most perfect weather imaginable and the deserted beach just for the two of you. You wish everyday could be as serene as this.

Wonbin taps the brakes on the bicycle gently, slowing to a stop as he reaches the pathway down to the beach. You get off first, exchanging giddy laughter and a knowing look with him before you take off running to the shore. 

“Y/n!! It’s not fair! You got a head start!” His shouts reach your ears along with the relaxing sound of the lapping waves, but you don’t bother turning around to see him struggle to catch up to you. You know he’s faster than you anyway. Within a couple seconds, he collides with your body in a back hug as both your feet finally reach the shoreline. 

You both laugh, holding onto each other’s arms as if either one would float away if you weren’t stuck together the entire time. The water feels cool against your bare legs, but you quickly realize that the bottom centimetres of Wonbin’s jeans have gotten soaked.

“These are nice jeans, baby! Don’t ruin them.” You crouch down, not minding if the hem of your dress got a little wet. You carefully roll up the bottom of the pant legs until they hit a bit below his knees. “We’ll probably get completely soaked anyway but-”

Before you can even finish your sentence, a squeal escapes your lips as Wonbin lifts you up in his arms without warning. He laughs at you, his eyes forming small crescent moons as he spins you around before placing you back down on your feet. Your lips collide next, the sweet strawberry lip gloss you always wear transferring onto Wonbin’s lips. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off once he pulls away, but instead swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting the sticky gloss.

“New flavour?” He laughs, his hands holding your waist close to him.

“It’s been 5 months. They don’t last forever.” You smile, running your hands through the long locks of his dark hair. It’s significantly longer than the last time you saw him. Before, you couldn’t think that you could ever love how Wonbin looks more, but now you see that you’re proven wrong, once again. The long wolf cut frames his face perfectly, and you quickly get addicted to the soft feeling of the strands between your fingers.

“You mean you were wearing your lip gloss without me there to kiss it off?” He teases, tilting his head to the side. You can only nod, playing along with the lighthearted mood.

“I won’t do it again, sir.” You fake salute in response which only makes Wonbin laugh louder and clutch onto your waist tighter. But his touch is always gentle, just like he is. He’s so full of love for you that it’s infectious, and you can practically feel your heart swelling in your chest.

“I love you.” You mumble once your boyfriend’s giggles died down a little. You want to save the moment in your memory forever. The way his lips curve up into the cutest of smiles and his hand squeezes your hip gently with love. The waves rushing over your ankles and the smell of fresh sea air only add to the moment. 

He whispers it back to you and captures your lips with his again— this kiss lasting longer than the first one. It’s filled with unmeasurable passion and uncountable promises, and even though it’s silent, you can tell exactly what he wants to convey to you through it. You respond in just the same way, pulling him closer to you and melting completely in the feeling of his soft lips on yours.

Wonbin proves to you, as he always does, that every moment can become just a little more perfect than it already is.

↳ riize taglist: @eternalgyu,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @weird-bookworm,, @haecien,, @seolboba,, @cyberpunksunwoo,, @cosmicwintr,, @chiiyuuvv,, @evalevaeva,, @lecheugo

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[shamrockqueen]

The summer of 85

Pairing : Robert Pronge x Reader (80s style)

Warnings : R18, Naughty behavior, caught him by surprise, smut, he hates to see you leave but loves watching you go

Word count : 3167

Chris Evans Masterlist

Robert didn’t particularly like this neighborhood, and he certainly didn’t care for the pressed-shirt types that populated it. But, the house wasn’t expensive, and it suited all of his needs. The way he saw it, as long as he kept his distance from all the white picket fence type of people, he’d do just fine.

He was working on a shitbox car in the attached garage—another cheap purchase, but it did just enough to carry him this far. The summer sun was cooking him in the un-air conditioned space, even with the garage door pulled up to allow the occasional breeze to come in.

Robert cursed upon catching his finger on a poorly placed hole near what he was sure was the carburetor. He jerked back, tossing an oily rag back against the ground in a huff before nursing his sore finger.

He tried to take a breather, wiping his clean hand over his neck. Better to clear away the sweat that had built up on his skin before stepping away from the mess. He went into the driveway to catch that bit of breeze that rolled past the house, and it didn’t come alone.

You were riding past the house on your bike, hair blown back in the wind and the sun kissing your exposed skin. It was the first thing that caught his eye, with the last being your cutoff denim shorts tightly hugging your ass.

You had ole Robert turning his head just as you passed his trash bins. It wasn’t until you rolled your pedals back to brake, coming to a solid stop as your shoe hit the pavement. He quickly averted his eyes the second they connected with yours, leaving him to miss the small and mischievous smile that pulled along your lips.

You caught the moment he dared to look back at you, giving him a friendly wave. He stared back for a second, confused by any actual neighborly behavior, let alone from someone like you.

He waved back before you turned away, watching as you kicked back off the road and cycled away. You left him with just the short memory of your shapely figure working over a blue cruiser bicycle.

He tried to clear his mind by putting his focus back on the car, but he never made much progress. He was quickly admitting defeat after an hour of fucking around with it.

Tossing his tools back in their box, he reached for the pull cord to yank the door to the garage closed when he heard a familiar spin of bicycle spokes. He spared a glance out at the road and was surprised by a familiar face.

You were off your bike this time, choosing instead to roll it along the road.

He offered another wave, much like you had upon your first passing, only this time you spoke back to him in return.

“Hello”

Your voice sounded sweet, even airy, and it easily caught Robert off guard. “Uh, hey there.”

“What's your name?” You chirped back.

“Me?” He mouthed back, barely audible. You recognized the gesture all the same.

“Is there someone else in there with you? You laughed.

He scoffs before answering the previous question. “My name’s Robert.”

“Do you have a bike pump, Robert?” You asked.

“What?” It was all he'd given back as a response, somewhat dumbfounded as to why the hell you were even talking to him in the first place.

“Do you..” you began to repeat, only to be cut off midway.

“I heard you; I just…why?” He finally spit out the question. Why?

Why were you smiling at him, battering your lashes in his direction? Why were you even giving him a second glance, let alone asking him for anything?

“My tire went flat.” You say as you roll your bike closer, crossing onto his concrete driveway and overstepping an invisible boundary.

Robert didn’t answer again, standing mostly agast with the garage cord still in between his fingers. He doesn’t know how to talk to gentle young things like you, and he gaped at the absurdity of the conversation like a fish out of water.

“You don’t want to help me, Robert?” You said with a soft pout as you dug the toe of your shoe side to side on the concrete.

He counters back quickly, although his words end up being fumbled. “No…I.” He had to think for a second, “I can help; just give me a second,” and with that, he pushed the garage door back up and turned back to look for the needed bike pump.

You follow him inside, rolling your bike alongside you as he disappears behind the car. It annoyed him a little bit that you didn’t just stay put; in fact, you seemed to linger just a little too closely for his own comfort.

You’re just a peach, and he’s anything but sweet.

Your skin was a little sweaty from your afternoon ride, giving you an unearthly glow. He, on the other hand, felt grungy from the perspiration that stuck to his clothes and hair after working with the car.

He’s digging for anything that resembles a bike pump. He had agreed without thinking about whether he actually had one. Yet, low and behold, just the right item was found buried within some unpacked boxes.

“So you’re new around here?” You asked, a sweet lilt to your voice as you ignored any of the negativity in his body language.

“Uh, yeah. Moved in a month or two ago.” He answered back as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

You bounded back over, nearly splayed across his shoulder, as you watched him examine the tire for any holes. He did find another reason for it to have gone flat.

“Shit, it looks like the cap for the air valve is missing. It’ll just run out of air aga…”

“Oh, here you go.” You quickly and conveniently pulled the little black cap from your shorts pocket, holding it out for him to take.

Robert is well confused as to why it’s in your pocket instead of on your bike, but as his brows knit together, he found he didn’t care to ask. He only wanted to get this shit done. It was hard enough to work while trying to keep an eye on the beautiful creature that had just invaded his space.

“So, what made you decide on this neighborhood?” You asked, rocking back and forth on your heels as you stood back up from your hunched position.

You toed around his garage as he pumped the bike tire out of his line of vision but not his mind.

“Uh, I don’t know. The house was cheap, I guess.” He answered back.

You ran your finger along the dusty lines in a small fridge at the corner of the garage as you continued to speak. “Meet any other neighbors?”

“Uh, no. Hey, I’m trying to do this, so if you could..yeah.” He couldn’t string together the precise words, but his meaning came through. He wanted you to cut out whatever the hell you were doing where he couldn’t see.

Not that you would actually listen, but you did give him a sassy “Sor-ry.”

“Thank you for helping me. I promise I’ll be very appreciative.” You said as you cracked the door open on the little fridge, feeling the cool air on your shins, before leaning down to look at its contents. The sound only just made him stop tinkering with the bike and toss you a glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t until he heard the ‘pst’ of someone cracking open a can of his beer that it spurred him back onto his feet.

“Hey, get the fuck out of there!” He yells behind his shoulder before fully standing. He watched, fuming a little, as you brought the open can to your lips for a taste.

He rushed across the small garage to rip the cab from your fingers, shouting out, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” before knocking the cab down instead.

It spilled out over the both of you, coating your clothes and his hands.

“Jesus, god damn it!” As he shakes the beer from his fingers as he sets the now empty can aside, trying not to just throw it at you.

You only gave a little “oh no” as you pulled at your now wet clothes.

He was already tearing at his soggy t-shit to pull it free from his body, not wanting anymore sticky skin. You followed suit, pulling your top over your head and letting your soft and unencumbered breasts fall free from the fabric. A cool breeze blew through from the opening of the garage, making your bare buds perk up against the chill.

Robert was at a loss for even a single thought at the sight of you. That breeze is the first thing to snap him back into reality. He’s at a loss as to what to do first: cover you up or shut the garage so no other neighbors could see the display you’d made.

He moves quickly now, jumping after the cord for the garage door and yanking it down until it hits the cement with a hard clunk.

He turned back as you began to unbutton your shorts to free yourself from the wet denim. He has to rush over and grab the hem of your shorts just to keep you from slipping them down your body and completely exposing yourself to him.

He shouts out at you with “What the fuck are you doing?”

“My clothes got dirty.” You say this as if it were a matter of fact, like this was something completely normal to do in the presence of a strange man.

“What?!” Robert was entirely confused, half certain that none of this could be reality. Surely he had passed out from the heat, and this was some gorgeous fever dream.

“You spilled beer on my clothes; I have to take them off.” You spoke softly, more demure as you slid your hands over his as he gripped your undone jeans. You were gentle, especially compared to the stiffening of his muscles as you ran your nails lightly up and down his arms.

When Robert wasn’t immediately responsive, you taped at the nose piece of his glasses, pushing them up his face as you taunted him. "Geez, you’re thick.”

You had gotten close, nearly tickling the tip of his nose with yours.

“You know, I was hoping to say that when I actually got your pants off.”

You were devious. You had never seen ‘Robert’ in the neighborhood before and you sure as hell hadn’t seen any moving trucks to signal a new neighbor's presents in your cozy little burb. He looked wild, messy long hair, wide shoulders and a thick air of aggravation around him. The muscles in his neck had tightened as he had fought against the inner workings of his car.

You had thought you had a shot, but he had seemed so unreceptive. You definitely didn’t account for the spilling of the beer you had taken, but you worked it in your favor.

He simply puffed out a sharp breath, looking down at your exposed skin and realizing the absurdity of fighting against you. It was the first time he actually stopped to ask himself why he was trying to stop you.

He let you take his hands in yours, helping him push the wet denim down your body until they finally fell to the dusty floor before you kicked them away.

His voice was much more subdued, almost weak, as you cornered him against the side of his car. “What the hell are you doing?” He spoke more in awe this time. He was never this lucky, so you’d have to excuse his consistent skepticism.

You smiled once his hands had left the hem of your shorts and spread along your bare skin. You nuzzled over his cheek, leaning in to ghost your lips along the scruff of his mustache and beard. Whispering lowly, “I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” before finally stealing a heated little kiss.

It was quick, even searing. Even within this sweltering garage, he made your skin flush even hotter. At first, he hadn’t been as receptive as you’d hoped he would be, but as he pressed into the kiss you knew he’d finally come around.

Robert completely switched, becoming more aggressive with the way he handled you as he dragged his teeth over your lower lip before sucking it between them. You smiled with a happy whine as his mouth tore away to pepper sloppy, desperate kisses over your jaw and along your neck and shoulder.

Your fingers spread over his wide shoudlers, pulling him closer until his chest was squished against your plush breasts. His hands gripped either side of your waist, holding on tight as if you could fly away at any moment.

His fingers didn't wander over the parts of your body where you needed them the most. Out of a little frustration, you basically had to grab his digits too harshly so as to guide him to drag them over your hip. His hand didn't want to leave your soft flesh, and you laughed as you forced it over your belly and down the front of your panties.

“C’mon, I need you to touch me, Robert.” You sounded impatient, but you were met with an equally needy growl of agreement as it rumbled from his chest.

His fingers kicked into action as soon as a tip touched one of your hidden folds. You hummed with joy, giggling against his lips as you stole another kiss.

His fingers wove through your lower lips to play at your entrance. You’re raking your fingers through his long hair as he’s dragging his thick digits through the soft petals of your soppy cunt.

His left hand traveled further down your body, sliding through the waistband of those lace panties. His right fingers pumped through your wet sex as he fought to gain purchase around the thin material of your underwear. His mind was too preoccupied with bumping his knuckles along your inner walls as he broke his lips away again to bite at your neck. The bruises he’d leave would bloom angry and purple by tomorrow.

An animalistic part of his brain became fed up with this last scrap of fabric as it stuck to your body, and his nails tore through it in protest before he ripped it with a sickening crack of snapping seams. It stayed stuck around the side of your other leg but fell to ribbons alongside the other.

His hands reached further, gripping your by the back of your soft squeezable thighs and hoisted you up so that your sneakers dangled a good 6 inches off the floor.

Your ass crashes against a shabby tool bench that helped to sandwich the two of you next to the car. It came with the house, and he was planning to just chuck it out, but somehow it became incredibly useful.

With you more or less safely perched at cock height, he began tearing apart his belt buckle so he could shimmy his jeans down to his thighs.

“Is this even fucking real?” He growls under his breath, moreso to himself, but you laugh anyway.

His hands were hungry, dragging and clawing over your body. It was as if he needed to memorize its shape, as if by some stroke of terrible luck you could disappear within an instant.

His boxer band is on display before he grabs a handful of cloth and denim to pull it down to his thighs. His cock is more alive than it had been in months, and with the option of real pussy on the line, it was throbbing, bobbing against his stomach as he pulled it free.

“Oh shit. Are you sure?” He still doubted, frustrating you just a little bit more.

You nod back, whimpering, “Yes, yes!”

“You’re not gonna turn back into a pumpkin the second I stick it in, will ya?” He chuckled, finally letting himself relax.

“Oh what, you think you’re fuckin funny all of a sudden?” You say as you wrapped your legs around his back to pull him flush against your lower body.

This time he’s taking the hint and aligning the tip with the soft pink opening of your flower. He nearly wanted to commit the image of it to memory, but for now he couldn’t leave either of you waiting a single second, and he pushed through your tight little opening.

Oh, what a beautiful young lady you were! You were practically flexing around his cock as he pushed further in.

“Fuck Me.” He gritted out as he ground his teeth together.

He fucks you just like that, bent over your splayed body, carefully pumping through your tight channel. He was eager now, paying no mind to your tight expression as he stretched your walls apart.

His hips started to piston back and forth, making the old wooden legs of that work bench creak in protest of the misuse. You were hanging off the edge, one shoed foot propped up by the heel on the side of the bench, and the other grazing against the cement floor in the hopes of balancing itself.

You whine at the tickling and the flutter of his cock dragging along your inner walls, stirring your pussy and making you cry. You sang his name—a tune he’d never thought he’d hear sung from such sweet lips.

The garage is humid, with thick and sticky hot air clouding over you both as he plunged in and out of your wet heat. Each slam of his hips sent a ricochet of something hot, like a satisfying burn shooting up your belly and smoldering against the back of your eyelids.

Each shot of that white-hot bliss built into a waiting inferno until it all burst apart. You nearly couldn’t breathe as you unraveled around him, and he ground his teeth together as his own end neared.

For as fuck drunk as you had made him, he still had some sense to pull himself free from your gushing flower before his cock began to seize. Instead, he spilled out all over your soft belly.

His cock continued to twitch, dribbling out a last few beads of white nectar before beginning to soften.

Robert was fighting to catch his breath while being suffocated by the cloud of heat the two of you had made in that small garage.

“Fuck.” He groaned as he pulled his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face, pushing up his glasses in the process.

You had to push yourself to sit up before carefully hopping down. The cum was still thick and wet, threatening to drip down your stomach and between your legs from the change of position.

“You’ve made me all dirty.” You whined.

“Uh, sorry.” His eyes were lidded, barely registering your words other than those that required an apology from himself.

“Well, I’m gonna need a shower.” You spoke, but he wasn’t really listening anymore. He’s still so dumbfounded as you saunter right for the entrance to his house from the measly little garage.

It took him a minute to regain his bearings; only after taking a breath did he realize that the strange temptress that had bested him was now wandering through his house.

“Wait, a fuckin minute!” He shouted as he ran after you.

@alternativegirl23 (I’m a big fan)

[yellowbunnydreams]

Only Donors Left Alive [Vampire! Dave Miller x F! Reader] (Part 1)

~By popular demand, like weirdly popular for a cameo character in another fic, we're writing Vampire Dave today! Wooo! Also a big shout out to @ruh--roh-raggy and @springlockedfool for being feral over this man with me and springlockedfool for making some awesome art of the wet spaghetto based on our conversations/Do You Need Some Vitamin D?.~

Taglist: @ruh--roh-raggy @springlockedfool

CW: 18+ MINORS DNI- Female Reader, legal age gap, older man/younger woman, graphic acts of violence, biting, knife-play, blood, blood-drinking/licking, unbalanced power dynamic, anaemia, possessive behaviour, partial nudity

Hurricane was a small town with a nothing of particular note going on in it. Or at least, that was what you had been told by the realtor when you'd been looking for somewhere quiet to move to after you'd decided to move out of your parent's house. They seemed content to let you move to a small apartment in somewhere suburban, it had apparently been much more of a thriving town in the eighties, but you preferred the quiet.

As you'd dragged your suitcase from the cab in front of the apartment complex on the edge of town however, you'd already begun to notice a few things that weren't quite right with Hurricane. Although, you easily brushed it off as nerves with moving to somewhere unfamiliar and new.

The apartment complex itself was a drab, dusty grey concrete building that looked like it hadn't been externally renovated since it was built some time in the peak of Hurricane's history and as you let yourself inside the foyer, you noticed the lights had a sickly glow to them. Flickering hallogen lamps that gave you a subtle creepy feeling, like you were walking into somewhere you weren't meant to be.

The place was crap, the rent was cheap, but you were sure you could make it work out for yourself. At least, when all your things arrived over the next few days.

Sighing to yourself, you looked at the notice in your hand and shoved it roughly into the pocket of your denim jacket. Noticing a little elevator nestled into the back of the lobby, you went to try the button, waiting for the doors to open up. Hearing the grinding of metal against metal, and the squeal of the service brakes as the doors to the elevator shaft creaked open, the floor itself an inch or so above the level it should be, you decided it was in your best long-term interests to take the stairs.

Dragging the suitcase up wasn't easy, especially when you realised that you were on the top floor. But you had paid extra on the deposit for a larger apartment, and with four units of each floor and only two on the top floor, you weren't going to complain too much.

The hum of the lights as your breath sounded loud in your ears was somewhat comforting. Looking between the two doors, fishing the paper out of your pocket, you confirmed the number and shuffled over to your new door, wrapping your fingers around the metalic key in your pocket and unlocking the door.

Despite the dingy exterior of the building, the apartment inside was quite clean and somewhat modern. Spacious, painted a soft creamish beige on the walls, the floors were shockingly even laid down with a fresh layer of linoleum. The cupboards were painted a faint pastel bluish-grey, and the vinyl counters were clearly freshly laid, mimicking a black granite. The whole apartment smelt faintly like fresh paint and bleach.

"Well...this is home, I guess." You muttered to nobody. Leaving your suitcase by the door, you decided to explore the space.

The rest of the apartment was just as spacey. A slight hallway, a combined kitchen and lounge, you were quite surprised by the spacious bathroom too, the dark tiling along the walls contrasting to the white floors and a seemingly generous shower. And finally, the bedroom, it was perhaps a little smaller than you originally anticipated, but it was still large enough for you to fit a double bed inside and it came with a built in wardrobe along one wall. This place could easily be home, once the smell of heavy duty cleaning products aired out and you made sure to check the lease on how you could decorate.

Looking outside, you realised how late it was getting and decided to see if you could find somewhere that would deliver food to you. Scrolling through your phone and selecting a pizza place that sounded good, you began to unpack what little belongings you had managed to fit inside your suitcase, wanting to keep yourself busy.

After-all, you were sure you would have time to look around the sleepy little town in the morning.

The next few days were uneventful, much to your boredom and frustration.

All your boxes had arrived, you'd set up furniture, made sure appliances were up and connected. But you had begun to realise there were a few things that were not quite right with Hurricane when you had ventured out into town to grab supplies and things.

Firstly, there were the telephone poles, covered in staples like they were once decorated with posters of some kind, but the few you saw seemed to be missing pets and the occasional human face staring back at you. It made you sad, but when you asked the cashiers about it at the local store, they simply stared at you with wide eyes like they were surprised you had noticed. People didn't talk to each other in the same way as they had back home either. Back there, you went into a store and you could hear something like ten different conversations, but you had only heard whispered conversations amongst small groups that seemed tense when you passed by.

But you shrugged it off, you'd moved states, moved towns, brushing it off as simply strange, you tried to ignore the gut feeling you had that there was something else lurking beneath the surface of it all.

Entering your apartment building, you nearly tripped over a package sat in the lobby. Glancing over it, you realised that the box was addressed to the unit besides yours. Despite being there for a few days, it had seemed strange to you that you hadn't noticed anybody else living in the building, but you assumed that you would all meet at some point.

Balancing your groceries on top, you grunted as you picked up the box. Surprised by it's weight as you glanced at the elevator before sighing and lugging it up the stairs, knowing your legs were going to look great after how many times you'd taken the stairs recently. Although you had to admit that you really hoped your landlord fixed the elevator soon and allowed you to have a day off from going up and down to the top floor each and every time.

The usually twenty minute climb took about forty with the additional box and groceries.

When you reached the top step, you were glad to put the box down. Breathing hard and sweat beading against your brow in the Utah heat, heart pounding in your chest and ears as you let out a frustrated sigh. Closing your eyes for just a moment to gather yourself.

"Well aren't you a pretty sight?" The voice behind you suddenly made you gasp and whip around, heart beating even faster as you were met at first with a white-ish shirt that seemed a little baggy for whoever was wearing it.

Stepping back involuntarily, you noticed a tall, lanky man standing a little too close to you for your comfort. Having to look up slightly, you watched a crooked smile creep across his gaunt face, dark eyes darting about in a way that made you wonder if perhaps he was as flustered as you. Glancing over him as a whole, he appeared to be wearing some kind of unbranded security uniform, white with black epaulettes and black slacks. Not hiding his wiry figure, he looked greyish and like a particularly strong breeze might take him out upon initial inspection.

"Sorry?" The word tumbled from you quickly, and his gaze finally settled on yours for long enough to realise that he had blueish eyes, although they looked darker thanks to the heavy dark circles beneath them giving them a more sallow appearance.

"Oh you don't need to apologise, sugar, it's not often I get visitors all the way up here. And certainly fewer that look as....delectable...as you." The crooked grin spread, revealing crooked teeth, those blue eyes focused on you intently still as he looked down at you, you could feel your cheeks heating up under his intensity. But something about that same intensity made your skin crawl uncomfortably.

"I'm not a visitor, I live on this floor. That means you must be my neighbour, right?"

The man blinked and you felt a sense of relief washing over you as his smile faltered for a moment before that lopsided, cock-sure grin crept back onto his sharp face. Rubbing his hand along his black slacks before offering it to you, making you worry what he'd been touching before you tentatively shook it with a polite smile, caught off guard as his thin, dexterous fingers squeezed and you felt the strength behind his boney appearance. His skin felt cool to the touch and a little clammy, and you thought that maybe he'd just wiped down his sweaty hands to make it a little more pleasant for you.

"So you're my new little tenant. My my, aren't I a lucky guy."

"Come again?"

"Oh I will, pet, don't you worry. Dave Miller, landlord and your neighbour." He introduced himself as he kept hold of your hand for just a moment after you loosened your grip, making you laugh nervously. Bringing your hands back to your sides as you tried not to let your shocked expression show. "How are you enjoying the unit? I've had to perform some renovations after the last tenant....left some damage."

The way Dave spoke was a little odd, and you heard something of a British accent in that raspy, gravelly voice. People could be socially awkward, you reasoned with yourself, and Dave didn't look like the kind of man who easily socialised as his eyes once again were darting about in a way that made you subconsciously think of a wild animal. His dark hair looked slightly greasy, tousled like he's simply run his fingers through it when he woke up.

"The apartment is great! I love how spacious it is." Glad to change the topic as you suddenly remembered your groceries, picking them off of the top of the box and gesturing towards the large package with your free hand. "Oh, and um, I found this in the lobby? I hope it's yours, it was a pain lugging it up here, but at least I got my cardio in!"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, thank you sugar. And don't worry, I know you did, I could hear you all the way downstairs." Continuing to give that wide, crooked smile that felt uncomfortable as you swore his eyes darted to your neck and trailed up before focusing on you once again.

Bending over, Dave picked up the package easily, making you raise an eyebrow as you were still thinking about how rude his comment seemed, were you really that out of shape carrying up the box that he could hear you?

"I should...go put these groceries away,"

"Of course, I should put mine away too. It's been a pleasure meeting you," your name dripped from his tongue in a way that made your heart race and cringe at the same time. Like he was almost tasting it, a thought that made you shudder as you headed for your door. Turning your head over your shoulder to see if he was still there and found him staring after you, seeming to watch you with that crooked smile that didn't quite reach his darting eyes.

You decided you didn't know what to think of your landlord as you closed the door behind you and shut him out.

You rarely saw Dave after your initial introduction, at least for the first week or so. Occasionally you'd spot him in the evenings wearing that white uniform shirt that you were sure he'd stained permanently grey, but whenever he saw you, that lazy smile creeped onto him and you couldn't help but smile back. Often afterwards, you were left confused and disoriented by the action, like something had over ridden your senses to force the action. Dave made you feel slightly uneasy, at the very core of each interaction.

As did the growing number of missing posters in Hurricane.

You'd been in the supermarket when you heard your name called, one of the locals that you recognised as working in one of the mechanic's shops was stood by the register with a frown on his bearded face. The elderly cashier looking concerned as you pointed to yourself before moving over cautiously, wondering if you broke some small town ettiquette.

"You're new to town, right?" He asked gruffly, making you shrug and smile a little nervously at the sudden question.

"Yeah, moved in about a week or so ago now, sir."

"You live in that apartment complex on the edge of town, don't ya?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful, there's been...things...happening..." He gesticulated vaguely and the older cashier scoffed, blinking behind her thick glasses at you as she smacked on on his shoulder, tutting disapprovingly.

"Don't mind him lovely, he don't know how to talk to people. What he means to say is that there have been a few people going missing in Hurricane recently, and all the locals are nervous. Especially since they're mostly out of towners and...well...people that live on the fringes of our social circles." She explained, making you think back to your walk home, how you had noticed a few more posters up than when you first arrived. "Do you need a ride home? Jason here can give you a ride, I worry about a young lady walking home this late if there's been all this strangeness about."

You smiled and thanked her, assuring her and who you found out to be her son that you would be fine. You were always fine. If anything, you refused to mention how it felt like the last few nights you had been followed by somebody. However, whenever you turned around or glanced into a reflective surface as you walked past, you never saw anybody. Putting it down to your paranoia about the missing people. Soon, it was time to walk home again however, and you said your goodbyes.

The streets were beginning to turn dark as you walked through the cooler evening temperatures. Stopping to look at one of the telephone poles that had many posters stapled to it, finding a total of five people and four pets that had gone missing over the short time you'd lived in Hurricane.

If anybody had been more superstitious, they might have blamed you for it all.

As you were lost in thought however, you heard the screech of barely working brakes and turned to look at the noise naturally. Spotting a Toyota Corolla pulling up, beat up silver, the tyres looked like they were on the verge of needing replacing, and as the window rolled down, it was both to your dread and delight that you realised it was Dave behind the wheel. An uncustomary scowl on his face even as he looked at you.

"The fuck are you doing out here?" His rasp sent a shiver down your spine, frowning, you crossed your arms across your chest and raised an eyebrow.

"Good evening to you too Dave. I tried knocking on your door this morning to let you know that another package had arrived for you." Watching his scowl lessen as he ran his slender hand over his angular face. Sucking his crooked teeth slightly.

"I don't do mornings, sugar, no matter how tempting the little treat at my door is." You felt your cheeks flushing as you felt that gut twist once more despite the flutter that the compliment caused in your chest. "You shouldn't be out here all alone."

"So people have said."

"Let me give you a ride."

"Absolutely not."

"Alright, let me give you a ride back, please, sugar. This ain't even about rent, it's the principle of the thing." Dave sighed, looking at you with a scowl until you sighed and nodded your head. Walking around to his passenger side and barely had yourself buckled in before he pulled a u-turn in the middle of the road.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Nope, Dave Miller. I'd rather hear you screaming that." The comment crawled under your skin and made you cringe, watching that sleazy smile come back. There was the Dave you'd seen and knew. Unsure on how to respond as he drove through the darkened streets, hurtling towards your complex with a practised precision.

"Are you heading to work?" Attempting to change the subject, he nodded as his face contorted into a mask of concentration, his eyes darting wildly, although they seemed to focus a little too intently on you whenever you spoke to him directly.

"Yeah, the night-shift is always fun as long as you're not afraid of what goes bump in it." His way of speaking still resonated to you as a bit odd, but despite it being something like the second time you'd spoken to your landlord, you couldn't help but think that it was simply him.

Sooner than you expected, you were outside your building. Unclipping your seatbelt quickly, only for Dave's hand to reach out and hold onto your wrist. Your eyes widening as you turned to look at him, watching that somewhat feral smile with sharp, slightly disarrayed teeth lazily spread as he gazed up at you, bending in his seat and bringing your hand up to his cold, thin lips. Making you cringe physically and mentally, seemingly to his amusement as he began to chuckle. Swearing his fingers were positioned like he was taking your pulse before he let you go, licking his lips slightly and humming in thought.

"Have a goodnight, sugar. Make sure to lock your door tight, you wouldn't want....something...unsavoury...getting in, would you?" Phrasing it like a question, but your heart pounded as you weakly nodded and felt your body shaking slightly, climbing out of Dave's car and heading into your building as quickly as you could. Feeling his eyes burning into your back before you made it into the lobby and peered out, watching his silver car slowly pulling out of the parking lot once again.

No wonder the rent was so cheap. You weren't sure how anybody could stand being neighbours with Dave for extended periods of time.

[eoieopda]

Namjoon + “sibling’s best friend” except the sibling has been rooting for them to get together for years

combined with your other namjoon request 💕🫶🏻

Namjoon + “stuck in an elevator” bc god of destruction or simply bad luck idm either

the one with namjoon and the u-haul

2024 ETA: long after this was written, the user who requested this drabble admitted that they were a minor masquerading as an adult, violating my explicitly stated boundaries re: minors being prohibited from interacting with me and my content. this user has since been blocked.

ft. jeon!reader, moving day, a mild age gap, jk being a lil shit as usual, and blondejoon 🥵 (cw: claustrophobia / brief depiction of a would-be anxiety attack)

If you ever managed to get your hands on your brother, you might kill him.

Of course, you’d have to find him first — and if your sixteen unanswered calls were any indication, Jeon Jungkook might’ve left this mortal coil already. Unfortunately for you and the rented U-Haul parked outside your apartment building, you needed that evasive little shit and his inhuman stamina.

More importantly, you’d needed him an hour ago when that rental clock started ticking.

The minutes you’d burned up already — firing text after unacknowledged text at your twin — were ones you’d quite literally pay for later in the form of late fees. Jungkook knew this, knew you, knew that your neurotic, Type-A brain had calculated exactly how much time would be needed for the two of you to orchestrate your cross-town move. Just like he knew you were simultaneously too weak to move these boxes yourself; and too poor to shell out for the full-day rental package or professional movers.

And yet, there he wasn’t.

You’d worn crop circles into the carpet already with your relentless pacing. One more step, and the pedometer built into your Apple Watch might give up altogether, explode into a cloud of sparks around your wrist. Worse, it might send out an emergency alert to the nearest mobile crisis unit and get your ass pink-slipped. Maybe, you think, you should try being still for once in your life. 

You hit the brakes so suddenly that the inertia makes you wobble, but you don’t fight it. Instead, you let that anxious momentum drop you unceremoniously onto the nearby sofa.

The one was supposed to be loaded up an hour ago.

Not that you’re counting.

Just as soon as you slump with a huff into the cushions, a rhythmic knock at your door yanks you back to your feet. All you see is red as you stagger over a sea of cardboard boxes, wind your way through garment bags, odds and ends to reach the entrance to your apartment. Your hand snaps like a bear trap around the doorknob when you finally clear the obstacle course; and you nearly rip the door off its hinges when your rage propels it open.

The preparatory breath you’d sucked in — gunpowder in your lungs, ready to pop off at your unbelievably tardy brother — instead leaves you in a startled gasp:

“Oh, God.”

Immediately, your face begins to burn with embarrassment. You don’t know what to do with your hands, either; they’re still balled up into fists and ready to swing. Fuck! Sweaty palms! You wipe them furiously on the back pockets of your denim shorts and try to keep the rest of you from liquifying.

“Actually,” comes a surprisingly soft voice from a body so contrary, “It’s pronounced Namjoon.”

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Not that lopsided, tight-lipped smile.

Anything but that.

You, a fool, blurt out the obvious, “You’re not Jungkook.”

Of course, this offering is worthless. The twerp who entered this world three minutes before you was sixty-three minutes late; and his friend — the one you still can’t believe Jungkook manages to keep — was standing in his place. His older, smarter friend, whose massive hands you picture when you —

Kim Namjoon has a laugh that makes less noise the more he means it. Based on the melodic little hiss that erupts in response to your declaration, he finds your buffoonery hilarious.

You are not long for this world, you fear.

“Got me there,” he concedes. Looking up to find him beaming at you, you’re not surprised that staring at his grin — the one that shows all his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle — feels a lot like staring into the sun.

Don’t you dare faint. You’ve survived three years with that face. You can and will be normal about this.

As if that wasn’t enough, Namjoon has the audacity to lay his palm flush against the door jam above your head and lean down and — shit, his biceps just look like that? All the time?

You’re already a puddle at his feet when Namjoon hums, “Heard you needed an extra set of hands.”

You want to ask if he’s psychic — his hands, in any context, are precisely what you need — but you don’t. You clear your throat and throw on your best approximation of nonchalance. Cross your arms over your chest in a way you hope looks casual, tilt your head to the side. 

You raise a single eyebrow before responding, laying it on thick, “So, he lives, huh? Texts you but not his own flesh and blood? Sends his poor hyung as a proxy?”

“I have free will, you know,” Namjoon chides you without any real heat. “And a free afternoon, too.”

He then shrugs his shoulders before pointing over yours. The target he’s acquired sits at the very edge of your peripheral vision, a beast in velvet upholstery. His grin is downright impish when he continues, “Unless your plan is to yeet that couch straight off the balcony, I suspect your options here are limited.”

If you’d been given the opportunity, you’re confident that you may have come up with some witty remark. Instead of ongoing banter, you get a hand on either side of your waist, picking you up and moving your rag doll body out of the doorway. Namjoon smirks as he sets you down, ignores your slacked jaw, and invites himself into your apartment.

On his way to the couch, he spots something that catches his eye. He pauses, bends down towards a laundry basket full of assorted bullshit, and pulls out what can only be described as a cursed object. It’s your most hideous and most beloved possession, having joined you in every major move since you left your parents’ house: a ceramic shelf-sitter in the form of a rooster, the body of which is entirely made of sculpted fruits. 

Namjoon is absolutely baffled by it, open mouth forming a circle as he stares down at his discovery. You should be baffled, you think, it’s God’s ugliest creation. Then, as if the force of his quiet blinking was too much for it to handle, the bunch of bananas composing its tail feathers pops off and promptly falls to the ground.

Horrified, he watches in slow motion as it hits the hardwood below with a thump. You watch as his shoulders sag; unable to tell whether the fond little tug in your chest is based on your weird, broken art, or how completely crushed he looks.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry!” He gasps, ducking down to grab the runaway appendage. Fuck the bird — it’s him. Then, he mutters directly to the object looking laughably small in his palm, “What’d you do me like that for? Rude as hell.”

Instinctively, you cross to where Namjoon stands in the center of your living room. When you reach him, you feel him brace himself for your reaction; but all you do is bend at the waist, grab a small tube of super glue from that same laundry basket, and hold it up. He glances from your fingers to your face.

“A must-have when you break shit as often as I do,” you chirp. Then, you gesture with your free hand to the basket. His gaze follows and locks onto the small, strawberry knee joint that you’d accidentally severed as you packed. To say that his eyes light up is an understatement.

Namjoon taps at the “made in” sticker on the bottom of the rooster and smirks, “This is what you get for buying American, honestly.”

_____

You didn’t have “spending time with Kim Namjoon” on today’s bingo card, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Lucky for you, he was stronger than your idiot brother and infinitely less frustrating to be around. The pair of you moved around your apartment like you were ballroom dancing; neither of you needing the steps called out to know them. It was easy, it was synchronized, and you didn’t have to beg him to stay on task.

Absolute none of that would be the case if your day had gone as planned.

In thirty minutes’ time, all of your possessions had been loaded into the U-Haul except one: the couch. Due to its bulkiness, you knew it’d be difficult to maneuver despite its relatively light weight.

Namjoon, boasting more brain cells than you by a long-shot, had suggested using the elevator. So long as it was angled properly, he reasoned, the two of you could make it fit without issue. Then, you wouldn’t need to wrangle the first neighbor you came across to help you pivot the blasted thing around every stairwell.

It was a short trip, only four floors, so you’d decided not to explain why you’d taken the stairs for every previous run of boxes.

Maybe you should have, because forty-five minutes have passed since you entered that elevator, and you are swiftly running out of ways to pretend that you’re fine.

From where you sit cross-legged on the elevator floor, you can hardly see Namjoon, who is believed to exist somewhere on the other side of your couch. Every now and then, there’d been a flash of blonde hair next to one of the couch’s arms — proof of life — but he’s more often invisible than not.

You’re okay with that fact, you realize. It means he can’t see the way your anxiety is manifesting only half a meter away from him.

“D’you think this call button even works?” He calls out to you, unknowingly contributing to the cold sweat slicking the small of your back, “I’ve pressed it a hundred times and — as you know — we haven’t been rescued.”

You wonder if you sound as strangled as you feel. Throat tight, you mutter, “Nothing in this building works. ‘S part of why I’m moving.”

Apparently, you do sound as strangled as you feel. You hear shifting in Namjoon’s corner of the elevator, and then you see his face materialize near the bottom of the couch. His eyebrows were initially furrowed, but the concern he carried there migrated. It settles and causes his eyes to widen when they find you.

“You alright?” He asks immediately. Sweetly.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, you would concede that you are — generally — more or less alright. You’ve been in worse places with worse company, and relatively speaking, this isn’t your ultimate nightmare. You’re capable of far greater panic than this.

In this moment, however, in this godforsaken metal box with walls that feel like they’re getting closer by the second, and stale air that gets heavier and heavier when you try to breathe it into your lungs, the walls of which are also getting —

Namjoon answers for you, decidedly but without even a hint of judgement, “You’re not alright.”

There’s more shuffling from the corner. Within a few moments, he manages to wriggle himself into a standing position. With two hands now on the couch’s spine, he glances urgently in your direction. His eyes soften, but you’re distracted by the loose lock of blonde hair that falls over his forehead, over them.

“If I find a way to you, does that make it better or worse?”

Of course, big-brain Kim Namjoon has the sense to ask. Of course, he’s emotionally intelligent enough to realize that joining you in your space could either calm your anxiety, or force it into X-Games mode. Of course, you feel like you’re being hydraulically pressed, so you don’t have the available brain cells to run a proper cost-benefit analysis.

So, you peep, “I — uhh, I don’t know?”

He purses his lips like he’s trying not to smile — because, as you’ve learned, he’s a good fucking person — but you feel a little bit less like you’re actively dying when you watch the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. Taking that gut reaction at face value, you swallow and wordlessly wave him over.

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

The way he grunts softly when he single-handedly pushes the couch further upright would make your whole body clench if it wasn’t already. The same is true of your rapid heart rate and the simmering desire to swoon. Wait — it’s called “fainting” if it’s a medical event, right? Whatever it is, the urge only gets stronger when he slots himself into the tiny bit of space at your side.

“Here — Oh, hang on,” He says, prompting you to look his way.

Your eyes catch him just in time to watch him wipe his hand off on his jeans, then hold it out to you. Without a second thought, you accept it. Squeezing slightly to express your gratitude, you smile and let your joint hands rest against your thigh. Like a shot of clonazepam, he has you calm in an instant.

A few moments of silence pass comfortably. Eventually, when your pulse returns to safety, you tilt your head back against the metal wall behind you and gaze upwards. The ceiling is back where it belongs, no longer inching towards you with the intent to flatten you against the floor. You breathe deeply then sigh out the exhale.

“I’m so glad I’m not trapped in here with Jungkook,” you announce, “If he were here, he’d be jumping up and down to try to get this thing to move, and I’d be nerve-barfing everywhere.”

“Good god,” Namjoon snorts. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye; he’s thoroughly amused, not at all grossed out by the picture you’ve painted. You know I’m right, you think.

It’s not clear if he knows you’re watching when his smile turns shy. He says it quietly, like he’s divulging some heavy secret, “Glad I called him off, then.”

You hum in agreement before those words actually register in your distinctly soup-like brain. When they finally do, you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him in confusion. For the first time in three years, he gets to hear what it sounds like when you buffer in real time:

“Sorry, you — huh?”

The math isn’t adding up. The science isn’t — doing whatever it is that science does. The words? Well, they’re failing you. You’ve got nothing.

Namjoon’s free hand rubs against the back of his neck. He smiles sheepishly, so damn cutely. For a second, he nibbles on his bottom lip before coming clean, “I may have asked Jungkook if I could sub in today.”

No thoughts, head empty, just wide-eyed blinking. It’s all you’re capable of with your stomach doing backflips the way it is.

“He was — umm — more than happy to switch swifts, you know?”

Of course, he was. Jungkook is a brat.

Namjoon chuckles and it’s then that you realize you’d broadcasted your thoughts out loud. He shakes his head as if you hadn’t just spit objective fact out into the elevator. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to follow the plot.

“For being an older brother, Kook’s a surprisingly good wing-man.”

Your jaw drops. Finger raised, you interject immediately, all piss and vinegar. “Joon, he is three minutes older. Don’t you dare give him credit for that. His ego’s already hit the ceiling, and I am not calling him oppa —”

Namjoon purses his lips again. The corner of his mouth ticks upward again. He’s apparently waiting for a response that you haven’t given him, again. Your sentence dies out before you can punctuate it.

Oh. Did you —?

Eyes as big as the moon, you sputter, “Wing man?”

“There you go, champ,” he laughs, affectionately nudging your shoulder with his. “Is that lag one of those twin things people talk about, or —?”

You land a playful smack on his bicep, but let your hand linger. Not unlike the way he’d done twice before, you pinch your lips together and try not to grin like the fool you are. Taking advantage of your pause, Namjoon reaches across his body with his free arm and peels your palm from his bicep. He keeps on holding it and you only melt a little bit.

It takes effort on your part, but you squirm in your spot until you’re able to face him more fully.

“Namjoon, you have to tell me the truth,” you demand. You squint back at him, narrowed eyes emphasizing the dramatic tone you’ve taken. “Did you or did you not break this elevator on purpose?”

He laughs so hard that it’s silent. His heads ducks down, too, until his forehead rests gently against your shoulder. From there, he sighs, “I did not break this elevator on purpose.”

After a pause, he sits back up, handcuffs his gaze to yours, then grins with all his teeth. “I’d be a fool not to capitalize on the opportunity, though.”

You close the distance and kiss him with all you’ve got, cotton-candy sweet and fresh-linen soft. It’s easy — the way it felt when your busy bodies swirled around your living room, never once stumbling — and you swear you hear bells ringing.

Namjoon pulls away breathless. He begins to ask the question, but the gentle lurch of the elevator answers before he can finish.

[late-to-the-party-81]

His little dolly

AN: Here we go, party-people. Here is the third part of my DBF Steve, officially making it a Series by the rules of Jen. This is actually based on the original idea by the lovely @krissy25 which started the whole thing off. It also actually adds some plot, which I was not expecting. It is, however, still absolute filth

Beta’d by @endlesstwanted, wrangler of commas

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@steverogersbingo  - C3 - Free Space

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Summary: You have to try and control yourself when your parents and you spend the day helping Steve building his new deck. The evening, however, is a different matter.

Relationship: DBF Steve x Inexperienced Reader

Word count: 4.3k

CW: AU: No Powers, Age difference (Steve 40s, Reader early 20’s), Soft Dark Steve, Power Imbalance, Secret relationship, Oral Sex (F receiving), Fingering, Squirting, Unprotected PIV Sex (reader on BC), Pussy slapping, Breath-play, Under-negotiated kink, Mild Angst, Implied Somnophilia, Implied Cum eating, Steve Rogers Dirty Talk, Bimbo-fication.

This was going to be torture. You were going to be spending the whole day with Steve, which on the surface, sounded like a dream - you only usually spent snatched moments together. However, your parents were also going to be there this time. 

Your Dad had gleefully announced three days ago that you’d all be spending Saturday at Steve’s house, having a cook-out while he and Steve worked on renovating Steve’s deck. So here you were, in the backseat of your Dad’s car as he drove the couple of miles across town to get there. You’d be so near but so far, and you had no idea how you were going to keep it together, especially since you hadn’t seen him in a week and he was still in possession of your toy-box.

The car lurched as your Dad pulled up outside Steve’s house, braking a little too hard, and you could almost hear his eyes roll as your Mom clicked her tongue at him. As they both got out of the car you put your best game face on and joined them. 

It was a warm day, and determined not to be labelled as a ‘useless woman’ you’d eschewed your normal hot weather wardrobe of a sundress. Instead you’d put on sturdy sneakers, some denim shorts and a baggy sleeveless tee, intending to help out with Steve’s renovations. You hoped that if you were busy, you’d be able to distract yourself from being so close to what you wanted.

That plan went straight out the window almost immediately. The three of you walked up the path, but instead of heading to the front door your Dad veered off toward the gate that went directly into the back yard. He pushed it open, holding it for you and your Mom, and you followed her through it. 

You came to a grinding halt as all thoughts were driven from your head.

Steve had already started working, and he must have been at it for a while because he’d already discarded his shirt and had a sheen of sweat over his body.

Your mouth went dry and you barely noticed the way you pressed your thighs together, your clit already throbbing with arousal. He looked like a god come to life.

Yes, you’d seen him naked more than once, but you’d never seen him like this in the bright light of day, just looking so masculine. Was there a name for this kink? The urge to just lick the sweat from his pecs was almost overwhelming.

“Sweetie? Are you okay?” Your Mom’s voice pulled you back into reality.

“Umm, yeah. I - uuh - just got something in my eye.” You blinked rapidly and rubbed at your right eye to bring credence to your story, but it seemed that your Mom wasn’t fooled. She leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. 

“He is rather distracting, I’ll grant you.”

“Mom!” You felt your cheeks flame with embarrassment, and looked around to see if either your Dad, or god forbid Steve, had heard. “You can’t say things like that,” you hissed out.

Your Mom just gave you a wink. “Married, not dead, sweetie. Just don’t look at boys your own age like that - they might take it the wrong way and try to take advantage.”

You bit your tongue, desperately hoping she wouldn’t work out your secret just by looking at your face. Luckily you were saved by an unlikely ally when your Dad shouted out for your Mom’s attention as he tried to locate his tool belt. “I’m gonna go and get the cooler from the car,” you shouted, desperate for a few moments alone to compose yourself.

Spending all day with Steve was one thing, but spending it with him when he was topless, his skin kissed by the sun, and with him letting out little grunts of effort that reminded you too much of other noises? Well, you’d be lucky not to just orgasm on the spot and then the game would be up.

You jogged back down Steve’s front path to where your Dad’s car was parked at the curb. You popped the trunk, and were just leaning into it to lift out the cooler full of beer and meat for the cookout when a shadow fell over you.

You whirled around, coming straight into eye contact with the physique you’d just been admiring.

“Hey, Babydoll. You look a little warm. Something got you all flustered?” The way he teased you normally got you going, but given the current situation it just made you cross. You stepped away, needing space to breathe, and looked over at his smirking face. At least he’d thrown his shirt back over his shoulders, but it wasn’t buttoned and his chest was just there. 

“You’ve done this on purpose,” you ground out, trying not to raise your voice and catch your parents’ attention.

“I don’t know what you mean, sweetheart,” Steve drawled mockingly, as he reached into the trunk and effortlessly picked up the cooler. “I just got a bit overheated while working and needed to strip off. Surely, you can understand that. And anyway, I’m just your Dad’s friend - not your type in any case.”

“Fuck you!” you whispered, full of both anger and arousal. 

Steve stepped back up onto the sidewalk heading back towards his house, but he paused as he passed you, ducking his head to whisper in your ear. “Later, Babydoll. Later. And don’t go touching yourself when you go to the bathroom. I’ll know if you do…”

He walked away, and you gave yourself a few seconds to take in some deep breaths before following him back into his yard. He was already talking to your Mom when you got there, back to being the genial friend of the family.

“Thank you for bringing over the food and agreeing to come help out. I expected it to just be me and Twinkle-toes over there.” He jerked his head in your Dad’s direction, who pouted at the nickname, and your Mom threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all, Steve. You’re like family. You know we think of you like a brother.”

Steve glanced over at you, and the look you saw in his eyes was in no way ‘uncle-like’. You shivered and tried not to think of all the things the two of you had done - things that would probably make your Mom faint and your Dad go apoplectic. 

There was only one way you were going to get through this day, so purposefully ignoring Steve you strode over to where your Dad was looking at the decking planks, a measuring tape in hand and a carpenter’s pencil between his teeth.

“How can I help?” you asked, and got stuck in.

Your plan worked to a certain extent. At least while you were helping your Dad measure and cut, or helping your Mom prepare the food for the grill. However, everytime you thought you had your equilibrium back on an even keel, Steve seemed to somehow know and would make a point of brushing past you or would stand in your eye line. He’d then tip his head back and drink from his beer, uncaring if any errant drops spilled from his mouth and trickled down his throat and chest. A few times you were tempted to disobey him - go to his bathroom and relieve the tension building in your core. You even wondered if you could sneak off to his bedroom and use his pillow to get yourself off, but you weren’t that brave.

The hours passed by fast despite each minute feeling like an eternity, and it was with a sense of pride that you realised that your assistance had actually been useful - Steve’s deck was almost complete. The railings on one side still needed to be put into place and the protective wood stain needed to be added, but all in all it was a success. 

Now you were all relaxing on loungers, having filled up on burgers, wieners and your Mom’s potato salad, sipping on the remaining beers. 

Your parents and Steve had been talking about local goings-on while you’d been daydreaming when Steve directed a question to you.

“So, d’you think you’ll have the energy to meet up with your girlfriends after all your efforts today?”

For a moment you were confused. You had no plans after this, let alone with any girlfriends, but then a lightbulb came on in your head. “Oh, uh, yeah. I’ve just gotta check if they still wanna go out. They weren’t sure, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it,” you turned to your parents, hoping they found it plausible. Your Dad just waved his hand.

“You’re a grown up now, sweetie. You don’t need to account for your movements to us. We know you’re sensible. And it won’t be too long now before you spread your wings and leave the nest completely - get that job you’ve been dreaming of.”

“Oh,” said Steve with interest. “What job is that?”

“Hasn’t she told you?” Your Mom sat forward in her chair, full of excitement. “She’s got an interview for an internship at Walker Industries. Our baby’s on the up and up.”

“Mom,” you groaned. “It’s not that glamorous. It’s really just glorified data entry.”

“But it’s a big company,” your Mom argued back. “International. And you’re smart and ambitious. You’ll be working your way up in no time.”

Neither her or your Dad seemed to notice how quiet Steve had gone - how his now dark gaze was settled squarely on you -, but you did and you couldn’t work out what it meant. Then, with a smack of his hands on his thighs, Steve stood up.

“Well, it’s been a long day and I really do appreciate the help and the company, but if Little Miss Social Life here has something planned, I’d best let you go.”

Your Dad looked at his watch and gasped, making some comment about time flying, and then you were all caught up in a flurry of activity and goodbyes. Your Dad checked he had all his tools and your Mom made sure she had all her food containers, despite Steve’s insistence he should keep them to wash up and return at another point. Ten minutes later, you were all back in the car heading home.

Twenty minutes after that you were under the shower, washing the sweat and dirt of the day off yourself and trying to ignore how every nerve ending in your body was on fire from the anticipation of what was to come. In another forty minutes, you’d tried on and discarded various different outfits, trying to find just the right one. It was proving difficult because your parents thought you were going out with the girls, so your outfit had to reflect that, but at the same time Steve preferred a certain aesthetic on you - loving you in little sundresses and flirty skirts. However, having emptied most of your meagre wardrobe over your bed and your floor, you finally settled on something that you hoped would work - a hot pink dress with spaghetti straps and skirt that swirled when you moved. You slicked on some light make-up, again trying to strike the balance right, grabbed your purse and jogged down the stairs.

You shouted a hurried ‘good-bye’ to your parents, who were cuddled up on the couch sleepily watching one of their favourite police procedural dramas, and finally made your way out of the door. While walking down the darkening sidewalk, your jacket slung over your arm, you checked your phone. You’d sent Steve an estimate of when you’d be ready and hoped he’d be waiting for you at the end of the block. There was no response to the text you’d sent to the number saved under ‘Janice’, and you started to feel nervous until you turned the corner and saw the vehicle you’d been on the lookout for.

Feeling a bit giddy, you skipped over, opening the passenger door and sliding in beside Steve. You threw your arms around his neck and pressed your lips to his. He looked back at you, indulgently, and licked his lips.

“You look like a doll come to life, sweetheart.”

You preened under his praise. “I’m glad you like it,” you replied, smoothing the hot pink fabric over your legs.

“If I was less of a gentleman, I’d have my way with you here and now,” he growled, dramatically.

“And if you were more of a gentleman, I wouldn’t even be here,” you teased back.

“Brat,” he replied with a chuckle and a warning pinch to your thigh. “Behave.”

“Yes, Steve.” You pouted and batted your eyelids, and he chuckled again before putting his car in drive and peeling away from the curb. As he drove, you gave him sideways glances, studying his profile as you hummed to the music on the stereo and tapping your hands on your lap. The streetlights helped to highlight the streaks of grey at his temples, and you longed to run your fingers through it. You just had to be patient, though - it wouldn’t be long until Steve had you spread out on his bed and you’d have the chance to do just that.

Heat started to pool within you, the anticipation making you fidgety, and you let out a sigh of relief when Steve steered the car up his drive and into his garage. As soon as he killed the engine, he was making his way around your side of the car to open the door. He helped you out and then immediately took your face in his large hands, laying a demanding kiss on you. You squeaked briefly in surprise before leaning into it, your hands fisting his shirt for balance. You’d worn higher heels than normal and weren’t used to the change in your centre of gravity. 

Steve smiled against your lips, sliding his hands down your body until he grasped your ass and lifted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up, and dug your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He walked across the garage but didn’t take you through the door into the main house, instead heading out into his backyard. He lowered you slowly, your bodies sliding against each other until your feet hit the new planks.

“Why are we out here, Steve? We spent all day on this damn thing.”

He smiled at you in the moonlight. “Exactly, Babydoll. You helped me build it, so now you have to help me christian it.”

You cocked your head at him, brows furrowed, and then realisation hit. “Oh!”

Steve pulled you back into his embrace. “Oh, indeed,” he said, and then he lowered his mouth to yours again, demanding entrance and acting as though he was going to devour you. You gave back as good as you got, feeling desperate for his touch. “Today was so hard,” he muttered against your lips. “Every time you bent over in those shorts, fuck. There were moments where I almost didn’t care that your parents were here. I wanted to rip them from you and take you right here.”

“‘Wasn’t any easier for me,” you murmured back. “My Mom saw me staring at you - I think she thinks I’ve got a crush on you. Warned me not to look at boys my age the way I look at you.”

“As if you’d dare,” came the jesting reply.

Steve’s hand skimmed down your side until it reached the hem of your dress. It made its way under, his palm sliding over your thigh working its way up to your hip where it stopped, and he pulled back from your kiss.

“Sweetheart, have you come out without any panties on?”

You peered up at him, coyly from under your lashes. “Maybe…” It was your turn to smirk.

“Fuck,” he barked and then dropped straight to his knees, his hands throwing up your skirt so he could grasp your naked ass and pull you onto his face. His tongue found its way, unerring, between your folds and straight to your clit, giving you no time to prepare yourself.

“Steve!” you screeched before biting down on your lip, and grabbing hold of his head as you tottered on your heels. “Oh god!”

He was like a man possessed, slurping lewdly at your sex and alternating between sucking on your clit and thrusting his tongue in and out of your spasming cunt. It was a vicious onslaught of pleasure that left you dizzy and out of breath. When he pressed two of his fingers inside of you without warning, you had to let go of him with one hand so you could bite down on the base of your thumb to stop from screaming in ecstasy. “Give it to me, Babydoll. I need you to make a mess.”

He stroked that special spot inside of you without pause, and sucked on your clit as your legs shook. There was a heavy feeling inside your core, like the building of an orgasm but different, as he kept up his pleasurable torture.

“Steve!” You gasped. “I…I’m gonna…what’s happening?”

He didn’t answer, just kept up what he was doing, driving you closer to the brink and also towards something unknown. When you came, it was with a massive release of pressure. Your body jerked in his hold, your eyes rolled up and you felt a wet flood between your legs. You heard Steve moan into your cunt, and then you heard the patter of liquid onto the wood between your feet. You felt like you were flying and sinking at the same time.

“What the fuck?” You slurred as Steve slowly rose back to his feet.

“You squirted, sweetheart. So fucking sexy.”

“I what?” You squeaked, unbelieving. “But isn’t that…” A feeling of shame started to wash over you, but Steve interrupted it, pressing one of his fingers to your lips.

“Yes, but also no. Don’t think too much about it, honey. It’s nothing to be ashamed of - it’s natural. Just means you were really turned on, and let me tell you, it’s quite the ego boost to do that to you. Made me even harder.”

His eyes narrowed and he took hold of your hand, so much smaller than his and placed it over the bulge in his jeans.

“It’s gonna make it a lot easier for me to slip inside that tight pussy of yours too. She’s so wet, ‘m gonna just slide right in. And fuck, it’s gonna make some beautiful sounds. Would you like that, Babydoll? Want me to stuff this fat cock into your hungry cunt? See if I can make you squirt again?”

His words hypnotised you and you groped at his cock, staring up at him with your mouth wide open and your eyes glazed with lust. Fuck, you could feel your cum running down your bare thighs. “Please,” you begged, your tone husky and full of need.

As if you were a rag doll, Steve steered you backwards until your back hit one of the completed portions of railing. He spun you to face it and then plastered himself against your back. The heat of him burned through your dress, and his breath tickled your ear. “I’m gonna take you right here and you’re gonna be good for me and take it. You’re gonna be quiet too - we don’t want Mrs Kennedy next door coming out to find out what’s going on.”

You heard the metallic snick of his fly being lowered and your eyes fluttered closed. Steve’s foot tapped yours and you widened your stance, taking hold of the railing for stability. Slowly, he pulled your skirt up above your hips and his cock nudged against your naked ass. Steve placed his left hand, fingers splayed over your stomach, holding you right where he wanted you as he guided his cock to the entrance of your cunt and then pressed in with one hard thrust.

You choked back your cry, your fingers tightening their grip on the wood in front of you.

“Good girl,” Steve praised, and he started to fuck into you with long, firm strokes. “Such a perfect little dolly, just for me.”

His right hand came up to the straps of your dress and bra, lowering them down your arms so he could free your breasts. The cool evening air blew across you, making your nipples peak, and you moaned low in your throat as Steve rolled each of them in turn, plucking and pulling at them in a way that was both painful and oh-so-good.

He fucked you languidly, building you up slowly. His left hand moved down and he drew lazy circles over your clit - enough to have you whimpering with need, but not enough to bring you to orgasm.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this - slow and deep - until you feel like you’re gonna burst. I want you to come on me and fucking soak my cock like you did my hand. I want your cum to splatter all over this fucking deck. I want you to feel so much pleasure that you never want to look at another man.”

Your mind was hazy with lust, your hips moving to meet his thrusts. “Don’t want anyone but you, Steve. Make me feel so good.”

A small change in the angle of Steve’s thrusts had his cock rubbing over your g-spot the same way his fingers had earlier. The feeling of your orgasm building still felt strange, but at least you knew what to expect. You just didn’t know how you were going to stay silent, though.

He cruelly twisted one of your nipples just as he thrust forward and reedy warble left your throat. Steve responded by slapping your clit, and even as the sharp pain registered you heard the wet squelch as he did so, your squirt already starting to seep out of you as he continued his assault on your cunt.

“I said to stay quiet,” he hissed.

The pressure inside you was rising once more, and you knew you were close. “I don’t think I can,” you whined, and your body convulsed as he fucked into you. “I’m so close. Please, Steve. I… I…”

“Aawww, does my Babydoll need help?”

You bit your lip and nodded, unable to comprehend how he was going to do it. 

Steve took his left hand from your clit and trailed the back of his knuckles up your side, then settled it around the base of your throat. “Do you trust me, sweetheart?” His voice rumbled in your ear.

“Yes,” was your whispered response. You trusted him with your life.

“Then take over touching that pretty clit for me and just relax.”

You let go of the railing with your right hand and did as he asked, feeling how soaked you were as you started to play with your clit. As you started to crest higher, unable to hold back little pleasures squeaks, Steve resettled his left hand on your throat and began to lightly squeeze. Your noises stopped as your airway was constricted. Everything within you was concentrated on the feeling building in your cunt, and as black spots began to form in front of your eyes, your body began to tremble.

When Steve let go of your neck, your orgasm exploded out of you. His hand immediately clapped over your mouth, leaving you to breathe out your scream through your nose as you jerked on his cock like a puppet on a string. The gush of liquid that erupted from your cunt flooded over your hand and onto the deck like a waterfall.

“Fucking god,” Steve exclaimed, the movement of his hips finally speeding up as he chased his own release inside your spasming channel, adding his own cum to the sticky mess leaking from you. 

You collapsed against him, unsure how you were even still upright after that. Another whimper left you as Steve pulled himself from your body, but he immediately scooped you up in his arms and carried you inside, walked up the stairs, and placed your exhausted body on his bed. When he didn’t immediately lie down next to you, you blinked your eyes open. “Steve?”

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart,” he assured, and you watched as he pushed down his jeans and briefs. Your eyes widened when you realised they were sodden.

“Oh my god! Did I do that?”

Steve grinned as he climbed naked onto the bed and crawled over you. “You did and don’t you dare apologise. Whenever I wear them from now on I’ll think of you and how fucking sexy you are. Now you rest for a bit. I have more plans for you, and I need to make sure you get home at a plausible time.”

You pouted as you took in his words. This was the thing you really hated about your relationship - if you could call it that -, you couldn’t just curl up next to him and stay the night the way you wanted to. Would you ever be able to be open about your relationship, or was it doomed from the start?

However, your body was totally wrung out from Steve’s ministrations, and it wasn’t long until you fell into a doze, your body pressed up against his.

Steve looked down at you as you took your rest. You looked so innocent - so young - as you slept. He shouldn’t want you this much, but he did, even if he’d go to hell for it. He’d burn the world for you. 

When your mother had announced you were hoping to work for Walker Inc, it had taken all of his self control not to stand up and forbid it. Who was he to do so? Besides, it wasn’t your fault that Walker was a grade A ass-hole. 

Steve had no doubt that you’d ace the interview, so he’d just have to hope that the CEO didn’t notice you. If he did, the sleazeball would have no qualms about trying to take advantage of you. A little voice inside his head pointed out that he’d already done just that. He batted it aside. The difference was that he cared for you. Walker cared about nothing but himself.

You let out a sleepy little noise as you snuggled into his side and he turned back to you. He’d give you another half an hour, and then he was planning to feast on your messy pussy. That should wake you up with a smile. Then he’d watch you bounce on his cock, like the little dolly you were.

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @doasyoudesireandlive, @goldylions, @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989

[thosefuzzywordfeelings]

For the smutty weekend!!! Need to know how Baron, Gator and Steve would react to them orgasming quickly :) would they be embarrassed, defensive or just roll with it?

I honestly think they’d all have a similar reaction, not embarrassed but just in disbelief and awe of you, but for the sake of some juicy smut, here’s different imaginations 😮‍💨🤭✨

CW; oral (m receiving), slight degradation, mention of ownership 😮‍💨

Gator;

“Takin’ it so fuckin’ good, darlin’ -“ Gator grunted into your ear as he kissed the lobe messily. When you responded with a sweet whine, his eyes rolled back into his head; pushing himself up onto his knees and settling his hands under the backs of yours. Pushing your knees back as far as they could go, a lower groan would leave his lips as he looked down at you. You were laying there so beautifully, eyes glassy as you took every hard hit he gave you. The room was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, whines, and the dirty slick sounds of his fucking into you.

“You’re givin’ it so good - make it yours -“ You’d whine, knowing his need for ownership and authority is a sweet spot that only you know how to press into.

And that was all it took; his hips stilling as the throbbing took over and he came quicker than he usually did. He almost curled over as he moaned through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs.

“Fuckin’ damnit. Cunt’s too good, honey.” Gator would chuckle breathily after a moment, sitting back down on his knees. You’d whine again as you laid and just felt him twitching inside you softly realising just how good he always managed to degrade and praise you. He’d look down at his cock still inside you, as his own cum spilled out around his base; causing him to twitch up inside you sensitively. But when you’d whimper and look up at him with desperation rolling around the irises of your eyes, he’d smirk.

“Need more darlin’?”

Steve;

“What’re you doing? Fuck - no - baby I need to -“

Though Steve was stuttering and seemingly objective to the dangerous idea you’d had, he took one hand off the steering wheel to help you unbutton his jeans.

“Just watch the road and don’t get us killed, yeah?” You’d say sweetly, kneeling over the console in his car and pulling his cock free from the denim entrapment. After he’d taken a quick glance at you to see if you were kidding - and wasn’t - he nodded. Immediately you’d get to work, lips wrapping around his head and sucking softly, only bobbing lightly as you felt the car swerve ever so slightly with the lack of Steve’s concentration.

“Need to pull over - god I need you -“ He’d mutter under his breath as he hissed, braking at a red light and the sudden halt pushing his cock further into your throat. He let out a guttural groan as his hands scooped up your hair, pulling it into a messy ponytail in one hand and pulling his jeans down a little further with the other.

“Find somewhere.” You mumbled, pulling off only for a moment to catch air before swallowing him down again desperately, a light moan reverberating around his cock as he tugs your hair tighter in his fist, finally driving again as the light turned green.

“Fuck - we’re in the middle of fucking - Jesus Christ baby - in the middle of nowhere - can’t -“ Steve rambled, a tone of frustration to his voice as he unintentionally accelerated the car; hips threatening to buck up into your mouth as you sucked harder and giggled around him.

“Baby - don’t - fuck - I’m gonna come - no it’s-“ Steve was on the verge of crying as he bit his lip so hard it was about to tear between his teeth, his hand gripping your hair so tightly it evoked a whine out of you as you felt the first ribbon of spend hit the roof of your mouth. Steve wanted to squeeze his eyes shut so bad, praising whatever deity there was out there as another red light glowed ahead. Just as the car stopped, he finally bucked his hips up against your tongue, emptying the rest of himself entirely into your eager mouth.

“Your fucking giggle, baby…” He sighed as he caught his breath, eyes glued hazily to your face as you sat up and back in the passenger seat with a smug smile.

“Couldn’t wait to pull over, no?” You’d taunt, buckling up your seatbelt again. He’d shake his head, his cheeks and neck flushed pink as he looked over at you with almost disbelief.

“You’re just - you are something else.“ He kept stuttering, and you smile at his flustered state, leaning over again to kiss his cheek.

“Better be ready for when we get out of this car, Harrington.”

Baron;

“I can’t see you - I - oh - where’s the -“

“Just press the green button, sweetheart.”

You’d gifted your love a new phone, getting sick of hearing him tripping over his landline cord when you tried to talk to him on the phone. Here he was attempting to FaceTime you for the first time. As soon as his camera was finally on, all you could see was the bridge of his nose.

“Move back you fool, look at me.”

You’d say with a giggle, which slowly stopped as he pulled the phone back so you could see his entire upper half this time and he realised what was happening. Thighs straddled across each side of a cushion, you were perched in just a bra and panties, phone rested against the wall.

“Am I seeing angels baby or do you got nothin’ on?” Baron whispered, his voice strained as his eyes kept squinting and blinking something silly; trying to come to terms with the pretty sight on this little screen.

“Little bit o’ both. You like it?” You’d say back, smiling sweetly at his reaction. Bracing your hands on the cushion, you’d grip it tightly between your thighs as Baron’s eyes widened, understanding fully now what was happening.

“Is that - my -“

“Your shirt? Mhm.”

He’d left his gray shirt at yours accidentally, spilling so much ice cream down it that you’d offered to wash it for him. And you had. But it still smelled like him after, and you wanted to show him how much you missed him. Now it wrapped around this cushion. Comfortably snug right between your legs.

“Oh lord…gi’ me strength…” He mumbled lowly, close to growling as he watched you begin to grind your hips slowly. His eyes looked down at where your barely clothed core ground down against the thin fabric of his shirt, mouth agape.

“You wanna know something?” You’d purr softly, crawling towards your phone and grabbing it. He’d be speechless, but the way you could tell he liked this was, his other hand had reached underneath the view of the camera, to which you could only guess he was palming himself to you as he nodded.

“Made a mess once already.”

“Oh god…” He’d moan, his eyes hooded slightly as you got back onto the cushion and tilted the camera down, showing the dark gray patch on his shirt between your legs.

“Needed you so bad, Baron, couldn’t stop thinking about grinding on your pretty face, those pretty lips honey - my god-“ You’d say saccharine sweetly, and his eyes would roll back at your tone.

“Baby - you - you’re makin’ me -“ He cried out softly, whimpering a little as he lost grip of the phone and it fell to what you guessed was his side. You could just about make out his chest heaving as his hips bucked up against his hand. He was coming, and so quickly, so desperately.

“Baron?” You’d say, the sound of your voice through the phone making him jump a little. He picked it up, but the visuals were shaky - his hands trembling at whatever the hell just happened.

“God must’a put some kinda curse on me with you…you’re a little devil, got me all - messy and -“ You held back a giggle as he rambled on in a post orgasmic haze, knowing you needed to call him more often now.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

I’d kill for maybe a blurb about Steve and Hawkins getting ready to head back to camp for the summer, for the first time as a couple - maybe packing up, the road trip, anything like that!

“Did you pack the bug spray?”

Steve stared at you from across the hood of his car, his expression innocent. “I thought you packed it?”

You sighed, expression crestfallen. “Steve! I asked you, like, eight times yesterday. You said you’d pick it up from the store after work—”

Steve was watching you, head tilted to the side, grinning.

Your eyes narrowed but your lips twitched. “I hate you,” you deadpanned and tried your best to mean it.

“No you don’t,” Steve laughed but you drowned the sound out as you dropped yourself into the passenger seat of Steve’s BMW.

The trunk and the backseat was filled with a mix of both your bags, oversized duffles and hiking rucksacks, your pillow stacked on top of Steve’s, a cooler stuff in the footwell that was crammed with beer and cheap wine, something Steve and Jonathan would have to smuggle into a cabin when it got dark.

Steve slipped in beside you, hands on the wheel and he was still grinning, looking smug. He set you with those eyes, soft and honey coloured in the morning sun. “C’mon now,” he tsked. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

It wasn’t, or yours for that matter, both of you returning for your fifth summer at camp. But you rolled your eyes anyway. “Yeah, but you never listen to me.”

A lie.

Steve huffed out a laugh, a wide, warm hand on your bare thigh ‘cause the June heat was already intense and shorts at seven am was the only way to work through it. Steve felt hotter than the air outside, but maybe that’s just because his fingers were working upupup—

“I always listen to you,” Steve commented back, his choice growing softer the longer he touched you. You tipped your head back onto the seat to look at him, cheek pressed to the leather, trying not to smile. “You’re just grumpy ‘cause it’s early.”

You wrinkled your nose at him, laughing when he leaned in and kissed it.

“Yeah, it’s fucking early,” you grumbled. “Remind me why we’re leaving now?”

Steve slid on his sunglasses before he pulled the car out of park, one hand on the back of your headrest as he reversed down the drive. “Because,” he explained, “if we get there before Eddie or Robin, we can christen a cabin.”

You laughed, taking in his profile as he drove you both out of town, past the wheat fields and the water tower, the hazy blue skies and sun making him golden.

“You act as if we’ve never done that before.”

Steve shrugged, “it’s a new summer. The numbers roll back to zero, babe.”

“I thought we were behaving this year,” you grinned when Steve took his eyes off the road for just a second, turning to you with an aghast expression.

“Are we fuck behaving,” Steve intoned. His hand found your thigh again, fingers curling around the soft skin there. “C’mon, what’s one more bro—”

“Don’t say kayak, Steve.”

“—ken kayak.” He grinned.

“You’re terrible,” you told him but you were grinning too, cheeks sore with it ‘cause he was so pretty, hair still wild from bed, cheeks flushed from the summer.

The boy shrugged, bashful, like you’d given him a compliment. But you placed your hand on top of his, the one that was still on your leg and you dragged it higher, a slow climb along your thigh until his fingers could disappear under the denim on your shorts. You watched him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he stared at the road ahead and the car started to slow.

You leaned in, the parking brake pressed against your tummy as you resisted the urge to all but clamber over the console and onto Steve’s lap. “Or,” you started, voice soft and a little deeper than usual. The boy sucked in a breath, ‘cause he knew that tone so well. “We could pull over somewhere quiet.”

You kissed his cheek, grinning at the way his hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles white. Another kiss, below his ear, the edges of your teeth grazing his lobe. He shivered.

“I’d let you sit me on the hood, seeing as the backseat is full. Maybe you could be real nice and bend me over it— Steve!”

The car was jerked to the side of the road, a cloud of orange dust kicked up behind it. The fields were quiet, the main Highway empty and Steve looked desperate as the car rumbled and protested its way down a small dirt track, a forgotten farm road that ended in a thatch of trees.

The boy killed the engine and jumped out, grinning at you as he tapped the hood, waiting.

“We’re barely out of Hawkins!” You called out to him from his open door, incredulous, but Steve looked like Christmas had come in summer and you laughed, a sharp, happy sound. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

Steve rocked on the balls of his feet, impatient. “Don’t do all that,” Steve flung a hand out to gesture to where he’d been sitting, where you were still leaning. “And expect me not to want it fucking immediately.”

You stared at him through the windshield, shaking your head with a smile. “You’re such a boy.” But you took your seatbelt off.

“I’m a man of needs, princess,” he told you, giddy looking as you got out of the car. Long grass brushed your shins and the sun was hot on your shoulders, insects buzzing in the otherwise quiet morning. “And my girl is too fucking hot to be real, so…”

Steve tapped the hood again, brows raised. This wasn’t an argument you were planning on winning.

You gave in.

Twice.

…

[thissortofsorcery]

Billy doesn’t want to get up.

The early morning sunlight is shining on him from the open window, sunbeams still watered down at seven am; a warm, gentle caress on his scarred back before the sun turns to scorching like it always does in California.

Steve’s already up and about. He has an early shift on Tuesdays.

Billy has his eyes closed, but he can hear Steve moving around the room, though he’s trying to be quiet. Billy hears the scratch of denim on his thighs, the spritzes of hairspray, him tripping on the sneakers he left by the closet like he does every damn time he stays over, then the jingle of keys.

He likes to hear Steve in his room, like he belongs there. Likes it when he spends the night. It's been happening more and more since Steve moved to California, six months ago.

The bed dips beside Billy.

“You gonna sleep all day?” Steve asks, running a large hand up Billy’s back, making him want to stretch.

“Thinking ‘bout it,” Billy mumbles without opening his eyes.

Steve hums and leans his weight against Billy, kissing a path up his shoulder, laughs against his skin. It tickles.

“If you get bored, I get off at four today, if you want to meet up.”

“‘mkay,”

Truth be told, Steve’s so warm, and he smells good, and the way he’s all over Billy is like they’re cuddling again, so Billy’s almost asleep.

Steve laughs again, “Okay, go back to sleep. I’ll call you later,” Billy feels the bed shift, hears his keys again. Steve kisses his hair, “I’m heading out. Love you.”

In the morning silence, he hears Steve’s footsteps walking away. The front door opens and closes.

Billy’s eyes snap open. He’s wide awake, now.

Was he dreaming, or did Steve say he loved him?

Billy flops over on his back. The ceiling has no answers for him.

Did Steve mean it? Or did he say it like he's used to saying it to other people, like Robin or his parents? Bye, love you. Good night, love you. Did he even notice he said it? Why else would he say that when Billy was practically asleep? Who the fuck does that?

Billy kicks off the sheets tangled in his legs while grumbling under his breath, manages to yank on a pair of shorts, and barely remembers to grab his keys on the way out. His sneakers are hastily shoved on as he's stomping down the stairs of the building.

When he slams out into the street, he looks around for the burgundy of Steve's car, squinting and shading his eyes with one hand. It doesn't take him long to find it. Steve hasn't gone far yet.

Billy sets off at a run, feeling the sun on his shoulders, on his chest, as he weaves between cars to try to get to Steve. He has to reach him. He needs to know.

The street isn't full, the cars are moving fast. Billy has to run faster.

"Steve!" Billy calls, hoping the idiot has his window open. "Steve!"

There's a corner coming up. The turn signal on the Beamer is blinking. Billy has to reach him. He's almost there. Almost.

"Steve!" Billy slams both hands on the passenger window, and the car brakes suddenly, accompanied by a loud yell coming from inside the car. Cars start honking behind them, and Billy flips them off. Then he slaps his hands on the window again, "C'mon Steve, lemme in."

Steve leans over the passenger side to make a face at Billy. He mouths something that looks like "Billy, what the fuck?", and Billy just keeps knocking, shouting,

"Let me in, come on!"

The door finally opens, and Billy catches the phrase "- hell is going on?" as he shoves inside. "You scared the crap out of me, Billy!"

"Fuckin' finally!"

"-what the fuck is happening right now, why don't you have a shirt on?"

"Did you mean it?" Billy says, and Steve stops talking. He only blinks at Billy, mouth parted.

"What?"

"Did you mean it?" Billy asks again, searching Steve's face for any hint of an answer.

But Steve just blinks again, "Did I mean what?"

"You didn't mean it," Billy sags against the seat, voice flat. Fuck. He wants to hit something. Wants to hit himself. "You didn't even know you said it."

"Didn't know I said what?" Steve's voice rises with his confusion.

"That you love me!" Billy shouts, right in Steve's face, like an accusation. Then his voice goes small, "Right before you left."

Steve's eyes go wide, almost scared, and his mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything.

"It's fine," Billy says roughly, swallowing past a knot in his throat. He didn't know until now how much he wanted to hear that again. How much he wanted to hear it from Steve.

He reaches for the door handle, blinking fast, eyelashes already fucking clumping together like a fucking-

"Wait! Wait, wait, no, no, no- please. Billy," Steve says, starts with almost a shout and ends with a whisper, saying his name like a caress, soft like the hand that's taking Billy's and lacing their fingers together. "Hang on, just- I have to park the car, okay? Just let me park the car. Don't go."

All around them, cars are honking, a few people are yelling. They're still stopped in the middle of the street.

Billy nods, lets go of the door. Steve doesn't let go of his hand.

A couple of minutes later, they're parked a few yards down the street. The street traffic is back to normal, like nothing happened. Steve's thumb is stroking his hand.

"Billy, I-"

"'s alright," Billy shrugs. He doesn't turn to look at Steve. "You don't have to-"

"I did mean it," Steve says, leaning towards him. His face is doing that puppy-eyed thing where he looks kinda desperate, and it makes Billy's insides twist. "And I'm sorry I said it like that and left, okay? I'm so sorry. But it's true," He cups Billy's face, and touches his thumb to the corner of Billy's eye. It comes away damp. "I love you, Billy. I- You're the best part of my life."

For the hundred times Billy imagined hearing that, for the thousand times he held back from saying he loved Steve- He can’t say anything now. There’s a whirlpool in his chest, pulling in his lungs and his ribs and his throat, making it impossible for him to catch his breath, and it’s going to take him down if he doesn’t commit the sound to memory, if he doesn’t memorize every syllable.

His hand shoots out, wraps a fist around the shoulder of Steve’s shirt.

“Tell me again,” Billy rasps out. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Steve’s mouth widens in a small smile, and it grows bigger, bigger as his face comes closer, and Billy can’t look away. Wouldn’t want to.

Steve kisses him, "I love you."

And kisses him, "I love you."

And kisses him, "I love you."

Until Billy's own mouth is tingling and bruised and slick, and the hand that was fisting Steve’s shirt is tight in a handful of hair instead, until Billy’s body is burning in all the spots that Steve is touching him, panting harshly, heartbeat wild.

They pull back only to rest their foreheads together, noses touching, breathing the same air. Steve’s hand is still cradling his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone and sending a shiver down his neck.

“Billy," Steve murmurs, and brushes their lips together. "You okay?"

Billy just nods, not understanding the question. His breath is shaky and he's clinging to Steve like a vice, but he's good. He's happy.

Steve's thumb, still stroking his cheek, glides on wet skin, wipes tears away. He didn't realize he was crying.

Steve kisses his cheek so softly, plush lips brushing the splatter of his freckles all the up his cheekbone to the corner of his eye, then to his temple, until Billy's face is buried in Steve's neck, held tightly to him in a hug that could swallow Billy whole. It's kinda dumb to think he wanted to hear the words when everything Steve does feels like this, like he's pouring his whole heart into it.

"I love you too, you know," Billy mumbles, and feels Steve grin against his neck, feels the kiss he presses into his skin and the shiver it sends down his spine. "Really fucking do."

Billy wants to stay here, feeling Steve breathe with him, even if his hip is twisted uncomfortably. He's so happy it's enough to make him forget they're mashed together in the front seats of the Beamer after Billy chased Steve down half naked. But it can't last forever.

"You gotta go to work," Billy says, and tries to pull away.

"I'll call in," Steve says, and squeezes Billy tighter. "I'm so, so sick, can't you tell? Need to stay in bed all day," and he rocks them from side to side.

Billy laughs in his ear, "Oh yeah? Anyone else with you in that bed?"

"Well, it's your bed, so..." Steve says, and Billy can't stand that goofy fucking grin of his, so he catches it with his mouth, bites at it until Steve's moaning.

In a minute, they're gonna pull back and figure they'd much rather continue this in Billy's apartment. In a minute, Steve's gonna turn the car on to go back to Billy's building and have such a hard time parking that they'll figure they should've just walked back. In a minute, their day is going to go on, and on, and stretch into countless other days spent together, either in front seats or backseats of cars, or outside of cars altogether.

But for now, they're a tangle of limbs on the front seat of a BMW, freshly traded "I love you"s, lost in the feeling of each other because there can't be anything more important than this. Just Billy and Steve.

every time anti bullshit shows up on my dash, I write Steve loving on Billy | III

[daddyhausen]

Hey girly, I was wondering if you can do dialogue prompt 62 with dominik mysterio? Maybe where he like misses something important or like an important day like your anniversary and then just shows up at 3 am 🥺

• missed call — dominik mysterio •

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ masterlists } | { wwe masterlist } | { dominik mysterio masterlist }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ commission info } | { like my work? buy me a coffee <3 }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ summary } — after forgetting your two year anniversary, dominik tries to make it up to you by showing up to your house at three am

{ warnings } — none

{ word count } — 601

{ pairing } — fem!reader x dominik mysterio

{ genre } — fluff

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ taglist } — @cosmoholic13 @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @adamjf @slut4kennyomega @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @cherrytheeredheadmamaclaymore @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @elsteenerico @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk

{ beta readers } — @allelitesmut + @legit9thlunaticwarrior

{ comment if you want to be added to the taglist }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ 62 } — “it’s three am. What are you doing?”

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

you couldn’t sleep

thoughts racing over and over in your mind

like a car whose brakes had been cut

the turmoil was never ending

your mind in shambles trying to process exactly why he did not show at the restaurant this evening

it was your two year anniversary

something you were certain dominik would not forget

yet here you were

in your bed, all by your lonesome

tears stained your pillowcase

a salty film clung to your cheeks in trails where your tears had dried up

only breaking the silence that consumed the room with a sniffle or a choked sob

your phone continued to buzz on your nightstand

knowing it was him yet choosing to ignore it

whatever his excuse was you did not want to hear it

at least not right now

another twenty minutes it continues

the soft vibration only irked you, disturbing whatever little slumber you could achieve before silencing for the night

somehow the silence made your attempts at sleep futile

it made you focus on the thoughts you’d been pushing back since you’d left the restaurant

thoughts that you certainly did not want to reminisce on now

little taps could be heard from your window

little pebbles rapped against the glass in an attempt to gain your attention

it did

climbing out from beneath the covers, letting the winter air freeze your bones as you wrapped a throw blanket around your body

you peered through the glass

seeing dominik standing below

the only warmth shielding him from the frozen air was his denim vest

the material worn and fraying, it did very little to help

you opened the window, staring down at him with a mix of worry and disdain

“it’s three am, what are you doing?”

you replied coldly, feeling only a shred of sympathy for him amongst noticing the slight chatter of his teeth

“i’ll explain everything, just let me inside…please?”

his eyes were glossy

as if he’d been crying just the same as you

you gulped down a sob, practically rushing to unlock the door

you did not want to see him freeze

you opened the door, noticing he’d already made his way to your front porch

yet you kept your distance

despite the pleading look in his eyes

arms wanting to outstretch and hold you close

yet he refrained

“how could you forget?”

you pressured him for answers, feeling the tears well in your eyes once more

not allowing him to make himself comfortable inside your home

“baby, i didn’t forget-“

“then where were you?” you accused.

“do you know how embarrassing it was for me? sitting there all by myself waiting for you for hours, people starting to stare-“

“baby please” he outstretched his arms, he grabbed you by the shoulders to try and jostle you from your own ramblings

“i’m so sorry i didn’t show up, they kept me back at work. i tried to call you but my phone died”

you remained silent for the moment, still trying to process his words

“you’re so special to me, i’d never forget our anniversary.”

he cupped your cheek daintily, you could not help but lean into his palm with a heavy sigh

“how could i ever make it up to you, love?”

you contemplated for a moment whether or not you should kick him out into the cold again

but his words seemed genuine

how he silently pleaded with you to forgive

“just stay here and hold me”

he gave a small sigh of relief

engulfing you into his embrace

his palm smoothing your hair

“anything for you, my love”

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

[merceyca]

Driving lesson

Neil takes Robin for a drive on one of her bad days

Campus was dead. The street lights were holding a glowing orange-and-white vigil around the empty parking lot while a single car idled in one of the parking spaces. The engine was warm, steam visibly escaping the gaps around the hood until the driver removed the keys from the ignition and held them out in offering to the passenger.

Only the lack of an audience made Robin feel comfortable enough to take the car keys off of Neil and manoeuvre herself into the driver’s seat. They could have easily gotten out of the car and swapped seats the sensible way, instead of performing their complicated over-under move atop the console, but Neil got the sense that Robin didn’t want the car doors unlocked tonight. It was a bad day.

Even though the cheery canary-yellow car was Robin’s, it was hers in name alone. Neil had been the only person to drive it in months. He didn’t mind driving it around, but Neil wasn’t going to be at Palmetto next year, so Robin desperately needed this practice behind the wheel.

‘That’s it,’ Neil encouraged as Robin eased off the brake. ‘You remember the way to the court?’

Robin nodded. ‘Left at the intersection.’

‘Blinker on?’

‘There’s no one behind me.’

‘Robin.’

Robin smirked and flicked the blinker on. ‘Sorry, Cap.’

The jokes were a good sign. On Robin’s really bad days Neil struggled to get more than a few words out of her. She had come a long way.

With her dwindling driving confidence, Robin wasn’t going to be drag racing any time soon, but Neil would feel better leaving her if she could—at the very least—make it to the court on her own.

Robin drove carefully; eyes alert, hands in the ten-and-two o’clock position, red speedometer needle hovering right at the speed limit. Neil only ever saw this kind of intensity from her on the court, but after her day of languishing in bed, it was a relief to see her slowly coming back to herself.

‘Is it left here or the next one?’ Robin asked.

‘Next one,’ Neil told her. ‘After the—’

‘After the sushi train. Yeah, I remember now.’

They were silent as Robin made the turn—blinker on—before Neil decided to push his luck. ‘Are you still not hungry?’

‘I ate that apple you gave me earlier,’ Robin replied, a little defensive.

‘Maybe we could get something from the convenience store on ring road? If I don’t pick up Andrew’s ice cream he might never visit again on principle.’

Robin frowned. ‘I thought Andrew wasn’t coming until Thursday?’

‘It is Thursday,’ Neil said gently. ‘His flight got in two hours ago. Aaron’s dropping him back at the tower later.’

‘Oh, okay,’ Robin murmured. ‘We can make a stop, I guess.’

‘Thank you,’ Neil said. As usual, Andrew had been the magic word. Robin put up with Neil looking after her most of the time, but only Andrew could motivate her to look after herself.

—

Robin and Neil returned to their dorm to find the door unlocked. Keeping Robin behind him, Neil entered first, on high alert until he spotted Andrew’s black-clad figure reclining on the couch.

‘Hey,’ Neil said, aware that he was failing to restrain his smile.

Andrew’s look was unimpressed. ‘Have neither of you ever heard of a hamper?’

Out of the corner of Neil’s eye, he saw Robin glance over at the mound of denim Andrew indicated with a wave. Neil was too busy drinking Andrew in with his eyes.

‘Oh, you mean the jeans corner,’ Robin said.

‘I give up on both of you,’ Andrew informed them.

Neil held up the bag in his hand. ‘Even if there’s a pint of chocolate fudge brownie in here?’

Andrew’s stare turned heated, making Robin giggle into the next bite of her sandwich. ‘Should I retreat to the bedroom with an action movie and The Good Headphones?’ she asked, dodging the kick Neil aimed at her ankle.

‘Children,’ Andrew scoffed, but Neil caught the pleased undertone beneath the scorn. He took that to mean that things had gone well with Aaron.

Neil tossed the tub of ice cream at Andrew and watched him snatch it from the air with ease. Robin took another bite of her sandwich as she joined Andrew on the couch.

Andrew said, ‘Staring.’

Robin said, ‘Get the man a spoon.’

Neil felt warm all over.

[wordynerdygurl]

That's the Brakes

Author's Note: Hello lovelies! This is a little drabble which was inspired by a piece of fan art- a piece of fan art that I foolishly did not like or reblog! The picture was of Steve and Eddie crowded together on a subway... and this little fic was born. If you know the piece I'm talking about, please tag me or, even better, if you're the artist, please let me know! I'd love to tag you and your incredible, inspiring art! Pairing: Steddie Setting: No Upside Down/ Everybody lives and our boys are in the Big City! Warnings: None- it's just a sweet little 600 words!

“And that’s another thing, Harrington-” the subway car lurched forward, Eddie, riding the wave like any expert public transportation surfer would, carried on without interruption, “-I couldn’t get a word in edgewise!  Guy was just blah, blah, blah all night.”

God, Steve was sick and tired of this shit.  Another day, another story about a failed first date and another chance for him to deny just how much it hurt to hear Eddie talking about a new person that had caught his eye when he- Steve Harrington- was right there!  Clinging to his sanity and the metal rod that connected to the train’s ceiling with a white-knuckled grip.    Still he managed to chuckle goodnaturedly over the squeal of braking train tires, “Usually that’s your job, huh?  Talking nonstop, I mean.” Beneath their feet the city rolled by as Eddie let go of the leatherette strap that now swung freely between them to croon mournfully, “Why must you cut me so deeply, sir?” And maybe he would have said more, teased and taunted and twisted Steve up until he couldn’t think in the humid subway car where it smelled like chemical covered urine and a thousand sweaty bodies and where the scratchy speakers announced locations that didn’t match any map he had ever seen.  Maybe Eddie would have waited for Steve to play along?  Giving him half a chance to make his own joke and then they would both be laughing before Eddie went off on a tangent about dice or mice or metal men and how they weren’t robots but they weren’t not robots either. Whatever, it didn’t matter, because just as Steve opened his mouth to respond the train slammed to a hard stop, rocking him backwards.  Thankfully, he was holding on tight.  But Eddie, well, Eddie pushed into him at roughly the velocity of a speeding transit authority subway car, his wiry frame colliding with a solid wall of Steve. Leather clad arms instinctively wrapped around his torso, a mop of wayward waves flew into his face and then there were eyes, round and deep and impossibly rich with fringey lashes that framed his bestest friend’s momentary panic, staring up and into his own.  Lips, pink and plush and so fucking pretty, parted around the eloquent exclamation of “Uh-” and Steve knew that Eddie saw it.  

Could pinpoint the exact moment when the lithe metalhead nerd read Steve’s thoughts.  The unguarded ones about hearts and love and forever.  Thoughts about kissing that so close to his own smart mouth until the pair of them were gasping for air. Steve knew Eddie saw it all written in plain English across his face and held his breath.  Keeping one hand on the support bar but daring to let the other curl along the line of Eddie’s black belt, his fingers splayed over a denim clad hip before pulling them closer together only to whisper, “I got ya, Ed.” “I guess so, huh, Stevie?”   There was no use trying to stop the smile that filled his face when Eddie steadied himself using Steve for support.  That wayward hand of his having wandered under a once black, now softly and subtly grayed t-shirt to stroke against the firm flesh of Eddie’s back without question or complaint.  Nose to nose now, the train grunted to a start, picking up speed between stations, but Eddie didn’t move away. 

Swaying together along the rail car’s route Steve held onto the grabber bar, Eddie held onto him and if they stepped onto the city’s grimly platform two stops later, fingers entwined, that was nobody’s business but their own.

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