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idkyetxoxo · 2 months ago

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Cregan Stark - Everyday

Summary - Cregan Stark is the embodiment of power and untamed beauty, a man who commands attention. His wife finds herself utterly consumed by his presence, unable to resist the magnetic pull of her fierce husband. In his arms, restraint is not an option—only surrender.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!!)

Word count - 2781

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Anytime I'm alone, I can't help thinking about you. All I want, all I need, honestly, it's just me and you.

My husband is nothing short of a force of nature—a man who commands attention with every step he takes.

I count myself among the fortunate few, graced by a marriage that most maidens can only dream of.

The stars had aligned for me, for I had found my match in a man of extraordinary strength and heart.

Cregan Stark—he was no mere man. He was a vision of raw power and untamed beauty.

His presence alone could steal the breath from your lungs. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world, he was everything I had ever desired and more.

A fierce warrior, a devoted lord, and a husband who made my heart race with a single glance.

One morning, as I strolled lazily through the snow-dusted courtyard of Winterfell, I was interrupted by a sight that made my pulse quicken.

There, in the far corner of the yard, was my husband—shirtless, a rarity in this bitter cold.

I stopped dead in my tracks, mesmerized. His muscular frame glistened with beads of sweat, his movements powerful and controlled as he chopped wood with effortless precision.

I watched, captivated, my heart thudding in my chest. The sight of him, so commanding and yet so intimate in his labour, was nothing short of intoxicating.

The snowflakes that fell around us seemed to pause, the whole world holding its breath as I admired the magnificent man before me.

Unable to tear my eyes away, I took a step forward, crossing my arms over my chest as I bit my lip, trying to reign in the desire that surged within me.

"Dear husband?" I called, my voice barely above a whisper, a playful edge to it.

He paused mid-swing, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. A slow, confident smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that could melt stone.

His broad chest expanded as he took a breath, his muscles flexing as he leaned casually on the massive axe he held, as if the task at hand were no challenge at all.

"Yes, my love?" he asked, his voice rich with warmth, the corners of his mouth still tugging upward.

I couldn't hide the way my eyes wandered, tracing the outline of his chest, the faint glisten of sweat on his skin, the strength in his arms that could easily break wood—or any obstacle that came between him and those he loved.

"Why have you taken up such a task yourself?" I asked though I knew full well the answer was likely less about necessity and more about the sheer force of his will.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with one hand, still holding the axe in the other, and shrugged nonchalantly.

"A mere distraction, my sweet," he replied with a gleam in his eye, effortlessly splitting a log in half, the wood yielding to his strength as if it were nothing more than kindling.

"A distraction?" I teased, unable to suppress the playful glint in my eyes. "Or an opportunity to look so... ravishing?" The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, and I felt the heat of my own words burn in my cheeks.

His brows arched in that way of his, the one that told me he was intrigued—and perhaps a little pleased with my flattery.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with that same intensity that made me feel like the only woman in the world.

"Ah, you flatter me, my love," he said, his smile deepening as he set the axe down, clearly aware of the effect he had on me.

And I, utterly lost in him, couldn't help but relish the feeling of being so completely captivated by the man I had married.

The evening had descended upon Winterfell, cloaking the castle in a deep, silvery night. A chill had taken hold of the air, but inside the great hall, the fire burned bright and warm.

The room had been filled with lords and advisors, their voices heavy with matters of war and strategy.

Yet, amid the debates and discussions, there was only one man who commanded the room without ever raising his voice: Cregan Stark.

My husband stood at the head of the table, the very embodiment of authority and strength. His posture was straight, his presence magnetic.

Every lord, every noble in that room, hung on his every word. Cregan's dark eyes flickered with a sharpness that cut through the noise, and when he spoke, his voice was like the rumble of thunder—low, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

He was the Lord of Winterfell, and every inch of him bore the weight of that title with ease. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his command. His power was undeniable.

I watched him from the far side of the room, mesmerized by how effortlessly he dominated the space, how easily he commanded respect. His every movement was deliberate, his every glance a reminder of the fire and resolve that burned within him.

His presence radiated strength, and in that moment, I was overwhelmed by the sheer force of his masculinity. He was magnificent, fierce, ravishing, and yet entirely at ease with himself.

When the last of the lords had filed out of the room, their steps echoing off the stone walls, I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from him.

He stood still at the head of the table, his broad shoulders squared, his posture as proud and powerful as a wolf in the wild.

The way he stood, so effortlessly commanding and unyielding, made my heart race.

As the heavy wooden doors creaked closed behind the last of the lords, I knew it was my moment. I crossed the room quickly, my footsteps light, almost hurried, as if I couldn't wait another moment.

Reaching the door, I locked it with a soft click, my pulse quickening as I turned to face him.

Cregan was already looking at me, his brow slightly furrowed in a question. He hadn't moved from his spot, his gaze steady, but there was a flicker of curiosity in those dark eyes.

His expression was unreadable as if he were waiting for me to make the next move.

I stood there for a heartbeat, the air between us thick with unspoken words. I could feel the heat of the fire on my back, but all I could see was him—my fierce, beautiful husband.

He was still dressed in his dark furs, the black of his cloak flowing over his broad shoulders, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath.

He was the very image of strength, of power, and of a man who had conquered not just lands, but hearts—mine included.

I swallowed my voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the room. "Cregan..." His name fell from my lips like a prayer, as if it held all the reverence and awe I felt for him.

His lips curled into that familiar, knowing smile—the smile that told me he knew exactly what I was thinking. The smile that made my heart skip a beat.

"You seem... eager, my love," he remarked, his deep voice low and almost teasing.

I couldn't help but laugh softly, but it was a sound filled with longing, a sound that came from somewhere deep within. I took a step toward him, my eyes never leaving his.

"How could I not be?" I replied, my voice thick with desire, my chest tightening with the magnetic pull he always had over me.

"After watching you command a room full of lords, so fierce and so...ravishing." I paused, the words tasting sweet on my tongue, and then added, "You are something else entirely, Cregan Stark."

He chuckled a low sound that reverberated through me, making my knees feel weak. His gaze softened just a fraction, though the power he exuded never wavered.

"Is that so?" he asked, taking a slow step toward me, the power of his presence like a wave crashing over me.

My breath hitched in my chest as I felt the distance between us close. I could see the glint of amusement in his eyes, but there was something more—a deep, smouldering heat that burned just beneath the surface.

He was just as affected by this moment as I was, even if he tried to hide it.

By the time he reached me, my knees felt like they might give way, and still, he hadn't touched me. I ached for it, for him.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the furs of his cloak, feeling the strength of him beneath my touch.

"You've made me lose all sense of restraint," I whispered, my voice barely audible, yet laden with yearning. I took another step toward him, and now there was no space left between us.

And then, there was no distance left—my body was pressed up against his, my skin alight with the feel of him.

His heat seared through the layers between us, and I wanted to strip them all away, feel the raw intensity of him against me, inside me.

Cregan's eyes darkened, and for a moment, I could see the battle in him—between the man of duty and the man who was all mine.

But before I could speak, before I could beg for more, he moved, his hand gently cupping my face as he leaned down, brushing his lips against mine.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, and impossibly deep. It spoke of everything we'd kept buried, of the wild, untamed hunger that had been simmering between us all along.

In that moment, I knew. There was no resisting him. Not now, not ever.

This man—this fierce, ravishing, untamable force of nature—had consumed me. He had captured my heart, my body, and my soul.

And I would let him take it all.

"I need you," I murmured against his lips, already tearing away the layers of fabric between us, my hands shaking with the desperation that had been building all day. "I need you so bad."

His voice was a dark rasp when he finally responded, the words sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "Well, my sweet, I'm in no position to deny you."

In one swift motion, he lifted me effortlessly, his strength making my breath catch in my throat.

He laid me across the dark wood of the table behind us, his eyes locked onto mine, filled with a possessiveness that made my pulse race. "Not now. Not ever."

"Good," I gasped, my chest rising and falling with every breath as he began to kiss his way down my body, his mouth leaving fire in its wake.

My hands roamed over his torso, seeking the hard, aching length of him. When I found it, I stroked him slowly, the sensation sending a soft moan from his lips that echoed in my very soul.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice trembling with need, my eyes never leaving his as I begged for more.

He nodded, his breath shallow, his expression a mixture of control and the primal need that mirrored my own.

He positioned himself at my entrance, and the moment he entered me, I felt it—a flood of satisfaction, of relief, of pure, unadulterated pleasure that washed through every fibre of my being.

The rhythm he set was savage, the power of his thrusts unrelenting. Each movement was a slow burn of bliss, a relentless pleasure that stole my breath, that made me ache for more.

The way he filled me, the way he moved in and out of me with such force, was nothing short of divine.

Loud moans tumbled from my lips as his hips slammed against mine, filling me completely before pulling out entirely, only to do it all over again.

Each thrust, each pulse, was pure ecstasy. I felt as though I was floating, lost in the waves of sensation, consumed by him.

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, the pleasure so intense it threatened to overtake me. He saw them, his gaze softening just for a moment before he spoke, his voice low, rough with need.

"Am I hurting you, or can you take it like that, love?" His words were like fire, fanning the flames that already raged inside me.

I nodded quickly, unable to trust my voice, unable to do anything but surrender.

"Please," I finally managed, the word barely a whisper as I clung to him. "Don't stop."

And he didn't.

The world around me seemed to fade away as he continued to move inside me, each stroke sending shocks of pleasure through my entire body until everything blurred into one overwhelming, scorching sensation.

My legs trembled beneath me, unable to keep steady, and I gripped the edge of the table for support, but there was no escape from him, from the power he wielded over me.

He was unrelenting, his thrusts precise, building me higher and higher, teasing me with the promise of something even more.

Each time he withdrew, I felt a pang of longing, a desperate need to feel him deep inside me again, to be filled, consumed. But then he would return to me, faster, harder, taking me to places I didn't even know existed.

My body was on fire, wracked with pleasure, each motion of his hips drawing me closer to the edge.

"Don't hold back, love," he whispered, his voice dark with desire, pulling me closer, his hand sliding between us to trace delicate circles over my swollen, aching clit.

The sensation sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I couldn't hold back the desperate moan that escaped my lips.

"Please, please..." I whimpered, my mind lost in the haze of sensation, my body trembling violently.

"Let go, my sweet," he growled, his own breath ragged as he felt the change in me, as I began to unravel under his touch. "I've got you."

And then, just as I thought I might shatter into a million pieces, he pushed me over the edge. A wave of pure, unadulterated bliss crashed through me, my back arching violently as the pleasure consumed every inch of me.

My body trembled uncontrollably, my legs spasming, my entire being lit up in a way I had never known.

I couldn't stop the cries that spilt from my lips as the climax ripped through me, leaving me breathless, every muscle in my body twitching as the world spun around me.

His name fell from my mouth in a breathless whisper, my body shaking beneath his touch, consumed by a heat that left me utterly undone.

He didn't stop, didn't give me a moment to recover before he was right there with me again, pushing me further, making me feel things I could hardly comprehend.

I was dizzy, disoriented, and yet he made me crave more, made me beg for everything he had to give.

When I finally came down from the dizzying high, my body still trembling, I felt like I couldn't stand.

My legs were weak, shaking beneath me, and I knew there was no way I could move without him. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me gently, as if I were something fragile, something precious, and it only made me feel even more vulnerable, more exposed, more entirely his.

He held me as though I were the only thing that mattered, his touch softening, but the heat in his gaze never wavered.

I was overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened, and in that moment, I was completely, utterly grateful.

Grateful that someone like him—someone so beautifully, exquisitely perfect—was mine.

I leaned against him, unable to steady myself, my heart still racing. He kissed my forehead tenderly, his lips warm against my skin.

"You are incredible," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

I looked up at him, my chest full of wonder, and I felt a soft smile tug at my lips. I couldn't even find the words to express how I felt—how overwhelmingly, impossibly thankful I was for this.

For him. That he, the man who had taken me to the heights of pleasure, who had made me feel more alive than I ever had before, was here with me.

"You're everything," I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of everything I couldn't say.

And in that moment, I knew I would give him every part of me—my heart, my body, my soul—because he had already taken me beyond anything I could ever have dreamed of.

And he wasn't stopping. Neither was I.

He giving me that good shit that make me not quit, that good shit. Oh, he give it to me, everyday, everyday, everyday.

A/n - This is lowkey feral but like the song—the concept—it's too perfect...the minute the idea formed in my head I basc dropped EVERYTHING to write this so yw xx

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd s2 #team black #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #lord cregan stark #hotd cregan #house stark #cregan x you

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pedgito · 2 months ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 | Jackson!Joel Miller x reader

summary | Your postcards become a personal journal during patrols with Joel.

author's note | a little late, but this is my entry for @jolapeno's dear-uary! i had very little idea what i was going to do initially, but this kinda turned into its own thing. i hope the postcards are a nice addition to the fic, they were quite fun to make.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson era joel, patrol partners, quiet!reader, enemies to lovers, one instance of choking, mentions of violence, angst, mean!joel, voyeurism, forced orgasm, thigh riding

word count — 7k

“It’s the fifth time I’ve came back and she’s been sleepin’,” Joel gripes a handful of feet below as you feign resting, trying to relax the sneer that threatened to cross your face, annoyed with the exhaustion that never left but loathing the man who couldn’t seem to give you a break, “or writing in that damn book, ignoring us.”

“I’ll talk—” Joel interrupts Tommy once more, with emphasis on the amount, but Tommy reels him in, squeezing down on his shoulder as you peek through one eye over the railing, scoffing under your breath, “I’ll talk to her, alright? S’awonder what a simple conversation can fix, Joel.”

His approach comes later during shift change as the night slowly melted into dawn, the sun rising on the horizon in waves of orange and purple, creating a cotton candy sky, hearing Tommy’s voice carry as he greeted people along the way before the scuff of his boots stopped behind you, you turn to peer up at him sheepishly.

“Not a good look, y’know?” Tommy says redundantly, “I’m not tryin’ to gripe you out, but Joel—”

You nod knowingly, waving him off as you toss your pencil and notebook aside, adjusting your jacket over your shoulders as you sit upright, rubbing the sleep out of tired eyes.

“You can always put me on kitchen duty, hell I’ll take—”

“No—no, I’m not moving you. You havin’ trouble sleeping in the singles?”

The apartments, the singles—it varied, depending on who you asked. A place for the younger, single survivors in Jackson. With the constant sound and rumble of life within the walls, you should feel safe, a subtle semblance of home, but sleeping alone was hard. Trapped within four walls, drowned out by the eventual silence as night fell, it left room for the nightmares.

It was easier here, surrounded by others, sounds to help keep you grounded, the fresh air despite the stale smells and faint fumes of rotting corpses. You couldn’t explain it, but it was easier. Besides, it wasn’t like you were being completely negligent—even Tommy knew that.

“I have trouble sleeping in general,” You feed him a half-truth, “I’ll keep it together, though. As long as it keeps Joel off your ass and mine, I wouldn’t be thrilled to be on the receiving end of one of Joel’s outbursts.”

“Tantrums, more like.” He jokes with a smirk, his teeth peeking out under his thick mustache. “I really don’t mind if you’re dozing off a bit, s’long as there’s others keepin’ watch. Maybe–just maybe, try and keep up the act when Joel’s coming and going.”

“Can do,” You agree with ease and Tommy smiles, pointing lazily toward your notebook.

“I’m curious, though—whatcha got goin’ on in there?”

Your brow furrows until you look over your shoulder and surmise what he’s referencing, picking up the notebook carelessly and flipping through to show him–it was a mix of random doodles and sketches, some vulgar words scribbled in by a mix of immature men who you’ve come to befriend with reluctance on the job, a detailed log of everyone’s schedule as they leave and return, random details of weather patterns, things you’ve noticed along the skyline toward the inner city, several months worth of information that Tommy nods at, thoughtful as he looks over the pages.

“Don’t let ‘em give you a hard time,” Tommy tells you, folding the cover closed.

“Yes, sir,” You say endearingly, mostly as a jest at Tommy’s expense, knowing he despised the word, making a face as he turned on his heels to leave.

“Shit makes me feel old,” He gripes, shaking his head in a mix of disdain and amusement, “stop it.”

You smile at his annoyance as you tuck your belongings away into your pack and trade your rifle off to Jesse, who seemed more than eager to take your shift with bright, well-rested eyes and a grin of his face as greeted you both.

As you expect, there is little sleep to be had as you hit your bed, tossing and turning as you fiddle with the ripped hole in your bed sheet or spend time counting the stains on your ceilings—mold spots and holes, signs of a building that was on the way out, but hanging by a thread.

Tommy wouldn’t condemn the place unless it was in shambles, finding use of just about anything if it still had enough life in it.

And you follow Tommy’s instructional plea—even if it killed you to appease Joel, who seemed just as critical if not more as he rode up on his horse every few nights.

Their shifts weren’t always regular and Joel often picked up extra patrols when someone else couldn’t, complaining entirely too much for someone who seemed like they couldn’t stand living within the sanctuary of Jackson, like he’d rather tough it out on his own.

Ellie blamed it on his inability to let himself settle—Jackson was home, his family was here, and physically he could exist, but he never seemed quite present.

You catch Ellie on a shift change as Tommy and Joel approach, trading out your jerky for her sandwich as she hurriedly tucked it away like she was going to get caught doing something she shouldn’t, snorting softly at her actions as Joel scowled, pulling at the reigns of his horse as he drew near.

The call of your name has you perking up, peering around Ellie’s head at Tommy with a less than enthusiastic look on his face, rifles held between both of the brothers grips.

“I’m askin’ for a huge favor,” Instantly you knew, posture slumping slightly as your boots sunk into the snow, “Cindy’s sick—caught the same bug that’s been goin’ around. Can you cover another shift? I’ll owe ya.”

“Seems more like you’re telling me,” You retort, stretching the beanie down over the back of your head to cover your ears, the cold biting at your skin, “—it’s fine, I’ll do it.”

“Thank—“

“But I want the weekend off.”

“Done.” Tommy agrees without problem.

The patrol box wasn’t all that bad anyways, insulated enough that you weren’t freezing your ass off, enough room for two people, it could be worse. It was better than walking the strip of the barricade, shivering until you couldn’t even feel your toes.

Wyoming winters were brutal, but it seemed like the end of the world had found a vengeance to fight back with, giving you the harshest versions of every season. A blizzard was expected within the next few weeks and those were never ideal—extra patrols, doubling watchmen, curfews. It sucked.

You find yourself sketching out the same tree line you’ve drawn a hundred times, wispy tendrils and thick trunks that wove together like a web, time drifting by with ease as the night swallowed up the day, the thick blanket of snow reducing both the noise and allowing a soft illumination as you peered off into the distance, almost mesmerized at the glowing orb that seemed to grow closer and closer.

Tommy and Joel were the last ones out, everyone else having returned back hours prior, keeping in mind that they had taken the furthest patrol out north, so it wasn’t all that surprising.

But, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that Joel and Tommy are not alone, horses trotting quickly toward the gates as a small group of raiders followed closely behind and shot of rifle rounds with no exact target, whizzing by your head as you opened the door and ran to your own rifle, sliding to the wall for cover as you quickly loaded your gun and swung it over the ledge.

It wasn’t often that you had to use it outside of training and target practice, finding that Jackson had always been relatively quiet—except for now, as the brothers tumbled to cover as shots fired from your left and right, a few of the attackers succumbed to their flurry of wounds.

You watch as one raider attacks the brothers head on, short-lived as Joel attacks him with his fists, a hand bunching into the front of the attackers shirt before he’s crushing his skull in with pure rage and strength, eventually ending up with his hands around the other man's neck while he choked on the blood that spilled from his mouth, the light in his eyes slowly fading.

There’s a straggler on the outskirts, though, blending in as he slid through the tree line and attempted to attack Joel from behind, you quickly aim down your sight through the scope of the gun, following a straight and calm line as the man approached, stepping a few feet away from Joel before the bullet slices through his head, falling to the ground in an instant.

Joel’s head whips toward you, your head peeking over the scope as you examine the body before looking over at him, seemingly stunned but the expression was subdued, quietly mouthing something to his brother who wasn’t as good at hiding his shock.

Either you had made the right choice in saving Joel’s life or he was going to twist this on you, somehow proving that you could’ve killed him with your carelessness, letting a shot ring out so close to his head.

The dread you were feeling does come to fruition as Tommy knocks on your door that weekend, your soft voice welcoming him inside as you perched against the alcove in your room, a small ledge tucked against the windowsill.

“I ain’t here to lecture you,” Tommy begins, cutting through your doubt, “feel like I’m constantly askin’ so much of you but Joel and I can agree on one thing. You’re a damn good shot.”

You scoff at that, almost a laugh.

He leaned against the wall near the small kitchen tucked into the corner of the apartment, arms crossed over his chest.

“We lost James,” from what you recalled, he was a young kind, inexperienced, reckless too, “poor kid never fuckin’ listened, got shot before he could even get his gun out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask bluntly, looking up at him through a downturned gaze, picking at the chipped paint by your feet.

“We’re down a person. I want you to take over.”

“I thought this was a council decision. Some prestigious thing, putting people through tests before they could—“

“It’s the least of my worries. Maria’s close to her due date too, that storm is creepin’ in. We ain’t got time to waste, we’ll be doubling patrols soon. Are you in or out, kid?”

Tommy’s face screamed desperation, sunken eyes were a telltale sign of lacking sleep, stress rifling his features. He had a lot on his plate, the weight of Jackson on his shoulders, his burgeoning new family growing within a few weeks. You had a soft spot for him unfortunately and it was always your downfall.

“I’m in.”

—

“You listen to every word I say,” Joel tells you, snaking by the others loading up their saddle bags, side stepping the horse’s head as he crowds you into the small space of the stall, “Every single word, got it?”

He’s never been friendly—cordial, maybe. But, Joel wasn’t the type to ask or suggest. It was always order and demand, his harsh tone constricting the words to instill an edge that had your brows furrowing down into your lids, face scrunching up in annoyance.

You agree regardless, nodding your head as you clip the saddlebag closed.

“I need to hear it.”

“Got it,” You retort, sarcasm laced around your tongue, “Every single word. You say run, I run. Jump, I jump. Good enough?”

Joel shakes his head slightly at your tone, looking off toward the entrance of the barn at his brother who was deep into a conversation, displeased with the idea of being paired with you.

But, he was the only one Tommy trusted to train you properly, even if it meant several hours together with a good chance you both might kill each other.

With Joel, you were safe from everything else but him.

“Yeah, thas’ good.” He relents, turning on his heels before he finishes his sentence.

The weather was only just beginning to pick up, the winds whipping your loose hair over your face, pulling them from the tie you had pulling the majority of it back, hood snug over your head. You hear the distinct sound of leather rubbing against itself as Joel tightens his grips on the reins of his horse, settling beside you quietly as Tommy called off everyone’s posting.

You were assigned to the ski lodge far north, the furthest they patrolled but for good reason. It kept the raiders at bay, staking claim so far out and keeping them away, for the most part. Plus, it gave them an early jump on any of the migrating groups of infected, finding that they often moved in hoards during the colder months, picking off the stragglers that wandered in.

The trip is cold, lips dry and cracking by the time you reach the lodge, but relatively easy.

“Tie ‘em up,” Joel instructs coarsely, waiting to latch the door closed as you tie the horses up to the makeshift post in the foyer, his foot holding the door open as you step past him, shoulder brushing his elbow as his eyes track the touch silently, clicking the lock into place.

“Beds are up there,” Joel pointed toward the right corner, couches lined with sheets and pillows, “s’better to sleep down here with this weather, place don’t keep out the cold that well unless we got a fire going and even then…”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him tensely, stripping your jacket off your shoulders and slinging it over the back of a nearby chair, pack falling slack against the floor, leaving you free to wander around.

“Sign us in,” He points vaguely in the direction of the bar, an old leather booklet resting against the wall with a pin tucked around a page, his voice carrying as you walk further away, “I’ll start up a fire.”

Joel was like a ghost, almost forgetting he was there until he’s approaching behind you, that familiar grimace on his face as he finds you scouring through the book, curiosity getting the best of you—it was harmless, but Joel thought otherwise.

“Is this gonna be an issue?” He asks, eyes widened slightly in an expectant manner, waiting for your response.

You wrestle with the urge to roll your eyes, neatly writing your names down into the book, checking quickly at your watch before you snap the book closed and shove it aside.

You move to walk around him, but his palm flattens out against your collarbone, shoving you back into place—he wasn’t letting you move without an answer.

“No,” You answer casually, pushing his hand away gently, “Are you gonna explain how any of this works?”

“We take turns,” Joel says, mirroring your early actions as he strips off his couch, the warmth of the fire already spreading throughout the room, “I’ll take first shift ‘til morning, then we swap.”

“And if we see something?”

“You wake me up,” He tells you, “otherwise, don’t.”

It was a simple but lethal instruction, a warning.

This was going to be absolute hell.

Luckily, the conversation dies out and you wander toward the small gift shop attached to the bar. It was mostly picked through besides the small plush bear sitting alone on the shelf and a revolving carousel of postcards, aged from both weather and time. You spin them around careful, mindlessly plucking a few that still seemed in good enough condition before you’re shoving them away in your bag, ignoring the creak of a chair as Joel sat with his rifle in his lap, leaned back as he stared out the long expansive window that covered the wall, just on the edge of cliff with a substantial drop.

It had a beautiful view, breathtaking, really. But, looking in his direction only made you feel more and more unsettled, taking your seat beside the fire quietly.

“Should get some sleep,” He suggest without turning his head over his shoulder, your eyes glancing in his direction, “don’t need you fallin’ asleep on patrol here.”

And normally, you could find yourself falling asleep easily given the situation. But, you were on edge, fearful, something twisting in your gut that kept you from relaxing. You’ve heard the stories about Joel, how ruthlessly he killed and maimed. A man of action rather than peace.

You pull a single postcard from your back to distract yourself, hoping that it might help lull you to sleep eventually.

And you wished it had gotten easier, but the more you were paired with Joel, the more tension it seemed to cause, always unspoken—Joel never reacted, barely skirting the idea that this was becoming a problem, the lack thereof with communication, speaking only when you absolutely needed to.

His questions were always odd, like a robot attempting to make small talk—and often, it was observations, one-off statements that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as they did.

But, they did.

“Sleepin’ with that knife ain’t safe.” Joel told you on a crisp, stormy night at the end of January, the tail end of it peeking out from under your pillow, one eye peeling open to look at him with disdain.

“Says the man who sleeps with a rifle on his chest.”

Joel chews at his bottom lip, looking down at the bulky weapon in his lap before he ignores your retort, focusing his gaze on the book in his grip, something he’s read through about a hundred times, attempting to give himself a different view, flipping through the pages mindlessly.

“Where’d you learn to use a gun like that?” He asks suddenly, cutting through the silence again.

Another question, one you could leave unanswered.

“We’re not put in the watchtower without gun training,” You tell him, “seems kinda self explanatory, Tommy trained me himself.”

“That kinda shootin’ isn’t taught.” Is all he replies with—almost like an accusation.

“I think you’ve forgotten that QZ kids were born with a gun in their hand.”

It was an asinine exaggeration, but still wholeheartedly the truth. You knew every part of a gun before you could even confidently tie your shoes, it was unfortunately second nature when you had a gun in your hand, similar to a knife. Your grip tightened around the handle as you closed your eyes, succumbing to sleep eventually.

You wade in and out, peeking through bleary eyes and always find Joel’s eyes on you, whether purposeful or not, he was always watching. Even as you wandered, no matter where you were—maybe it was his own strange way of hoping that it provided you comfort, that he was always watching out. But, it never made you feel safe. Not really. And, in turn, you find yourself doing the same thing.

He’s more relaxed when he’s sleeping, the familiar scowl non-existent as he snores alongside the crackling fire or roar of wind, his boots untied and loosened but never off, never too comfortable. Joel always slept with his arms crossed, sitting up or lying down, occasionally mumbling in his sleep as he whimpered, his face contorting in the only sign of emotion you see from him outside of anger and annoyance.

You scribble out your thoughts on a postcard to pass the time.

He never asks about the stack of postcards in your bag, remaining blissfully ignorant. It was an unspoken agreement, that prying wasn’t something either of you were going to make an attempt at—you could simply exist around each other, no baggage or stories to be traded.

For now, at least.

–

It was nearly four months of patrols when Tommy lays his plans out and surprisingly, Joel doesn’t seem displeased and truthfully, things had become easier with him than anyone else.

You didn’t have to put on an act for him.

He could tell when you were exhausted or irritated, giving you space with a silent pass of the sandwiches he had picked up before leaving, retreating to his own corner, though his eyes still lingered.

It had taken a few months, but you did feel that safety with him that Ellie often talked to you about—his steadfast personality, knowing that if something were to happen, he’d handle it.

But, he’s still a mystery.

“Ellie told me ‘bout that time you killed a group of raiders tryin’ to attack her,” You start the conversation bluntly, biting into the steak sandwich, “You like knives more than guns?”

Bold, he thinks. That’s fuckin’ bold.

“Guns are loud,” He replies, “Knives aren’t.”

You think back to the incident at Jackson with another set of raiders, witnessing Joel kill a man with his bare hands and think - maybe he preferred neither, if given another choice.

The prospect shouldn’t excite you or even entertain you, the brute power he holds.

But, it does.

You make a soft nose of acknowledgement as you nod your head, noticing the subtle glint in his eyes as he revisits the memory with Ellie, his face twitching at the sight of the broken glass slicing through a poor kid’s neck, right along the jugular as he choked on his own blood.

“You kill anyone?”

“A few—just…for survival.” You weren’t sure why you lied.

Joel wasn’t threatened by you in the slightest and lying wasn’t going to change that.

You’ve been lucky enough to avoid it until recently, bouncing from place to place until you landed in Jackson. It had been your home for a while now, so long that you didn’t like to think about it, staying in one place for such a long period of time.

Joel sat a few feet away in the small house nestled on the mountain, a cool breeze stretching through the open window as Spring had taken hold, flowers blooming over the edge of the windowsill where they threatened to creep in.

His feet were near your head, resting against the ledge of the window as he leaned back in his chair, tapping his knife against the wooden leg of the chair as you pretend to sleep, shifting slightly as the blanket drifted down your body, layers shedded and crumpled by your feet, leaving you in a thin top and and jeans as you turned to your stomach, moaning softly, content.

He’s been less shy about his stares, or oblivious, his gaze lingering when you would catch him in the act—but you count the second in your mind from the moment you catch him through your squinted gaze, his eyes drifting along your body curiously.

Ninety-five seconds.

It was a new record.

And you dream of him that night, it wasn't the first time.

But, this time felt different. Usually the dreams drift away the moment you wake, like a distant and distorted memory, but this one is vivid and lingering as you watch Joel, who had caught you in the midst of your wake but he'd fallen asleep shortly after.

Some fucked up and empty part of you wishes it was reality.

You end up at the same patrol a month later, the heat of summer creeping in.

You hadn’t been paired together in a couple weeks and Joel seemed lighter as he stepped beyond the threshold of the house and stripped off his pack, busying himself with a quick sweep

Wiping your hand over your forehead, skin damp and sweaty as your pack falls to the floor, you sigh, fanning yourself with your hand as Joel catches a subtle glimpse of your obvious discomfort.

“Did Tommy ever fix the water?” You ask with a slight hint of annoyance, more than willing to douse yourself in a bucket of cold water to get some relief, “Please say yes.”

Joel chuckles at that, a small sound that you would have missed had you not been paying direct attention to his response.

“Yes, a couple weeks ago,” Joel answers simply, sinking lazily into the couch, allowing himself a moment of well-earned rest after the long ride here, “go on—I’ll cover the first watch.”

It was all the encouragement you needed.

And the shower is marvelous, leveled at the perfect temperature to let the cool water wash over your skin, cleaning off the thin layer of dirt that had accumulated from Jackson to here, listening to the faint footsteps as Joel traversed the house, assuming he was setting things up in the bedroom—doors opening, floorboards creaking, the sounds were like a comfort.

Joel doesn’t talk unless he absolutely has to, more settled in the idea of just existing around you—he knew it brought you a semblance of feeling safe, but he was forcing himself to keep that distance, remaining vigilant to the eyes that constantly watched him, occasionally catching himself doing the same.

Even now, it was like a trance, his head bowed as he passed the bathroom, noticing the small crack in the door as he heard your melodic hum filter over the sound of water, singing a song that reminded him of before, his favorite.

Was it your favorite too?

He doesn’t mean to, not really, but then you’re turning your body away from the shower-head, eyes closed and head tossed back as you washed your hair, the gap in the curtain from this angle giving Joel a perfect view of your body, the pristine slope of your breasts down to your stomach, a few faint scars he followed before his eyes landed on your pelvis, the trimmed patch of hair nestled above your cunt, feeling his throat swell as he swallowed.

The faint creek of his footsteps gives him away, he knows, but you don’t react.

It wasn’t until the midnight hour rolled around, falling asleep on your shift, that Joel sneaks out of the house—sometimes he just needed the silence in nature, no birds chirping overhead, the faint distant growl from traversing hoards that didn’t carry out this far, if he closed his eyes, it was almost as if everything were normal, like he was back at his house in Austin, enjoying a moment out on his back porch.

Unfortunately, Joel was a paranoid man; your quiet footsteps catch him off guard, only feeling your presence as you arrive at his back, turning on his heels in an instant as his hand latches around your throat, tackling you against the ground with his knee digging into your stomach, your face pinched in pain as you throw weak punches at his chest, gasping for air.

He seems trance-like, eyes glossed over as you struggle to breathe, vision blurring around the edges as it begins to tunnel, you muster as much strength as you can to wheeze his name.

“J-oel. Joel, s’me.”

Your voice, broken and strained, seems to break him out of his deadlock grip on your throat, dark eyes snapping back into a soft chestnut, his face softening as much as it could while still remaining hardened, scrambling away from you without a word. Like you had attacked him.

You let out a flurry of coughs as you roll to your side, massaging your throat as your sounds come out raspy and weak, feeling slight pain as you swallow and attempt to rise to your feet, seeing Joel hesitate from your periphery for a moment, considering helping you.

“Coulda fuckin’ killed you,” Is the only thing he offers.

“Yeah,” You respond bitterly, “Almost fucking did.”

“You got a habit of sneakin’ up on people like that? The hell were you thinking?”

He rubbed a hand over his graying beard, the other hand cocked against his hip as he kept a safe distance, watching you pick the clumps of dirt and grass from your hair.

He’s angry. Angry?

Why the fuck was he angry?

“I was worried—you like to leave at night,” You explain through a strained tone, a tic in your jaw as you clench down, eyes sinking into a scowl as you challenge his expression, “the last thing I need is finding you dead and having to explain that to Tommy.”

A tense silence stretches over, a slow and powerful breath through his nose before he relents and stomps past you, leaving you in a similar position to his earlier, watching his figure trail toward the house as your head turns back toward the sky, covered in stars and picturesque.

The kind of sight you wouldn’t believe if you weren’t seeing it in person.

Joel liked simple pleasures, a moment of silence and a place to sit with himself, and you had disrupted it - the only true moment he had alone all day, to sit, to think. The guilt settles in quickly, lingering for a moment before you decide to make the walk back toward the house.

–

What you aren’t expecting to find is Joel, sifting through your bag, items sprawled out on the floor and the thick cards fitted between his calloused fingers, covered in filth as he read over the notes you had left over the past few months, internal thoughts that you wouldn’t dare let slip.

He'd broken the one unspoken rule you both had kept with each other.

Some of them were slightly more embarrassing than others, forbidden to see the light of day until now, meticulous notes about the details of his face as he slept, how you found the rhythmic sound of his breathing comforting or even more damning, how the more aggressive side of him did the exact opposite of what it should.

It excited you. Turned you on, though the cards held more flourishing details about why and how. Because even then, moments prior as his hands pressed against your throat, there was a brief moment of exhilaration, excitement.

Your breath catches in your throat as you scramble, stumbling toward him and reaching for the cards he holds easily out of reach, a hand pressing against your shoulder and squeezing tight enough to hold you back.

“You wanna explain this?” Joel asks, the type of tone that made you want to shrink.

Your mouth parts for a moment before you find your voice, brow knitting in frustration as you reach for the postcards once more, failing, “Those are private—why are you snooping?”

“You left a mess,” Joel explains away, the items of your bag spilled on the hardwood floor, chuckling as he continues, “Huh, private? Ain’t much privacy to be had when you’re writing about me.”

You can feel your heart racing, knowing if Joel moved his hand an inch further down he would feel it too.

The stack had to be at least twenty postcards thick, some innocently tame and just a means to let your thoughts and feelings flow, most of them answering questions Joel had asked you earlier in the night that you had refused to answer, giving him nothing to work with.

The ones he does recite are damning, tossing them to the floor as he flips through the stack before reading off a particularly recent one from earlier that night, his confidence slowly flagging as the words leave his mouth.

Shower. Watching me.

It felt good.

“Goes both ways,” You sneer, pushing his hand away and making one final reach for the cards as you successfully pry them from his grip, stuffing them away in your bag along with your other spilled belongings.

Joel’s expression shifts slightly, staring down at your kneeling figure as you avoid his gaze. His boots scuff against the floor as he crowds you against the wall, nowhere to run when you rise to your feet. Attempting to scare, to provoke.

Daringly, you challenge him, “I’m not the only one watching, Joel.”

His eyes narrow, searching your face for any sign of a bluff. For a brief moment, you almost expect him to deny the obvious—lie, lie, lie.

But, even he couldn’t deny the strange connection; or, affliction, that had riddled you both.

You could blame it on the close proximity built over months of isolation, often paired together over your willingness to work efficiently and without issue as time went on—Tommy was used to people butting heads, arguing, favoring one person over the other.

With you two, he could send you off for a patrol and not have to worry about things being left behind or forgotten.

You were innately quiet, even in Jackson, never wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers or stir up trouble—that was left for the rowdy teens and few and far between drunks. Joel almost suspected you as mole for a brief time upon your arrival in Jackson, a worry soothed by Tommy over time.

But now, he doesn’t know what to think. He can’t figure you out and he’s not really sure he wants to, but you’ve got the kind of look in your eyes that calls out to Joel, silently.

He’s never met someone so controlled, knowing when to keep to themselves and when to bite back; it strings, that bite. He feels it in the way your jaw tightens, attempting to shove past him.

He glances down, noticing the knife tucked away in your left hand. A low, threatening chuckle releases from his lips as his hand grips your wrist, holding it up between your bodies.

“What’re you plannin’ to do with this? Stab me?”

“M’not against it,” You try to keep the strength in your voice, but it wavers slightly.

“I know that look,” Joel challenges, “You ain’t ever killed like this—s’too close, too personal.”

He knocks the knife away with a quick jerk of your wrist as you stumble back against the wall, praying he didn’t hear the small gasp slip from your throat as his chest presses against yours.

“So, you like watchin’ me sleep?” Joel asks in a taunting tone, “Enjoy jottin’ down all those dirty little thoughts thinkin’ I wouldn’t see ‘em?”

“They weren’t meant to be seen. They were private,” You retort, feeling the weight of his body as you exhale, lashes fluttering at his hot breath as it ghosts your face, reiterating, “Private, like my shower? Or, how about all the times I’ve caught you watching me? You know, we could go back and forth about this all night but frankly, I don’t mphh—”

Joel’s hand claps tight over your mouth, effectively silencing you as your face contorts in frustration, hands curling around his thick forearms and fingers, attempting to pry his hand away.

“Look at me,” He goads, repeating it more menacing as you fight against his hold, nodding in satisfaction when you finally relent, “Yeah—now and don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, you left that door open because you hoped I would, right? Stop tryin’ to act so innocent, girl.”

It ignites a fire in you, the demeaning monaker that transforms into enough strength to fist your hands into his shirt and shove him into the reclining chair positioned behind him, a heavy grunt releasing from his chest as you stumble over his boots and into his lap.

“Don’t call me that,” You seethe, not amiss to the immediate instinct of Joel’s to catch you, thighs bracketing his right leg as his hands squeeze your waist, keeping you upright.

Joel speaks your name, almost taunting, “S’that better? Or is that little crush your harboring hopin’ I’ll call you somethin’ a little sweeter?”

You feel the weight of his thumbs as they curl into your belt loops, body swaying with the motion as you take a seat on his lap, ass pressed against his knee and you watch as his chin gradually moves to rest against his chest, his eyeline following your movement.

“Don’t call me anything,” You retorted, his eyes flicking up under a heavy gaze.

Joel was simmering with a controlled rage, his hands squeezing at your hips as he jerked you forward suddenly, your hands grasping onto the back of the chair over his head, the friction at the seam of your denim as it rubbed against your clit, nestled between slick folds that couldn’t hide the arousal you were feeling, how the heat that radiated off of Joel made you sick with want.

“Alright,” He agrees, “then go on ‘head, get off me.”

Something tells you it is definitely a trap.

A moment later, you can feel his fingers gripping around your backside, digging into your ass as he pushes your hips backwards once before slowly guiding them forward, your sneakers scuffing against the hardwood as your lips parted, a silent breath slipping out.

“Go on—get off,” He taunts, the double-entendre making your brain go fuzzy.

“Joel,” It was a weak attempt to tell yourself and him this was a bad idea, but with the pleasure swelling in your core, it comes out more relaxed - you moan his name and Joel hears it.

“You ain’t good with words, but you can show me,” He remedies, the subtle movement as you grind against his leg, denim on denim but you’re almost positive he can feel how wet you are through the fabric, or how the shared heat was almost sweltering, “rub that pretty pussy on me.”

You have half the mind to snark at him, but think back to his eyes on you on the other side of the bathroom door, how he had admired without guilt, no truer words having left his mouth.

Guiltily, you lean against him, forearms resting where your hands were previously gripping, aiding in the quickening pace of your hips as you breathed softly into his ear, one of his hands slipping under the fabric of your shirt, palm spread wide over your back as the chair creaked with the shifting weight.

Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp as Joel’s calloused fingers rub against your spine. The friction against your clit is overwhelming, intensifying with every roll of your hips under his guise, the desperate need for release building in your core, quietly aware of the weight of Joel’s cock through his jeans, hard and neglected.

Your hand slowly moves toward the button on his jeans, ghosting over the swell of his cock before his fingers grip your wrist and return them to their original spot, “This ain’t for me,” He reminds you, “Keep goin’—show me how bad you need it.”

His words spur you toward the ledge you were teetering on, movements increasingly more wild and frantic, soft noises gradually becoming louder as his hands roam your body, the one on your back remaining as a constant while the other roams toward your front, squeezing gently at your breasts through the flimsy bralette, his thumb brushing pointedly over your nipple as you moan.

“Fuck, I’m c—close,” You warn him, blindly finding his hair with your right hand, squeezing at the strands as he grunts, head tilting back against the chair as you moan brokenly, a sob escaping your mouth.

His voice carries you through, his voice enveloping every point of your existence as your orgasm starts and crescendos, “That’s it,” He coos, “s’alright, let it out.”

You obey, weak whimpers cry into his neck as you hide away, hips grinding lazily through the aftershocks as his arms wrap around you silently, holding you steady as the sound of your ragged breath fills the room alongside the quiet chirping of nocturnal animals.

“Gonna write about this later?” Joel teases, whatever hostility he was holding earlier now non-existent, clearing his throat as you lean back, ignoring the obvious thick and permeating tension that was blanketing you both, still unaddressed.

“S’not funny,” You respond, climbing off him unsteadily before you turn your back to him and gather your belongings into a pile and shove them back inside your pack, “You weren’t supposed to see ‘em.”

“We’re partners—you think keepin’ secrets is smart?”

“It’s harmless—and what about you?” You begin, suddenly settling back into your own quiet rage, “Sneaking around, watching me? I notice shit too, Joel.”

Joel sits in quiet contemplation, his permanent scowl growing deeper as his knuckles rub at the spot where your cunt previously was, “Alright—new rule.”

Your eyebrows raise in anticipation, never really prepared for what Joel ever had to say.

“I ask questions, you answer ‘em. For every one you answer, I’ll answer one too.” Fair enough, you think, but then he continues, “It stays between us, alright? And if you want something—ask for it. No sense in bein’ shy ‘round me anymore.”

Not after that.

Baby steps, you say to yourself.

The thick air between you seems to open, like a weight off your chest.

“Alright,” You reply softly, “I can do that.”

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes intense as they lock onto yours. "So, those notes. How long you been writin' 'em?"

You smile with a newfound giddiness, though still mostly subdued, biting at your cheek to stop the spread of your grin, shaking your head as you lock down at the stack of postcards stuffed into your bag.

“Only since we got paired up,” You admit, “every other night or so. When I can’t sleep.”

Which was often.

He grunts, processing the information as you fiddle with the strap of your pack.

“Is it my turn?” Joel nods quietly, shifting back in the chair, ignoring the slowly waning bulge in his jeans that he would surely deal with later, “Well—how long have you been watching me? Or, well–why?”

“That’s two,” Joel chastises, but there was no real bite behind it, “Since you came to Jackson, figured you weren’t good—”

You know what he means—mistrusting, suspicious.

“Does it bother you—that I do? You scared of me?”

You shake your head shyly, avoiding his gaze.

It was the darkest, most sinister parts of Joel that drew you in.

“I think you’d be terrified of the things I like about you, Joel.”

Joel doesn't respond outright, but his subtle grin is enough confirmation for you. He knew exactly what you meant.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #pedro pascal #tlou fic #the last of us fic #my writing #jolapenosdearuary

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bucket-hat-lando · 20 days ago

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Hell On Earth AKA Assessment Day (LN)

Today was lando’s least favorite day of the entire year

ASSESSMENT DAY although this year he had you as his emotional support girlfriend for today you still were not looking forward to seeing him struggle

Admittedly you were late to the first half of the assessment telling him you needed to get some work done at home first but (mostly because you wanted to put off seeing him struggle as long as you could).

When you arrived you quietly slipped in the door unnoticed standing in the corner observing quietly gaging the atmosphere that’s when you saw him currently doing the Vo2 max test you could see he was struggling his face was beat red his black shirt was soaked from exertion and his eyes looked glossy. After 10 minutes he finally was done and when the treadmill finally slowed you caught his eyes.

As fast as his legs would carry him he made his way to you but this hug was different all his body weight you could tell was on your if you let go he would fall. “Hey” you whispered quietly and rubbed his back all you got in response was a whine his breathing was labored and suddenly there was silent sobbing his shoulders shaking.

Jon from behind you watching closely sent a worried glance but you gave him the I got it look so he backed off. You brought Lando to a quiet corner to get him away from prying eyes and when he finally met your gaze your heart broke “I’m so tired y/n “ he whispered “I can’t do anymore everything hurts “

This was his breaking point his body was tired pushed beyond its normal limit and all you could do was hold him and encourage him even if it went in one ear and out the other. “Babe look at me” y/n said lowly grabbing his face with both hands “ breathe in through your nose out through your mouth you could tell he was genuinely exhausted by the barley had enough energy to hold his head up you grabbed his hand rubbing circles around it like you always do to get him to calm down. Over the next few minutes you sat aimlessly rubbing his back and whispering soothing words

“you can do it your almost done just one more assessment left and then we can go home and cuddle and I’ll even let you be little spoon if you’re lucky “ that brought a slight smile out of him and he slowly got up

“ what would i do without you my emotional support girlfriend “ as he walked away from the corner you sent Jon a wink and thanked god he only had to do this once a year

Wrote this in one sitting

Finally got inspiration from the latest Lando log I hope you enjoy 🤍

#lando norris fluff #f1 imagine #lando x reader #lando norris #lando norris imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 2024 #f1 x female reader #lando norris x reader #f1 2025 #f1 fanfics #f1 x y/n #ln4 imagine #lando norris fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff

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auxmodi · 3 months ago

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sexual tension

drabble ;)

my masterlist

summary: around the campfire, the men start teasing sandor about his size, and as the crude jokes fly, you can't help but sneak a glance at him. when you catch the outline of him beneath his clothes, your heart races, and you can't look away. sandor notices, and the tension between you two is almost too much to handle. you're left wondering what will happen when the camp settles down for the night.

warnings: nsfw, sexual tension, sexual attraction , reader's smutty thoughts, alcohol, objectification, p in v sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing , public sex kind of.

word count: 3.2k

the campfire crackled and spit, casting flickering shadows over the circle of men gathered around it. the air was thick with the smell of sweat and woodsmoke, the chatter growing louder as the ale flowed. you sat just outside the circle, not part of their bawdy camaraderie, but close enough to catch every word, and gods, how you wished you weren’t.

“clegane,” one of the younger men drawled, a drunken smirk plastered across his face. “bet you’re hiding something fierce under all that armor, eh?”

the others laughed, quick and eager to latch onto the joke. sandor, seated across the fire, didn’t so much as glance up.

“reckon it drags behind him in the snow,” another chimed in, slapping his knee.

more laughter, rough and raucous. your stomach twisted as you pulled your cloak tighter around you, hoping to disappear into the night.

sandor’s lip twisted into a mocking half-smile, his gaze sharp as it swept over the group. “keep talking about my cock,” he growled, the words a low, gravelly threat, “and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever get to look at.”

that earned a chorus of hoots and hollers, none of them taking the threat seriously.

“you hear that?” the first one cackled, slapping his thigh. “big man’s got a temper to match!” he leaned forward, squinting at you. “what d’you think, girl? you’re always hovering around him, eh? got an eye for—”

you choked on your sip of water, quickly lowering the cup and staring at the ground as your cheeks burned hotter than the fire.

the thud of steel slicing into wood made you flinch. when you dared to look up, sandor’s knife was embedded in the log beside the man’s head, the blade gleaming menacingly in the firelight. the man froze mid-laugh, his face blanching as though all the blood had drained from it.

the men fell silent for half a beat before breaking into another round of laughter, though it was more nervous this time, the kind of laughter that comes when you’re not sure if someone’s joking.

“aye, no need for that,” the first one said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “just a bit of fun, clegane.”

sandor leaned back against the log, his long legs stretched out and his lips curling into something close to a smirk. He didn’t say another word, just shook his head as if they weren’t worth the effort.

you tried to focus on the cup in your hands, but the conversation around the camp was impossible to ignore.

the men roared, and you dared a glance toward sandor. he was still as a stone, sitting against a log, legs stretched out in front of him. His bowl of stew rested in one hand, the other dangling lazily by his side.

but it wasn’t just his size that drew your eye. It was the way he carried himself, like he was more than aware of the effect he had on everyone around him.

the long lines of his legs, the thick muscles visible even under layers of leather and wool. your gaze drifted lower before you could stop yourself, there, was the unmistakable outline of him, large and thick, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. your heart pounded in your ears as you realized just how much of a hold he had over you.

you tried to tear your eyes away, but the way he filled out his clothes, the way he made you feel. you wanted to touch him, to feel that strength, feel the weight of him, his size, pressing down on you. the image of him, thick and demanding, burned into your mind, refusing to leave.

when you glanced up, you found sandor watching you. his eyes were steady, sharp, like he knew exactly what had been going through your mind. there was no judgment in his gaze, only that intense, unblinking stare, like he was daring you to admit it. To admit just how much you wanted him, how much you needed him.

slowly, almost lazily, he tilted his head.

“enjoying the view?” his voice was a low rasp, just loud enough for you to hear over the chatter of the men.

your heart raced, and you looked down, fumbling with the crust of bread in your hands like it held the answers to your embarrassment.

he huffed a quiet laugh, deep and rough. “thought so.”

the sound of his laughter, knowing, made your pulse jump. you risked a glance up, only to find he was still watching you, his lips curling into something between amusement and triumph.

you tried to gather yourself, but your body felt light, almost dizzy from the weight of the moment. but then, as the world around you came back into focus, you realized you weren’t the only one who had noticed.

the men around the fire had been watching too. they’d seen, heard everything. you could feel their eyes flicking between you and sandor, their glances filled with anticipation, like they were waiting for something to happen.

one of them, who’d been watching intently, couldn’t help but chuckle. “well, looks like you’ve caught the big man’s attention, girl.”

you could feel every set of eyes on you now, watching, waiting for something, anything to happen. and you knew that whatever had just passed between you and sandor wasn’t going to be forgotten.

some time passed, and you were finally alone. you had been chosen to set up the camp, and for once, you weren't mad about it. the embarrassment still lingered, heavy on your body, but with this task, there was no one around to remind you of it.

the dirty thoughts still lingered in your mind, persistent and unsettling. it was the way he looked at you, like it didn’t bother him at all. there was something strange between the two of you, an unspoken connection that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

lost in the depths of your thoughts, the sudden crunch of boots on the ground behind you pulled you from your trance. you didn’t dare glance over your shoulder, but the shadow cast by the moonlight told you everything you needed to know. his presence loomed large, unmistakable. it was sandor.

he stood there for a moment. then, in his usual gruff manner, he spoke. “you’re alone out here.” his voice was steady, not a question, but a statement. the air between you felt thick, but his presence, though imposing, didn't seem to demand anything more.

you glanced at him, trying to hide the slight amusement creeping onto your face. his expression was unreadable, his eyes dark as always. he was standing too close, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still, he didn’t move, didn’t push.

“well?” he asked after a long pause, his voice rough, yet tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “you gonna stand there all night? ain't you got a camp to set up?” his voice reeked of alcohol.

you blinked, suddenly realizing you were still rooted to the spot, caught in the strange tension he’d created. his tone had been flat, but there was something in the way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to say something.

“right,” you muttered, shaking your head as if to clear it. you turned away from him, reaching for the bedrolls and stakes you had set aside, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat had quickened. “I’ll get to it.”

you could feel his presence still lingering behind you as you bent down to fasten the stakes into the ground, the weight of his stare making the silence awkward and thick. every movement felt too deliberate, like he was watching your every action, even though he hadn’t said a word since his last remark.

suddenly, you felt a hand press against your lower back. startled, you flinched and glanced up at him. without warning, he yanked you to your feet by your pants, pulling you tightly against his chest, your back to him. "don't make me do all the work" he murmured low, his voice thick with intent. you held your breath, feeling the undeniable pressure of his body against yours. his hips subtly thrust forward, the hardness of his bulge pressing into your lower back.

your pulse quickened, a mixture of nerves and something else you couldn’t quite place. you shifted uncomfortably, trying to create some distance between you, but his grip was firm. "sandor," you whispered, unsure of what you wanted him to do. "this isn't right."

without answering, he lowered his mouth to your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. the warmth of his breath sent a shiver through you, and before you could react, his hand moved down your body. with a sudden, forceful motion, his fingers grasped the fabric of your shirt, pulling it taut before ripping it open. the sound of fabric tearing filled the air, and your breath caught in your throat.

you gasp, instinctively crossing your arms to shield your chest, but he seizes your wrists and firmly pulls them behind your back. sandor smirks, his voice low and rough as he says, “hiding won’t save you now.”

he pulls you back into him, your ass pressing against his bulge. sandor chuckled, a sound that reverberated through you. "is that what you want?" he growled low, his voice thick with desire. you could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened behind you as you pushed back into him. his groan followed, deep and unmistakable, as his hips involuntarily thrust forward.

"keep pushing, and you're only going to make it worse," he whispered against your ear, his voice a mix of amusement and promise.

but you couldn’t stop. you pressed back into him again, your body moving against his in a way that left no room for hesitation. his breathing hitched, and before you could react, sandor spun you around with brutal force. you fell to the ground, the air knocked from your lungs, and you gasped in surprise.

you now sat on the floor, hands pushing up your body to regain some balance. your breath was shallow, heart racing, and as you looked up, you saw sandor towering over you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

he took his time, slowly unbuckling his belt as his gaze never left you. you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and fear, the way his eyes held you in place, his every movement calculated.

he noticed the excitement in your eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. a low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich with amusement. "you’re eager," he murmured, his gaze darkening as he took in your reaction.

you were frozen, not knowing what to say, your words lost in the heaviness of the moment. all you could do was sit there, heart pounding, waiting for him to move, unsure of what would come next.

without warning, he unzipped his pants and slowly takes out his cock. you stared in disbelief, you couldn't help but notice how much larger he was than you'd expected. his gaze remained locked on yours, and with a slow, almost indifferent smirk, he muttered, 'didn't think you'd be this quiet. thought you’d have more to say.'"

his words stung, challenging you, and without thinking, you pushed yourself to your feet. you met his eyes, you didn’t know if you were trying to prove something to him or to yourself, but you took a step closer, your breath steadying as you faced him head-on.

you stared at him, the silence heavy between you. neither of you needed to speak to know what you both wanted, but the words failed to form. uncertainty gripped you, but something inside urged you to move, to take the first step. without thinking further, you leaned in and kissed him.

your lips met his, the kiss harsh and impatient, filled with undeniable desire and lust. you felt his tongue push past your lips, exploring your mouth, his hand tightened his grip on your thigh, finger digging into your skin. "answer me", he said, his voice low, "you think you can take all of me, huh?" his other hand quickly yanked your pants down to your knees, the urgency in his movements making your pulse quicken.

you looked up at sandor, meeting his intense gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "do your worst." the words were edged with hesitation, but there was something else there too, a quiet challenge. he smirked, clearly appreciating the boldness beneath your uncertainty, before he spun you around and shoved you face-first into the tree.

his grip on your wrists was rough, pulling them behind your back and holding them there with unrelenting force. his breath was hot against the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. as reality set in, so did a rush of nervousness, your breath quickened, your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

he chuckled, feeling the tension in your body. "you're not getting cold feet now are ya?" his voice gravelly, "it's too late to back out now."

you feel the cold breeze on your legs and chest, and you try to arch your back slightly, as if to invite him in. you feel his hard presence against you, waiting impatiently.

when all of a sudden you felt sandor's thick fingers attach themselves to your pussy. his other hand stil holding on tight to your wrists. "let me see" he mutters, his fingers brushing against your folds, stroking up and down.

you desperately tried to clamp your legs shut, the humiliation heavy in your chest, too much to bear. but his hand, strong as usual, forced them apart. the weight of it settled heavy on you, the sense of being exposed, vulnerable, naked in a way you never thought you'd be, especially with sandor, your usual companion in the mud and blood of battle, seeing you like this.

sandor, clearly tired of you already, grabbed you by the neck with a cold, firm hand, his grip locking you in place. you were shoved hard against the tree, your body pinned to the bark. there was no hesitation in him now, he didn’t want to wait any longer.

"quit fightin’," he growled. "you’ll give in, like it or not."

you were so overwhelmed by his actions that your mind went blank, unable to focus or think clearly. he noticed, of course he did. "please, sandor," you murmured, desperately trying to create some friction by swaying your hips, but he held you down firmly, laughing at your attempt.

sandor is so smug about it too, groaning just quietly enough while his hands grab your ass, pulling you further apart so he can finally enter you. "been waiting for this," he murmured, his voice low and filled with satisfaction.

you turn your head towards him, glancing over your shoulder just to see how big he looked as he loomed over you, pulling you closer while gripping the base of his cock as he slips his tip into you. the sharp, overwhelming pain makes your body ache. you cried out in desperation, you close your eyes and try to relax every muscle in your body as he slowly fills you up, little by little.

sandor furrowed his brows as he holds still for just a moment, his rough hands were all over you. "fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re a virgin" he growls through his teeth.

"not that,” you finally managed to whisper, releasing the breath you were holding. “i just- it’s been a while.”

"you're so fucking tight". he grunted, finally feeling your cunt stop clenching, he immediately pulled back and thrust into you forcefully, causing you to cry out, your arm instinctively reaching back to hold his hips back from the overwhelming sensation. he ignores your protests and starts thrusting into you quickly, your body responding to his every move. you whimper with each thrust, moving in rhythm with him, your hand still holding his hip in protest as he drives into you relentlessly.

he grabs the arm that's gripping his hip and pushes it behind your back, gaining a better angle as he thrusts into you. "c'mere," he growled, his grip tightening on your arm. "let me feel you, all of you".

the eye contact, his words, it’s almost enough to make you tap out. sandor’s eyes never leave yours as he pushes into you roughly.

as the rustling of footsteps grows closer, you freeze, heart racing. sandor's grip tightens on you, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods. the sound of your men moving through the trees grows louder, and you can feel the tension in the air.

"stay quiet," sandor murmurs, his voice low and commanding, as he pulls you closer, putting his hand over your mouth. almost covering your whole face with just one hand. neither of you can be fucked to care, the pleasure building low in your stomach as he keeps on pounding into you.

the men approach, oblivious to your presence, and you hold your breath, hoping they don't notice anything out of the ordinary.

you can hear their voices now, but they pass by without a second glance, the danger passing as quickly as it arrived. sandor lets out a low grunt, picking up his speed, fueled by frustration. his hands find your hair, pulling it harshly, causing you to yelp.

you choked on your moans, your aching pussy taking him whole, sandor leans in close as he pushes you back and forth on his cock. loving how you whine everytime he slides inside of your pussy.

he can't hold back anymore, his control snaps, and all that’s left is brute force and raw lust. he grips your hips tightly, his hands holding your ass as you let him take control. his touch grows bolder, sliding up your sides, skimming your stomach, and grazing your chest until they rest just above your throat. he pulls your towards him, looking for you eyes.

you look at him and find him staring at you, his lips parted, his eyes moving from your face to your ass, watching as he splits you open, again and again.

"oh gods" he mumbles under his breath, still staring at where you bodies keep on meeting together with his brute force. his breath quickens, short, guttural growls of pleasure escaping his mouth, you nod, sandor immediately knowing what you mean, his fingers dig into your hips even harder, his breathing becoming faster and more labored, as he picks up the pace. the sound of slapping flesh becoming even louder in the forest.

before you know it, you're cunt is filled up with his seed, you cum and his name keeps on falling of your lips. "that's it girl." he thrusts his seed deeper. it's quick, the way he eases himself out of you, how you feel it flowing down your inner thighs.

you try to stand secure on your wobbly legs and it was you who finally said something. "y- yeah, you've made your point."

sandor just watches you with a grin on his face, cocky bastard.

#gameofthrones #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #the hound x reader #sandor clegane #sandor the hound clegane #sandor clegane smut #sandor x reader #the hound fanfic #got #game of thrones x reader #drabble #smutty #game of thrones smut

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channiesbakery · 2 months ago

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playing games —

prompt / request — fucking, but one is still trying to keep all of their attention on the game they are playing

pairing — reader + gamer!wonwoo

word count — 608

genre — smut [oral (m receiving), denial]

you never minded when wonwoo played games. it was his way of relaxing and you’d never get mad at him for spending his time off doing it.

except when you’re feeling as needy as you are today. even though he’d woken you up with his head between your legs and he’d fucked you in the kitchen after breakfast, you were still feeling needy.

you creep over to his gaming room, poking your head in. wonwoo hears his door opening and turns to face you, giving you a soft smile. he muted himself from the call, pulling his headphones off to rest around his neck.

“everything okay, princess?” wonwoo asks as you make your way over to him. “i need you,” you say. “do you need me to kill a spider or something?” he asks, about to get up but you shake your head.

“no. i need you,” you say again and he gets the hint, smirking a little. “still needy even after two rounds this morning?” he teases.

“come on, you finally have an off day and we could be having a sex marathon right now,” you try to tempt him but he just laughs.

“give me like half an hour, then I’m all yours,” he promises, kissing your lips softly. you still have a pout on your lips and he just chuckles, pulling you onto his lap.

he started his game again, unmuting himself as he spoke to his friends while you relax against him. you stay still for what feels like forever until you get the idea to tease him.

wonwoo feels you getting up, figuring that you’re gonna leave the room to do something else. he doesn’t realize you dropped to your knees between his legs until your hands slide up his thighs.

“what’re you doing, princess?” he raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling on his lips as he muted himself.

“just finding a way to keep myself entertained until i can fully have your attention,” you hum, tugging his sweats down just enough to release his cock.

he tries to focus on his game, he really does. but the minute your mouth wraps around him, he lets out a hiss.

his friends question if he’s okay but wonwoo just makes up an excuse, trying to focus on winning and not the way your tongue is running along the underside of his cock.

“you wanna play games? i can play games too,” you tease him.

you’re pulling out every trick you have to get him to break. you focus all your attention on his tip first, licking and sucking it before you take him deeper down your throat.

wonwoo bites down on his lip, holding back a moan as he felt his tip hit the back of your throat.

you pull away, your hand replacing your lips as you slowly jerk him off. wonwoo glances down at you as you start pressing kisses to his cock, letting out a soft “fuck” when he sees you peering up at him innocently.

you take him back into your mouth, trying to bring him closer to the edge. he holds back a moan when your fingertips graze his balls.

just when he’s about to cum, you pull away and stand up, wiping the corner of your lips with a smirk.

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes when you’re ready to give me all your attention,” you tease, starting to walk out of the room.

you watch as he quickly logs off of his game and call, deciding he can give his friends a lame excuse later.

“oh no, I’m ready to give you all my attention now. and don’t think I’ll be taking it easy on you after that stunt.”

#wonwoo x reader #wonwoo smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #svt x reader #svt smut #channiesbakery drabbles

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gingersxng · 5 months ago

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Like What You See?

Pairing: f!reader x Mingi

Genre: smut 18+

Notes: roommates, reader is a tease, bigdick!mingi, mentions of porn, jerking off, Mingi has nasty thoughts about the reader, stripping, fingering, pussy play, breast play, voyeurism, cursing, Mingi cums in his pants, mentions of sex toys. May have forgotten something!

a/n: saw this Ateez log and immediately thought of this scenario when I saw Mingis facial expressions🙂‍↕️ am I sorry tho? ofc not!

Words: 866

Imagine..

During the last few weeks maybe months, you’d been repeatedly walking in on your roommate Mingi sitting against the headboard on his bed with his massive cock in his fist, the erotic and pornographic sounds from the laptop giving you straight hints of what he was watching.

What you didn’t know was that he didn’t jerk off by the screen in front of him, sure it was part of the point but the biggest reason he did it was because of you. He imagined that it was your small hand who milked him dry, as if it was your pretty mouth that was wrapped around his dick sucking up every last drop of his thick cum.

It was hard for you to sleep at night since your rooms were just a thin wall apart, Mingis low and deep moans tore through the wall and into your red ears. The vibrations from his voice went straight to your pussy and you crossed your legs in discomfort as you looked up at the ceiling. All you wanted was to be the one who made him sound so devilish..

Mingi sat down on the couch in your shared living room watching something boring. You’d been in your room the whole afternoon trying to find a way to act around Mingi after all this live porn. He didn’t think much about it that you’d seen him half naked, he’s a man after all.

The thing was, you had seen his dick maybe it was time for him to see your pussy. The wicked thought of Mingi watching your naked body gave your belly the tingles.

You took a deep breath before finally stepping out of your room, Mingis eyes were still glued to the tv screen and you slowly approach the armchair beside the couch.

“You’re finally out of your room, congratulations y/n” he said sarcastically, still watching the tv. “oh thank you Mingi..” you said seductively as you sneaked down in the soft chair. “What have you been up…” Mingi finally turned his head away from the tv and were met by a sight he never thought he would ever witness in his whole life even if he dreamed about it almost every night. “To..?” He gulped hard and his eyes got big as UFO’s.

You half laid down in the armchair with your legs spread wide, one leg over the armrest and your fingers deep inside your pussy. You were only wearing a white crop top with nothing underneath, your hard nipples almost poked holes through the thin material.

“Like what you see?” You softly asked watching him sit in front of you like a mannequin, not moving a muscle. Even though he couldn’t speak, his body spoke for him instead. A big tent formed quickly in his sweats and you swore you could almost see his cock twitch underneath.

Mingi gave you a nod and bit down on his lower lip trying his best not to nut inside his boxers too fast. You slowly rubbed your clit and bucked your hips up while letting out soft moans never breaking eye contact, you slid your index finger through your folds and gathered up some of your juices that made a slimy string as you took your finger out. “Fuck..” he whispered under his breath as all he wanted to do was to bend you over this couch and fuck your brains out.

While playing with yourself you could see how he fought more and more not to completely loose it, his leg bounced up and down fast and his one hand rested on his thigh, he gripped it so hard he almost let out a whine.

“You’re torturing me, why?” Mingi groaned, his eyes never leaving your wet pussy. “You’ve been torturing me all those nights jerking off to all those porn videos, so I thought I’d do the same thing to you” you said with a wink. Mingi let out a deep moan and swallowed thickly, “I never wanted to torture you..” he whispered.

“You wanna play with these?” You teased as you took off your top revealing your bare tits, you kneaded them together and bit your lip. Mingi uncomfortably pushed his hand down on his dick wanting release, wanting you to ride him..

“Oh fuck yes” he growled as he palmed himself through his sweats. “I’m sorry but you can’t, I’m actually beginning to feel a bit tired from all this playing” you slowly stretched your arms above your head and let out a fake yawn. “Think I have to finish this in the bedroom.. should I use the vibrator or the big dildo..?” You talked to yourself as you got up from the chair. Mingi let out a painful groan as he came in his boxers, you knew he did but continued to play your game.

You bent down to his eye level and put your finger under his chin to tilt his head up, his eyes were filled with nothing more than lust, his pupils were dilated to the max. “If you’re up for it we could watch porn together some night..” you whispered before letting go, leaving him horny and confused.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #kpop smut #mingi #mingi x reader #mingi smut #song mingi #mingi hard hours

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senseichaos · 1 year ago

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IMAGINE...

FULL LENGTH IMAGINE!!

Alastor is low-key a psychopathic sadist in this so you've been warned

un-edited

Alastor predator / prey play.

In episode 3 you can see his room which half of is a forest-swamp-like interior. But what if it was a forest?

"Alright dear.. I'm going to ask you to run into this forest," he begins, teeth so largely grinning you can see his gums poking in it. His eyes glow darkly and he leans in slightly closer "And I'll chase after you, and when I catch you.."

His scleras turn a black and his horns begin to grow. You shiver, shirnking away from him as he speaks. His words come out distorted, a thin crackling accompanying them:

"I'll delight in your body, no matter if you scream and cry.. I'll tear every piece of innocence from your pliant figure many times until you admit that I own every piece of you.." he trails a single claw down my chin, causing you to gulp. His eyes send you into a sort of trance, their deep red shine making your knees weak.

"Sound good, my fawn?" He asks, eyes softening as he brushes his hands through your locks.

You nod. You shouldn't have. But you did.

And then he lets go of you, smiling manically as you shiver under his gaze. Alastor licks his lips, black tongue poking from his lips. You cry beneath your breath, already feeling a sort of terror go though your body even though he hasn't commanded you yet.

And then he does

"Run" he growls, and you're off.

You run despite your shaky legs and aching feet. You jump over logs and rake yourself through bushes. You don't once look behind you, and Alastor doesn't seem close by, anyway. So you take a sharp turn, almost tripping in the process as you run in that direction; I hope that this decision means that he'll be far behind. Perhaps you could even find a place to hide.

A sudden rustling comes from a bush to your left, and this stupidity causes you to look towards it as you run; with this uncaring look comes a consequence: you trip over a root on the swampy forest floor, making your body shoot forward and fall into the grass. You cough rather loudly, shaking your face as you attempt to get up.

Ouch.

Fuck. Your ankle is twisted to shit. How are you supposed to run? You look around wearily, dragging yourself across the ground by your arms to try to find any sort of hiding place in this barren wasteland of trees and small bushes.

Then your ears catch a noise.

It's stomping. You hear stomping.

"Little fawn? Come out for daddy.." Alastor says, walking nearby.

You feel a terror shoot from my body, and you shuffle away as fast as you can. To get behind anything. You see his silhouette to your left, so with a determination you crawl (or rather shimmy) behind the nearby bush.

Fuck, the bush rustles as your body passes by it, and Alastor is now looking in your direction completely. From his silhouette you can see that he isn't in his regular form. No. He has those large deer horns poking from his head, and his upper body is larger as is the rest of his body.

And there's that glow. That glow of his red irises and Yellow smile as he looks. As he looks in your direction. As he looks in your eyes.

You are suddenly appreciative that Alastor isn't in his full demon form. Or he may rip you shreds by his claws. He doesn't stalk towards you yet. He just smiles wider, not breaking his eye contact whatsoever as he just stands.

But before you could even pry yourself from his gaze, he's running.

You scream, trying to stand but your ankle buckles beneath you; this makes you fall on your chest as you glance wearily backwards. Just as you glance backwards, he's on top of you.

You scream rips through the air again, feeling searing pain go through you as he rips your clothes up to shreds. He doesn't care for the fact his claws leave scratches and marks against your back, all he cares for is ruining that innocence you harbour. When you whimper he aggressively pushes you down so your face hits the ground and your arms lay splayed next to you, laughing to himself as he tears your panties off of your mound harshly. He flips you over again, wanting to see your dirty face after it's been shoved into the ground.

"Little fawn.. how drenched you are~" Alastor purrs, dragging a clawed finger through your wetness. The sharpness of it just barely stimulates your clit, causing you to moan as you attempt to close your legs. Alastor doesn't like that. As soon as he sees you attempt this he forces his hands around your thighs, pushing them open until you cry out in pain from the force.

"Don't test me, little fawn.." He growls, his gums showing from his manic smile. It makes you aroused in a way you can't describe. For a moment he looks at your ankle, which is bruised from the fall you took. What you didn't expect is for him to grin at this, before shifting his eyes back to your own teary ones.

"you seemed to have twisted your ankle my dear!" He leans down his nose barely brushing against your own as his claws dig into your plush thighs. "That means you can't run away.. how convenient for me," Alastor growls, finally moving one of his hands from your thigh so he can wrap his hands around your neck, forcing you to tilt your head backwards. This gives him the opportunity to bite into the area where your neck meets your shoulder.

First he just licked the area with his black tongue, causing you to shiver at the way his gaunt body leans over you. Then he barely nibbles the area, making you squirm in a way that Alastor doesn't like. He digs his claws further into your thigh as a punishment.

And then without warning, he bites down, his teeth sinking completely into your shoulder. You scream out, tears falling down your cheeks as you shake from the sheer pain of it all. When he starts to withdraw his teeth you scream again, sobbing loudly as the pain shoots through your entire body.

When he fully withdraws, he just smiles, admiring his work. Blood pours from the wound quickly, and you could feel yourself losing a lot of blood.

Thankfully, Alastor loves you enough to not kill you. So he withdraws his hands from your neck and clicks his fingers, the blood moving back into your body before a bandage appears on it.

"Can't have my fawn bleed out, can i? What would Charlie say!?" He laughs, his black sclera darkening as he wipes away your tears. You whimper like a dog, lower lip wobbling as you open your eyes. You and Alastor just stare into each other's eyes for a moment, taking in each other and each other's flaws. He is smiling, you are crying.

What you fail to notice in this moment is Alastor unbuckling his pants, pulling his cock from the confines of his boxers and pants so his tip barely kisses against your entrance. When you notice this you whimper, trying to draw yourself away from him. Though Alastor just pulls you back by your twisted ankle, causing you to gasp in pain from the way he does it.

"Little fawn, there is no use in running away from me," he tilts his head, licking his lips as he presses the tip of his cock flush at your entrance. "You've been caught already, my dear!" He laughs, and without warning plunging his cock into your entrance.

You scream his name, moving your hands to cover your mouth. Alastor laughs, his black tentacles appearing from the ground to pry your hands from your mouth, holding them down. "It's much more fun when I can hear you scream for me, isn't it dear?" He laughs, drawing his hips back before thrusting harshly into your core again. You moan, teary eyes rolling backwards with a sort of agonizing pleasure.

"How tight you are, Little fawn," He says, pushing your thighs into your chest so he has better access to your holes. Each thrust he gives you makes you moan loudly, though Alastor doesn't even so much as grunt. He just grins as he watches your innocence leave you with a prideful gaze.

"S'too much! Fuck!" You yell, feeling his tip brush against your cervix painfully. Though Alastor only laughs, closing his eyes and laughing as he speeds up his thrusts. The tentacles around your arms tighten as you attempt to move them, Alastor's brows furrowing with his laughter.

You couldn't even understand his motive anymore. Is he enjoying having you beneath him? To the point where he humors it?

"Oh, how funny you are my little fawn," He says, moving one of his left hand from your thigh to wipe away a tear of laughter. As he puts his hand back on your thigh he tilts his head, speaking: "But I already said I don't care if you want to stop,"

"You already agreed to this, didn't you?" He says, and you scream with a painful pleasure.

"You wanted this."

His thrusts become manic in pace and you can't help but give up on moving. He's in complete control of you now. He's in control of your feelings, he's in control of your thoughts, he's in control of your body, he's in control of your pleasure. He owns you now. And there's nothing you can do but take it.

You'd take anything he'd give you.

With a whimper and a sob you cum on his cock, walls clamping around his length as he bites his lip. He watches your face the entire time, a snarky and prideful look on his features as you come loose around him.

Once you finish, here comes that horrible overstimulation that makes you gasp for air. How has he not came yet? You had no answer.

"My little fawn, too bad I cannot breed you. I guess this will just have to do.." he says, serving you one last harsh thrust as he empties his load inside of you. And he cums a lot, like- a lot a lot. You can feel your stomach bulging every so slightly with his cum as he leans down, kissing your cheek.

"Oh thank God," you sigh, happy that the sex is finally over.

"God!? Ha!" He laughs pulling out of you.

You begin to sit up, but Alastor's tentacles hold you down. He tuts, grinning as he presses his cock head against your anus.

"Who said we were done, Little Fawn?

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

#proship #senseichaos #antishippers dni #senseichaosdrabbles #proship fanfiction #alastor x reader smut #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor #alastor smut #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin hotel smut

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 8 days ago

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You Found Me Here

Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: None. Just soft Harry at his finest.

London was soaked to the bone.

Rain spilled from a low, unbroken sky, coating the pavement in a shimmering blur. Cars hissed past, umbrellas tilted like tired eyes. She slipped into the library just after half-past four, damp from the walk, her fingers chilled, her shoulders damp where her coat had failed. The door creaked shut behind her with a low, familiar groan, and the noise of the outside world vanished.

Inside, the air was warm and still. Soft light hummed from brass sconces, catching in the floating dust. The scent of old pages, polished wood, and something faintly herbal—lavender, maybe—hung in the air. The building was old, but well loved. It wrapped around her like a blanket.

She took a breath. Then another.

Behind the front desk sat the librarian. Harry.

He looked up as she entered, as he always did, his eyes catching hers with that same, steady softness. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did unless she approached—but he smiled, a slow curl of his lips that felt like the kind of thing you had to earn.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, voice quiet, almost reluctant to break the hush of the room.

He wore a thick navy sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, revealing a hint of tattoos that curled just below the hem—inky swallows, barely visible but enough to catch her attention. She’d noticed them before, and every time she wondered just how many there were, how far they went. They didn’t quite fit the softness of him, and yet… they did. Like poetry scribbled in the margins of a quiet life.

He had that kind of presence. Gentle. Self-contained. But there were hints—like the rings on his fingers, the slightly unruly curls that fell across his forehead, the scrawl of ink on his skin—that suggested there was more beneath the surface. A contradiction wrapped in warm jumpers and slow glances.

She smiled back, murmured a hello, and walked past him toward the back corner of the library—the part where the poetry and classics lived, tucked under a tall arched window fogged with condensation. This corner had become her habit. Her haven.

She settled into it the way one might slip into a favorite coat. The shelves were tall and close together, lined with soft-spined volumes that smelled like time. She ran her fingertips along the titles, tracing names she loved—Plath, Dickinson, Whitman. Her fingers paused on Leaves of Grass. Familiar. Comfortable. She pulled it from the shelf, already thinking about the rhythm of its lines.

As she opened the book, something slipped out and floated to the floor.

She frowned, crouching to pick it up. A folded piece of paper. Not a library slip or a note scribbled in haste—but something more deliberate. Neat. A little worn at the edges, as if it had been handled more than once before being left here.

She opened it.

The handwriting was slightly slanted, steady, a little unsure. Ink faded just enough to suggest it had been written a while ago—but not too long.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

She stared at it for a long moment, heart knocking once, hard, like it had heard something before her brain had.

There was no name. No initials. Just a phone number and a quiet, aching sort of invitation.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front desk. Harry was bent over a return log, one hand in his hair, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The light caught on the silver band around his finger, glinting briefly.

He didn’t look up.

She turned the note over in her hand, thumb tracing the fold. She didn’t know who had written it. But it had been left here—tucked between lines of Whitman, waiting for someone. Maybe her.

She slipped the note into her coat pocket, heart still oddly light and unsteady.

Outside, the rain kept falling, blurring the world beyond the window into nothing at all.

She sat with the book open, but she hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The words blurred, familiar verses gone shapeless under the weight of the note folded in her pocket.

It had to be a student, she told herself. Probably someone young and overly poetic, tucked into a reading nook upstairs with earbuds in and a tote bag full of battered paperbacks. Or maybe just a lonely stranger who wandered in from the rain and left a part of themselves between pages for someone—anyone—to find.

That’s all it was. A passing thought from someone she’d never meet. Someone hoping for a little connection in a quiet place.

Still, her mind played with the idea. Spinning tiny stories behind the handwriting—who they were, what they were thinking, if they meant it or if it was a dare between friends. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone was watching to see who would actually respond.

Her phone was in her bag. She could text. The number was right there.

If this means something to you too… text me.

The words looped over and over in her head, tugging gently at the corners of her thoughts. There was something vulnerable in them—something unpolished and true.

She reached into her pocket, pulled the note out, and read it again.

No name. No initials. No clue.

A small part of her wanted to reply. Not even to flirt or chase a story—but just to say yes. I understand. I come here to breathe, too. To disappear for a while. To feel something that isn’t loud.

But she didn’t know who would be on the other side. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

And really, it wasn’t her kind of thing. She wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t chase questions like this. She liked facts. Answers. Tangible things.

She folded the note carefully, the crease already soft from handling. Then she slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat and pressed her hand over it for a moment, like that would anchor it.

Maybe she wouldn’t text. Probably not.

But she’d hold onto it.

Because even if it wasn’t meant for her, something about it still felt like it fit.

Like a sentence she hadn’t written, but somehow remembered.

She didn’t text.

Not that day. Not the next. And after a while, the note just became another quiet thing tucked into her coat pocket, folded and forgotten like a grocery list or a half-finished thought.

Life pressed forward in the usual, slightly heavy way.

Work. Grey mornings. Crumpled receipts. The mundane rhythm of existing in a city that never really stopped to ask how you were doing.

She still came to the library, but not as often. Sometimes she brought her laptop and stayed in the nonfiction section just to change the view. Other times she breezed in and out, barely making eye contact with anyone. The note became something she didn’t think about anymore—just a scrap of paper, misplaced in memory.

Harry was still there.

Always tucked behind the desk or moving between aisles, shelving books with quiet efficiency. They rarely spoke. Just the occasional “afternoon” or a soft nod if their eyes met. He didn’t seem to expect more. He never pushed. It made her oddly grateful.

The seasons were shifting in the subtle way London always handled change—no dramatic turns, just a slow fade. The rain hadn’t stopped, but now the wind carried a different edge, cooler, sharper. People moved faster. Scarves reappeared. The evenings darkened early.

One Tuesday, she reached into the inside pocket of her coat looking for a receipt—and her fingers brushed the edge of the paper.

The note.

She pulled it out slowly, as if it might crumble.

It was still folded neatly, but the creases had softened. The ink looked slightly blurred in places, where the paper had rubbed against the lining of her coat. She stared at the words for a long time, as if seeing them for the first time all over again.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

Her lips pressed into a faint line.

She didn’t know why, but reading it now made her chest feel a little tighter. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like something had settled there, waiting. Quietly. Patiently.

She thought about how long it had been since she read something that made her feel anything. Since she let herself pause long enough to notice the weight of silence or the way the city sounded when you weren’t filling the gaps with noise.

And for a moment, she wanted to answer the note. To reach out. Not for romance. Not for mystery.

She didn’t grab her phone.

Not yet.

But she didn’t put the note away, either.

She slid it into her wallet, folding it once more so it fit beside her library card and a receipt from a café she hadn’t visited in months.

And this time, she didn’t forget it.

It was later than usual when she stepped into the library.

The sky outside was already slipping into navy, the rain quieter now, more of a mist than a storm. She’d been delayed—meetings that ran long, a bus that never showed. She almost didn’t come at all, but the thought of going straight home to silence made her stomach twist.

Inside, the library was nearly empty.

Most evenings at this hour, the building felt hollowed out, hushed in a different way—like the quiet had settled deeper into the bones of the place. Only a handful of students lingered at scattered tables, their laptop screens glowing pale in the warm lamplight.

She unwrapped her scarf slowly, fingers stiff with cold, and turned toward the front desk without thinking.

Harry was there. But not in his usual posture—not bent over returns or half-buried in the catalog system. He was leaning back slightly in his chair, a book in his lap, one hand absentmindedly curled at his chin. His eyes moved steadily across the page, completely absorbed.

It wasn’t the stillness that made her pause.

It was the book.

She recognized the cover instantly. Soft navy blue, with a gold-foiled title that had faded over time. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Her copy at home was marked with ink and underlines and folded corners—half journal, half comfort object.

Something warm stirred in her chest.

Without really meaning to, she walked closer.

“You’re reading that one,” she said, her voice low, almost shy. “That book kind of wrecked me in the best way.”

Harry looked up, a little surprised to see her so close. His expression shifted slowly, from caught-off-guard to soft understanding.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but not hesitant—just easy. “I just started it.”

She nodded, stepping a little closer to glance down at the open page. “It was the first book that made me feel like someone had opened up my brain and turned it into sentences. It’s kind of… everything, in a quiet way.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t his usual polite, customer-service smile—it was small and real and slightly crooked. “That’s a good way to describe it.”

She tilted her head, fingers wrapped loosely around the strap of her bag. “It’s funny. I’ve read it three times and I still don’t think I understand it.”

“That’s probably why it’s good,” he said, and there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his voice. “Things that don’t give everything away at once.”

She looked at him a beat too long, surprised by how easily he said it. And maybe a little caught off guard by how that sentence lingered in the air between them.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” she murmured, smiling lightly as she stepped back. “Enjoy the existential spiral.”

He let out a soft laugh—barely more than a breath—but it was warm, and it followed her as she walked toward her usual corner of the library.

As she settled into her seat, something inside her felt shifted. Not dramatically, not loud. Just… nudged. Like the quiet had moved in a new direction.

She reached for her book but didn’t open it right away.

Instead, her fingers brushed her wallet.

The note was still there.

And for the first time in weeks, the idea of texting that number didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like a thread, waiting to be pulled.

She didn’t mean to pull the note out again.

It had become something of a habit lately—half-thoughtless, like a nervous tic. She’d run her thumb over the crease in her wallet, feel the worn edge of the paper, and glance at it like it might say something different the next time she read it.

It never did.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

But somehow, after what she’d said to Harry—after the strange comfort of finding him immersed in a book that shaped her, a book she loved like it had once saved her—it didn’t feel so abstract anymore. The note. The invitation. The possibility.

She looked around.

The library was quieter than usual. Dimmer. Outside, the rain had blurred the windows into watercolor. Inside, everything felt suspended. Safe.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket. Opened a new message.

Typed slowly:

I found your note. And I understood. I still do.

The cursor blinked at her, patient. Waiting.

She hesitated. Let her thumb hover for just one second longer than she should have. The air around her felt charged—not dramatic, just… expectant. Like the moment before a match is struck.

She hit send.

The screen shifted. The message disappeared into the space between her and someone she didn’t know.

No reply came.

She didn’t expect one right away, not really. Still, she stared at her phone for a little longer than she meant to. Waiting for a buzz. For the dots. For something.

But the screen stayed still. Quiet. Blank.

Eventually, she turned it over, face down on the table beside her, and reached for her book.

She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t taken in a word.

The next day, she checked her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Not obsessively. Not quite. But in the quiet moments—waiting for the kettle to boil, standing on the bus, walking past the window display at the bookshop she always meant to go into—her fingers would drift to her pocket, her screen would light up, and there would be nothing.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it had been a moment. A single, impulsive choice. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But it did. A little.

Because somewhere in the stillness between that book and that conversation and the folded piece of paper she kept reading like a poem, something had landed softly in her chest. Not a crush. Not even hope, exactly. Just a flicker of connection. And the ache of not knowing if it was real.

The silence stretched into a week.

She came back to the library, but it felt different now—like a page had turned somewhere she couldn’t quite find.

Sometimes, she caught herself watching Harry when he didn’t know. Not in a longing sort of way. Just… studying. Noticing. The way he leaned on one elbow when reading. How he tapped the side of his thumb against his mug when he was thinking. How he smiled when shelving the children’s books, like something about it softened him even more.

He didn’t look like someone waiting for a message.

He didn’t look like someone who’d left a note at all.

And that made it easier, somehow. To convince herself that the number had belonged to someone else—a passing stranger, a romantic idealist, a daydreamer with good handwriting and a moment of bravery.

Still, every time she sat in that same chair under the window, she half-waited for something. A flicker of something new. A word. A sound. A shift.

But nothing came.

Just the rain. The quiet. The rustle of pages being turned by people who weren’t thinking of her at all.

And somewhere between the silence and the stillness, she began to let it go.

Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe again.

It was nearly midnight when her phone buzzed.

She was already in bed, cocooned in a mess of blankets, the room lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp she always forgot to turn off. Rain tapped gently against the window. The city beyond it had quieted, or maybe she’d just finally stopped listening.

She’d just turned a page in the book resting against her knees when the screen lit up.

Unknown number.

Her breath caught.

She blinked at it for a moment, unsure if she’d imagined it—if maybe it was one of those random marketing texts that slipped through late at night.

But it wasn’t.

Unknown Number: I never thought anyone would actually find it.

Or understand it.

Thank you for texting.

She stared at the words.

Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just honest. Simple. Like the note itself.

Her heart thudded softly under the weight of them.

Whoever it was—this person behind the words—they’d waited. Or hesitated. Or both. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they hadn’t known what to say. But they’d replied.

Finally.

She pulled the blankets up a little tighter and reread the message, then typed slowly:

I almost didn’t.

But I kept it. I don’t really know why.

I guess it made me feel a little less alone.

A few seconds passed.

Unknown Number: That’s why I left it.

Her chest tightened. Not in a painful way—more like a release. Like some small thread had finally gone slack after being pulled taut for too long.

She smiled to herself, barely, the corners of her lips curling as she set her book aside and leaned into the light of her phone.

The room felt warmer.

The night a little quieter.

She didn’t need to know who they were—not yet.

Just that someone out there had felt what she’d felt.

And that they’d seen her enough to answer.

Unknown Number:

I’ve hidden notes in other books, but that book felt… right.

Glad it found the right person.

Her:

It was kind of surreal, honestly.

Felt like it was waiting for me.

Or like I’d been waiting for it.

Unknown Number:

That’s exactly how I hoped it would feel.

Like something quiet tapping on your shoulder.

Her:

Why poetry?

Why not just say what you were feeling?

Unknown Number:

Because poetry says it better than I can.

And it’s easier to be honest when no one’s looking back at you.

She stared at that one a while. The glow of her screen lit her face, casting faint shadows on the ceiling. The room felt impossibly still.

Her:

I know what you mean.

There’s something safe about silence.

But also kind of lonely, isn’t it?

Unknown Number:

Yeah.

Exactly that.

She thought about stopping there. Letting the moment rest where it was. But her fingers moved before she could stop them.

Her:

You’re not alone tonight.

There was a longer pause this time. A full minute. Then:

Unknown Number:

Neither are you.

She set the phone on her chest and let her eyes close, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

She still didn’t know who he was.

But somehow, it didn’t matter—not yet.

The next few days folded into something soft and steady.

Their texts never came in flurries. No rapid-fire conversation, no pressure to reply. Just quiet messages sent mid-morning, or just before bed, or while she stirred sugar into her tea at the same café where she always forgot the barista’s name.

They talked about books, mostly. What they were reading. Which lines stuck. What made them pause. He—whoever he was—seemed to understand the way words hit differently when you were tired, or hopeful, or in between.

He quoted Woolf one night and said he’d cried reading it the first time, then followed it with:

I think I’m supposed to be embarrassed by that, but I’m not.

She’d texted back:

Good. You shouldn’t be. The world needs more men who cry over sentences.

He replied:

That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever texted me.

She found herself smiling at her phone more often than she meant to.

And when she wasn’t smiling, she was thinking—wondering. Not in a desperate way. Just curious.

What kind of person leaves a note like that and waits a month for an answer?

She imagined someone older than her, maybe. Someone who worked odd hours and stayed up too late. Someone who kept old poetry books on the floor beside their bed and didn’t mind a little mess. Someone soft-spoken and thoughtful and maybe a little lonely.

Sometimes, without meaning to, she pictured Harry.

Not because she thought it was him—he was probably too composed, too gentle, too real for something like this—but because he fit the feeling. The energy. Like the person on the other end of the screen carried the same softness in their shoulders that he did when shelving books. The same quiet consideration when he asked a regular how their week had been.

She told herself it was just a face to put to the voice. Just a way to soften the mystery.

She was sitting in her usual spot at the library on Thursday afternoon when her phone lit up again.

What do you see right now?

She glanced around, unsure if it was a trick question.

Then she smiled.

Golden light through foggy windows. A crooked stack of books someone left behind. A man a few tables away whispering to himself as he reads.

Unknown Number: You paint good pictures.

She hesitated, then typed:

What do you see right now?

She expected a reply like “the inside of a bus” or “my office wall”. But instead:

You.

Or at least I imagine you. Sitting somewhere quiet, near a window. Head tilted slightly when you read.

Her breath caught a little at that.

Her:

That’s exactly where I am.

Unknown Number:

That’s what I hoped.

She glanced up then. Toward the front desk, toward the shelves, toward the faint rustle of someone turning a page nearby.

Whoever he was, she liked not knowing. It made everything feel dreamlike. Like a story you got to walk through without ever turning the last page.

The texts continued like a secret thread woven through her days.

They never talked about names. Never asked what the other looked like. There was something sacred about the not-knowing. Something safe.

But the tone had shifted lately.

More personal.

More vulnerable.

More present.

One night, he asked,

Do you ever feel like you’re just moving through the world without touching anything?

And she replied:

All the time. But then something small happens. A look. A line in a book. A message. And it pulls me back in.

He said:

You pull me back in.

She stared at that one a long time. Let it sit in her chest like a pebble warming in the sun.

At the library, the distance between her and Harry felt suddenly… thinner. Like the invisible line between stranger and something else had shifted, even though nothing had changed.

She still greeted him with a quiet “hi.”

He still offered a soft smile and a slightly tilted head.

But she noticed more now.

The way he watched people when they weren’t looking. The way he paused with his hand resting on a book like he was listening to it. The little scribbles she sometimes caught in the margins of his notepad—half-formed phrases, lyrics maybe. Or poetry.

And she kept imagining him as him.

The voice on the other end of the texts. The one who made her laugh under her breath. The one who confessed fears she didn’t know how to name. The one who read slowly and felt things deeply.

It wasn’t fair. She knew that. It could’ve been anyone. A stranger in a completely different part of the city. Someone she’d never even met.

But still. She saw Harry, and the thought came uninvited: what if it’s you?

The unraveling began with a message.

She was at the library, sitting under the tall window again, when it came through.

I wonder what would happen if I walked into that library.

If I passed your table.

Would you feel it was me?

Her fingers hovered above her screen.

Her:

Maybe.

I think I would.

Unknown Number:

What would you do?

She didn’t answer right away. She looked up instead.

Across the room, Harry was shelving books. Slow, deliberate. Back turned to her.

She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders moved beneath his sweater, the way his fingers traced the edge of a spine before sliding it into place. Something caught in her throat.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Would you want it to be me?

Her breath caught.

She read it once.

Twice.

Then, slowly, she looked back at Harry.

And for the first time, she let herself really wonder.

Because suddenly, the idea didn’t feel dreamy or distant or abstract.

It felt close.

Tangible.

Like maybe the person she’d been texting wasn’t far away at all.

She didn’t answer his last message.

Not right away.

Her phone sat in her palm, screen glowing softly in the dim light of the library, those words blinking back at her:

Would you want it to be me?

It wasn’t even a confession. Not yet. Just a nudge. A gentle pulling at the thread they’d both been carefully wrapping around themselves for days now.

She looked up.

Harry was still shelving in the far corner. Focused, quiet, unaware.

But her brain had already started moving without her permission. Turning over old moments. Replaying things that hadn’t seemed like anything at the time.

She’d always assumed the person behind the messages was a stranger. Maybe someone who wandered in off the street. A student. A writer. Someone passing through, looking for meaning or connection or whatever people looked for when they left little pieces of themselves in library books.

But Harry…

Harry was here every day. Surrounded by books. By pages that held all the softness and sadness and searching she’d been reading in those messages.

He shelved Leaves of Grass.

He could have left the note. Easily. Casually. Like a thought slipped into the world without needing to see where it landed.

She remembered the way he looked when he was reading—completely lost in it. Like the rest of the world dropped away when he turned a page. Like he felt the words, not just read them.

She remembered his pencil tucked behind his ear. The handwritten scrawls in his notepad. The way he listened when she spoke about books like he was saving the words for later.

And that night—when he’d been reading To the Lighthouse, the same way she once had, like it was revealing something about her she hadn’t known how to name—he’d looked up at her, and it had felt like he knew.

She’d pushed the thought away then.

But now?

Now it settled in her chest like it belonged there.

What if it was him?

What if she’d been sitting in front of the person this entire time?

What if all those words—the quiet honesty, the poetry, the gentle ache—had come from the man behind the desk with ink on his wrists and eyes that always met hers like they meant it?

It wasn’t a certainty.

Not yet.

But it was more than an idea now.

It was a possibility.

And that possibility was suddenly too loud to ignore.

She stood up without really thinking.

Her heart beat louder than her footsteps, but the rest of her stayed calm. Focused. Her hand tightened slightly around her phone, like it was anchoring her to something solid.

Harry had just finished shelving a small stack, turning slowly toward the desk with that same quiet ease he always moved with. Like nothing in the world was urgent. Like time bent around him.

She stepped into his path gently—careful not to startle, but intentional.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised, but his smile came quickly, natural.

“Hey.” His voice had that same warmth it always did. Soft. Unassuming.

For a second, she almost chickened out.

Almost smiled, asked him about the book he was holding, and walked back to her corner to keep pretending.

But something in her wouldn’t let her.

She held his gaze and lifted her phone slightly in her hand—not enough to show the screen, just enough to acknowledge what it represented.

“I got a text the other night,” she said, her voice steady but low. “From a number I didn’t know.”

His expression didn’t change.

Not immediately.

But his eyes flicked—barely—down to the phone. Then back to her.

She continued.

“It was a reply to a note. The one I found in Leaves of Grass.”

Now he froze. Not in a dramatic way. Just… stillness. Like something inside him had stopped mid-breath.

“I didn’t text back right away,” she said. “And I didn’t expect a reply when I finally did. But I got one.”

She stepped just slightly closer.

“And the more we talked, the more I started imagining who it might be. Not on purpose. Just…” She hesitated, then smiled, just a little. “The words reminded me of someone.”

Harry swallowed, slow. He didn’t speak. But his fingers flexed around the edge of the book in his hand.

“I’m not asking you to say anything,” she said. “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He nodded once, eyes still on hers, gaze unreadable—but not closed off. Never that.

She raised her phone again, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him.

The last message was still there.

Would you want it to be me?

His eyes dropped to the screen. Just for a second.

Then he let out a breath—quiet and careful—and when he looked back at her, it was different.

Open. Real.

“Yes,” he said.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just honest.

Yes.

Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

She let out a small, shaky laugh, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

He nodded once. “It’s me.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

The world didn’t shift. The library didn’t gasp. The rain didn’t stop.

But something between them… settled.

Like two halves of a sentence finally meeting in the middle.

She was still holding her phone when he spoke again.

“I put the note there on purpose,” he said, voice low. “In Leaves of Grass. Because I knew you always go to that shelf.”

Her heart flipped again—different this time. Not from surprise, but from understanding. Everything shifted into place.

“You hoped I’d find it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied him for a moment. The quiet behind his eyes. The weight of the admission.

“Why not just talk to me?” she asked. “All this time?”

He exhaled—slow, careful—and looked down at his hands, then back up again. When he met her gaze, he didn’t look away.

“Because this place matters to you,” he said. “You come in here and go straight to the same corner, like it’s the only place in the world where everything feels okay. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

His voice was even, but she could hear the truth in it. The care behind it. That it wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t fear of rejection.

It was respect.

“I thought if I said something,” he continued, “if I made it weird or pushed anything on you… you might stop coming. And I didn’t want to be the reason this place stopped being safe for you.”

She didn’t realize how much that would hit her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and something quiet inside her broke open in the best way.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” she said.

He smiled, faint and crooked. “I notice a lot more than you think.”

She felt her throat tighten—grateful, stunned, and completely unsure what to do with all the feeling sitting suddenly between them.

And he must have seen it, because he stepped back slightly, giving her space.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “If this is too much. If you want to go back to how it was, or not talk at all—”

“I don’t,” she said.

He blinked.

“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated, quieter now. “I want to know you. For real.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, slow and sincere.

“You kind of already do.”

They stood there a little longer—both of them held in the small, fragile space between something ending and something beginning.

And for once, neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

It was enough to just stand in it.

Together.

They didn’t say goodbye when she left the library that night. Not formally.

Harry just walked her to the door, hand brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as he held it open. The rain had eased to a light drizzle, streetlamps glowing like small moons in the mist.

She looked at him one last time before stepping out. He smiled—small, knowing. She smiled back.

That was it.

No plans.

No pressure.

But something had changed. And neither of them needed to say it out loud to feel it.

The next afternoon, he texted.

You free tomorrow evening?

She replied:

Yeah. I think I am.

He sent:

There’s a coffee shop not far from here. Quiet. Big windows. You might like it.

She sent back:

You had me at “big windows.”

They met just after six.

He was already there when she arrived—curled up at a corner table with a book open and two mugs on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. The café was quiet, with warm lighting and mismatched chairs. Music played low, the kind you don’t notice until someone stops talking.

He stood when he saw her, smiled in that soft, earnest way he had, and pushed one of the mugs toward her as she sat.

“Earl Grey,” he said. “Took a wild guess.”

She laughed. “You’re good.”

“I shelve a lot of books. You learn things.”

They didn’t talk about the note at first. Or the texts. Or even the library. It was like they both understood that everything important had already been said in silence and margins and moonlight. Now was for the other things.

She learned he liked rainy days more than sunny ones. That he used to write songs before he realized he liked reading them more. That he kept a stack of journals at home and only let himself read old ones when he was feeling brave.

He learned she always carried two books in her bag because she didn’t trust herself to pick one mood for the day. That she once tried to write poetry and hated every line. That the library had saved her, once. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to matter.

They stayed until close.

Neither of them wanted to leave first.

When they stepped outside, the rain had stopped completely, the air clean and cold and full of that stillness that only exists in the hour when the world forgets to be loud.

They stood near the curb, neither one saying goodbye.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Can I walk you home?”

She nodded.

And he did.

No hands held. No promises made.

Just two people walking side by side under the soft orange glow of streetlights, a silence between them that no longer needed to be filled.

She still went to the library.

Even now, even after coffee shops and late-night walks and text messages that lingered long after the screen went dark—she still found her way to her usual spot under the arched window, coat damp from the rain, fingers chilled, heart a little steadier than before.

Harry was always there.

But things were different now.

There was an ease between them, threaded into their silences. A familiarity that didn’t need naming. They didn’t hover around each other, didn’t cling to conversation or force time together—but they noticed. They chose each other, over and over again, in small, deliberate ways.

The first time she found a book sitting on her table, it had no note. No explanation. Just a slim volume of poetry with a ribbon tucked into one page. A quiet suggestion.

She smiled, opened it, and read the poem he’d marked. It hit her like a quiet wave.

A few days later, she left a book behind on the returns cart—slipped between thicker volumes, nearly invisible. A copy of The Secret History, worn and annotated, with a sticky note on page 42 that simply read:

“I thought this line might stay with you. It stayed with me.”

She didn’t sign it.

But the next morning, when she came in, he caught her eye across the desk, and there was a softness in his expression that said I found it.

That became their rhythm.

A kind of silent conversation.

Some days it was a novel she’d mentioned in passing. Other days, it was something obscure—something she’d never pick for herself—but when she opened it, she’d find underlined passages or faint pencil marks in the margins. Sometimes she left her own—an asterisk, a question mark, the occasional folded corner.

They were learning each other through the books they passed back and forth. Through themes. Through characters they debated in whispers over tea. Through dog-eared pages and ink-smudged notes.

She started coming earlier, just to sit near the poetry shelves and pretend she wasn’t waiting to see what he might recommend next. And sometimes he’d wander over, lean against the end of a row, and ask, “Have you read this one?” like it wasn’t the highlight of her entire afternoon.

Once, he placed a novel in front of her, paused, and said, “This one made me think of you.”

She opened it to find a single sentence circled in pencil:

“She carried quiet like armor, and kindness like a blade.”

She didn’t say anything in response.

She just looked up at him, and he looked back, and neither of them had to explain the weight of that moment.

The more they read, the more they understood each other—without pushing, without rushing. It was all there, between the lines.

And every now and then, she’d catch him watching her with that look.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d left that note.

Like he couldn’t believe she’d answered.

One rainy evening, she arrived to find a cup of tea already waiting for her.

It sat on the corner of her usual table, still warm, steam curling lazily into the air. No note, no grand gesture. Just Earl Grey, just how she liked it.

She glanced toward the front desk. Harry didn’t look up, but she saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She shook her head, smiling to herself as she slid into the chair.

Later, when she returned the empty mug to the cart behind the desk, she whispered, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, without looking up from his computer. “But I’m charming, too, right?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. But she was smiling when she walked away.

They started talking more in between the books.

Not always with words.

Sometimes, he’d rest a hand briefly on the back of her chair as he passed by. Sometimes, she’d place a book down beside him at the desk with a sticky note that just said: “Read this one slowly.”

He started writing small lines of poetry on scraps of paper and slipping them inside the pages of the books he handed her. Sometimes they were his. Sometimes borrowed. She never asked. She just read them quietly and tucked them into her coat pocket.

She began to respond.

Once, she left him a copy of Letters to a Young Poet with a small folded square of paper inside.

It read:

“You said words were safer on paper. But you can say them to me now, if you ever want to.”

He didn’t say anything that day.

But two mornings later, she arrived to find a volume of Mary Oliver’s poems resting on her table, open to a marked page:

“Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say ‘Look!’ and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.”

Underneath, in pencil, he’d written:

Look.

I’m here.

She sat down slowly, the book open in front of her, heart too full to move.

There was still no kiss. No confessions. No declarations of anything.

But every time she left the library, it felt like something important had happened. Something wordless and slow and true.

And every time she came back, it felt like returning—not just to the space, but to him.

To them.

Whatever they were becoming.

It started with a sentence dropped so casually she almost missed it.

“You ever cook with someone?” he asked one afternoon, eyes flicking up from the book she’d just returned.

She paused. “Cook?”

He nodded, leaning slightly over the desk. “Like, really cook. Not just throw a frozen pizza in the oven or boil pasta. I mean… stand in the kitchen for too long and make something slowly. Talk between chopping. Burn the garlic a little.”

Her lips quirked. “Very specific scenario.”

“I have a recipe I want to try,” he said. “And it’s a two-person dish. Apparently. According to the internet.”

She raised a brow. “Are you inviting me over to help you cook, or is this an elaborate metaphor for something else?”

He smiled—soft, a little crooked. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

She didn’t say yes right away. But later, when he handed her a folded piece of paper with the recipe written in neat, slightly rushed handwriting, she tucked it into her book without a word.

His flat was warm and a little chaotic in a lived-in way—books stacked under the windowsill, a record playing faintly in the background, mismatched mugs on the kitchen counter. It looked exactly how she’d imagined it and nothing like she expected at the same time.

She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching him fumble with a garlic press.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said, amused.

“None whatsoever,” he replied, grinning. “But I make a very sincere effort, which should count for something.”

She reached for the knife instead. “Move over. I’ll show you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped aside and handed her a towel, fingers brushing against hers for a second too long. She didn’t pull away.

They cooked like that for an hour. Side by side. The kind of domestic closeness that would feel far too intimate if it weren’t laced with laughter and the smell of rosemary and lemon. He moved around her easily. She passed him ingredients without asking. Their shoulders bumped more than once, but no one apologized.

He read instructions aloud like they were poetry, and she corrected him without hesitation.

They talked about small things—childhood food disasters, favorite late-night snacks, the time he tried to make soup and ended up with something that “tasted like sadness.”

And then, somewhere between letting the sauce simmer and plating the food, something shifted.

He reached behind her for a dish towel, but she turned at the same time, and they nearly collided.

They froze—close. Close enough to see the freckle just under his left eye. Close enough that she could hear the small hitch in his breath. Close enough to feel it—that charged, suspended thing that had been stretching between them for weeks.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

“I like this,” she said quietly, eyes not leaving his. “This… not-the-library version of you.”

His voice was low, almost hoarse when he answered. “I think it’s still me. Just a little less… edited.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “I like the unedited version.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

And still, they didn’t move.

Until he spoke again.

“You know I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, right?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I guessed.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Do you want me to?”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

And that was enough.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting. Like he already knew what it would feel like, and he’d just been waiting for permission. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. It was quiet, and full, and there.

All the unspoken things between them, finally said.

They didn’t rush away from it.

The kiss.

It ended slowly, naturally, like the final note of a song hanging in the air before dissolving.

She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. He still had one hand resting lightly at her waist, the other curled against the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

He looked a little dazed. Not in shock—just full. Like he hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed that closeness until it happened.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

He laughed under his breath, soft and warm. “Yeah. Just…” He shook his head slightly, lips curling up. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

She blinked, caught off guard—not because of the compliment, but because of how sincere it was. He said it like it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while. Like it wasn’t just about how she looked in that moment, but how she’d been showing up in his life—quiet, consistent, entirely herself.

“Cute?” she repeated, amused.

He gave her a look. “Very cute.”

She smiled, a little flustered. “That’s… surprisingly straightforward for you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d say if this ever happened.”

Her chest tightened—softly, pleasantly. “This? Like… us standing in your kitchen, post-risotto, post-kiss?”

He nodded. “Exactly this. You, here, looking at me like that. Me, trying really hard not to say something too intense and ruin it.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” she said, honest, steady.

He exhaled, relieved. “Good.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I really enjoy you. Being around you. Talking to you. Sitting quietly near you. Reading the same book six feet apart and pretending we’re not aware of each other.”

She laughed, looking down for a second. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I never was,” he said, smiling. “You just needed time to catch on.”

She looked up at him again, heart full in a way that didn’t feel heavy at all. “I’m glad I did.”

He leaned in just enough to nudge his forehead lightly against hers. “Me too.”

The risotto sat forgotten on the stove, plates untouched on the counter.

Neither of them moved to fix it.

Some things could wait.

Eventually, they remembered the food.

They ate standing in the kitchen, barefoot and casual, sharing one plate between them. He offered the last bite. She took it without hesitation. No more pretense. No more edges between them.

Afterward, while he rinsed the dishes, she wandered.

Not far—just into the living room, where his bookshelves lined the wall in a slightly uneven row. Not curated for show. Just lived-in. Dog-eared. Annotated. Real.

She ran her fingers lightly across the spines, stopping now and then to tilt her head and smile.

“Of course you have three different editions of The Bell Jar,” she called out, teasing.

He dried his hands and leaned against the doorway, watching her. “They’re all slightly different.”

“Right,” she said, mock-serious. “Important nuance.”

He smiled, didn’t interrupt.

She kept scanning.

“Murakami. Wolfe. Some obscure poetry collections. A Little Life—you really went through that willingly?”

“I cried three separate times,” he admitted. “Once in public.”

She turned, grinning. “Okay, that earns you points.”

Then she pulled a book free, thumb brushing over the worn cover. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“This one,” she said, softer now. “This was the first book that made me realize writing could be beautiful and brutal.”

“I remember you mentioned that once,” he said.

“You remember a lot.”

He shrugged, casual, but there was something warm behind it. “I was listening.”

She turned back to the shelf, pulled another. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

“This one wrecked me.”

“I figured. I found it shelved wrong one day and assumed it was you who left it there.”

She smiled without turning around, sliding the book gently back into place.

She could feel him behind her now. Not close enough to touch. Just… near.

Comfortably near.

“I like that you read like this,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Like it’s not just about escaping, but about collecting pieces of yourself in other people’s words.”

“I think that’s what I saw in you,” he said. “Right away.”

She turned, slowly, book still in hand.

He was standing a few steps behind her, eyes soft, arms crossed loosely like he was grounding himself.

“You’d sit in that corner of the library,” he went on, “with your entire body tilted toward a book like you were trying to fall into it. I couldn’t stop watching.”

They stood like that for a moment—between stories, between books, between whatever came next.

Then she reached back toward the shelf, pulled out another.

He looked at it, amused. “You’re curating my taste now?”

“No,” she said, handing it to him, “I’m organizing your shelf by emotional trauma level. This one’s top tier.”

He laughed, taking the book from her, brushing her fingers in the process. But this time, the touch didn’t linger. It stayed.

He held the book in one hand, and with the other, he reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

No words. Just a look.

That unspoken kind of look—the kind that says this is safe now. The kind that says you’re allowed to be here.

And she was.

After that night, nothing was technically different.

They still texted in the early mornings and late at night. Still passed each other books and notes in the library. Still sat in the quiet corners, reading, sometimes alone, sometimes side by side.

But everything had changed.

Now, when she walked in, Harry smiled like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d always wanted to.

Now, when she handed him a book, their fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Now, he’d sometimes slide a note into the pages that didn’t say anything poetic at all—just things like “You’re on my mind” or “I like when you sit close”—and it made her smile in a way she couldn’t help.

He didn’t try to claim her time. He didn’t hover or demand space in her world.

He just offered.

Gently.

And she kept choosing to show up.

One afternoon, she walked into the library and found a book already waiting at her usual table.

A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet. Her favorite edition. His.

Inside, a note:

“No one’s ever made me want to be understood this way. I think that matters.”

She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her bag like a secret.

When she looked up, he was behind the desk, head bowed slightly, pretending not to watch her.

But she knew he was.

She stood, walked over, leaned her arms against the counter.

“Do you want to get out of here when your shift ends?” she asked, voice quiet.

He looked up, surprised at first, but then his face softened, like he’d been hoping she’d ask.

“Always,” he said.

The days kept rolling in, and so did they.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just a steady unfolding.

Sunday mornings spent sharing pastries on a bench just outside the library, passing back and forth a book of poems neither of them had read.

Wednesday evenings full of casual texts that read like confessions in disguise.

Nights at his flat, reading on opposite ends of the couch with their feet tangled somewhere in the middle. No music. No noise. Just the quiet rhythm of pages turning and two people learning each other sentence by sentence.

Sometimes she’d glance up and find him already looking at her.

He never looked away.

The library was still her place.

Still sacred.

Still quiet.

But now, when she sat under the tall window, it felt less like a place she came to disappear, and more like a place she came to be seen.

Because now, when she looked up from the pages, there was someone there.

Someone who noticed.

Someone who always had.

deeper.

It was a Thursday when she found the last note.

Not tucked inside a book or slipped across the counter.

This one waited for her at her usual table, folded carefully, resting on top of a hardcover she hadn’t seen before—some obscure poetry collection she’d never heard of, which meant it was probably perfect.

She sat down slowly, thumb grazing the edge of the paper before she opened it.

It wasn’t long.

Not poetic.

Not cryptic.

Just Harry’s handwriting, steady and familiar now.

You don’t feel like a maybe anymore.

You feel like home.

She stared at it for a moment, letting the words settle in her chest.

The light through the window hit the table just right. Dust floated in the air. Everything felt still.

She turned the card over and wrote two words on the back.

Me too.

Then she stood, walked to the front desk, and handed it to him—face down, no explanation.

He looked at her, really looked.

Then tucked the note into his pocket, came around the desk, and took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked back toward her table together. No big moment. No kiss. Just their hands joined between them, like a sentence finally finished.

The book still sat there, waiting.

She opened it to the first page.

He sat across from her.

And they read.

Together.

239 notes · View notes

shhhsecretsideblog · 6 months ago

Note

Prompt 17

The woman is on a call with her partner

Prompt: “Are you pushing?”

AN: I really enjoy the trope of a partner rushing home to their labouring wife, driving fast trying not to miss the birth, the sounds of the woman’s labour echoing around their car. But for this, I thought it would be fun to reverse it. Hope it’s just as fun to read this way round. [fpreg, 2915 words]

Almost Home

Answering the phone Jack immediately put it on speaker, placing the device beside his laptop as he worked from home. “Hi honey, how’s the shopping going?”

“Err… yeah. Fine. Got everything I wanted but um…” His wife, Rosie, trailed off. Her voice sounded strained and uncertain. “Do you think you could mmm-maybe log off from w-work this afternoon-?”

“Why, what’s wrong? Are you alright? You sound a bit breathless, well more so than usual.” Jack joked but his eyes narrowed in concern.

“I’m fine it’s just— hoooooo — I don’t think those c-cramps this morning were false con-contractions.”

“What…You’re…in labour?” Jack grabbed his phone and stared at the caller ID in shock. “Okay… errr where are you, still at the mall? I’ll get an Uber and come get you.”

“No, no it’s fine. I’m on my way home now.” Rosie’s voice assured down the line.

“You’re driving… with contractions? Jeeze Rosie.”

“Will you relax, I’m fine. It’s only half an hour away and it’s all straight roads-mnnnhhhhh…” Her voice disappeared into a low groaning sound through the tinned speakers.

“… Rosie?” Jack called her name nervously but only got the sounds of her heavy panting in return. He swallowed the urge to shout at her for driving whilst in labour - it was their first baby and he didn’t want to be the cliche panicking father-to-be. It was probably just early labour pains so instead tried to offer help and support down the phone line.

“Try and breathe through it sweetheart, in and out.”

He could hear the way her voice rattled around the car as she moaned, deep and long, and the sounds of her suffering pulled at his heart. When it was over his wife was back on the phone again.

“Oof!… baby feels really low babe. Can you get our hospital bag ready by the door? We might have to head out pretty quickly.”

“But we don’t need to go to the hospital until the contractions are 5 minutes apart, or if your waters break.”

“Uh-huh.” Was all that his wife replied.

“Rosie… how long have you been having contractions?” Jack sternly asked, knowing his wife and fearing the response.

“Mmnnnnh… well, they’ve not really stopped since the ones this morning. And I guess I was feeling a bit crampy during the night…” Rosie admitted between deep and measured breaths.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn't realise they were labour pains, well not at first. But you’ve got that big project at work and we really needed to get this stuff for the nursery so I figured a walk around the mall would help get things moving a bit… Oohhhhhh….it's definitely done that job.” Rosie found herself humming on each exhale as she breathed through the fierce pressure and pain deep in her pelvis.

“Screw the work, Rosie, you should have told me you were having contractions.” Jack scolded, worried and nervous his wife was currently in labour without him.

“Mnnngh— shout at me later, just- just get the bag ready. Hoooooo-fuck..!” She groaned, gripping the steering wheel tight in her fists as another contraction rippled across her belly sending shooting pains up her spine and down her thighs.

Jack slammed his laptop shut and ran through the house trying to remember where they’d put the bag - why was it that you could never remember where you’d put things when you put them in a “safe place”? - all the while keeping his phone gripped in his hand and hearing the sounds of his labouring wife echo out the small speaker. Insisting that he stay on the line, Jack continued to offer words of encouragement and support as Rosie dangerously made her way home. He found the bag in their closet and rifled through the contents to check everything was there before heading downstairs to wait for his wife to return with the car, a journey which at this moment seemed to be dragging on for a lifetime.

“Mngh— thank fuck!” Rosie gruffed.

“What is it?”

“Traffic lights… contraction… Ooooohhhh- mmmnghhhhh….!!” Rosie took her hands off the wheel as she stopped at the lights, holding her rock solid belly in both hands and trying her best to breathe through the waves.

Jack checked the time on his phone, keeping track of the very short gaps between her groans, and hesitantly and reluctantly he said “Honey, they’re sounding awfully close together. Maybe you should stop and call an ambulance?”

“What?! No, I’m f-fine… hoooo…I’m not giving birth without you. I can m-make it h-home…” Despite her words and determination Rosie’s thighs subconsciously widened in her seat.

“Are you sure?” Jack could hear the almost constant low rumblings of a groan coming from his wife, through every breath and every word spoken.

“Nnnghhh— yes. Just… talk to me… keep me distracted… from these- oof!- contractions.” Rosie gruffed and put the car back into drive when the lights turned green and continued her journey home.

Following Rosie’s instructions, Jack started rambling about nonsense; work stuff, friends and family messages he’d received, mindlessly muttering to keep both their focus away from the sounds of pain emanating from his wife every few minutes. He stayed by their front door, looking through the window at the quiet rural street, waiting desperately for the first glimpse of their car.

Rosie meanwhile tried to hang on to every word coming through the car Bluetooth speakers, trying to ignore the pressure in her hips that was getting excruciatingly worse with every passing second. Her legs were spread as wide as they could go in the driver's seat; one squished against the door while the other was pressed against the centre console, her solid bump right up against the wheel. Even with wide legs nothing was relieving the pressure and the wrenching pain pulling her pelvis apart. The groans coming out her mouth were getting longer, deeper, and had started to end with an almost primal grunt. Her sweatpants were already damp from her waters breaking earlier; whilst walking around the shops she had eventually admitted defeat when the contractions had gotten close enough together that she could no longer ignore what was happening, and typically her waters had gone just as she was waddling across the quiet car park.

It was during a deep grunt that Rosie had a panicked realisation that her body had been automatically pushing. “Ohhhhhh… oh no….oh no…” She whimpered quietly, immediately trying to stop the contracting muscles. The car microphone obviously picked up her words for Jack immediately asked what was wrong.

“Nothing… I’m okay… we’re okay. I just have to breathe through it.”

And not push! Rosie thought to herself, gripping the steering wheel and trying to sit more upright in the hopes that if she blocked the baby’s exit that her labour might slow down a bit.

Jack could hear the raw panic in his wife’s voice, making him practically jump off the walls with frustration that he was stuck at the end of a phone and not with her. He knew she was not okay, she was in labour for fucks sake, but there was something else in her tone… He didn’t know what to say… he wanted to press the question, but she was suffering contractions and driving herself home - she didn’t need his frantic questioning as well.

“Remember the breathing we learnt in antenatal class; short, sharp breaths. You can do this Rosie, you are nearly home.” Jack said reassuringly, but he had no idea if that statement was true.

Rosie’s legs were trembling, barely able to keep her foot on the accelerator to keep the car moving. She would not have stood a chance in a manual car. Following her husband's instructions she panted through the contraction but she could feel the baby sinking lower and lower… she tried to squeeze her thighs together, clench anything that would stop this baby’s progress but everything she tried just made the pressure worse. It was torture, fighting against her body’s primal urge. She needed to push, her body screamed at her to bear down, her baby apparently desperate to be born. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck as she baulked against her instincts, her tight belly was radiating heat like a furnace and she wanted to turn up the air conditioning but daren’t take her hands off the wheel. Her tight grip was the only thing keeping things together, her fingers digging deep into the leather keeping her laser focused on the journey.

Two more contractions passed with that excruciating pressure, the gaps between almost non-existent. The baby’s head was right between her thighs, she could feel it, bulging obscenely into her underwear. Her upright position was agony, feeling like she was practically sitting on the baby’s head. With the next contraction her body slumped, acting without any instruction, trying to relieve the pressure that was bringing tears to her eyes. The pain and pressure was rising up and up and Rosie had no choice but to push with the barrelling force, grunting and widening her legs in the process.

“…Rosie…?” Jack’s concerned voice whispered out the speakers.

She opened her mouth to reply but her body had other ideas and all that came out was a lowing groan as her body bore down against the solid mass in her cervix.

“Are you pushing?!” Jack yelled down the phone.

“Mnghh-trying-not-to- ughhh! Oh fuck!” She gasped.

“Stop! Don’t push. You can’t be pushing now!”

“Try telling our b-baby that— ooohhhhh mmnghhhhhhhh!!” Rosie gripped the steering wheel and sank into the seat, uncontrollably bearing down.

“Rosie pull over, the baby is coming now.”

“Mnnnghh… no! It’s not c-crowning… I can hold it -hooo- in… I’m just down the r-road…” The baby was right at her entrance, her labia bulging and sore against her clothing, but she could make it. She was so close to home.

“For fucks sake Rosie.”

“Oh Jack!” Rosie suddenly cried, her body still bearing down even without her help and she felt her lips start to part. “The head… I think it’s coming - grrrhhhhh— out!! … I’m— I’m trying not to push but I can’t stop it— grhhhhhhh oh god!!!”

“Rosie, stop the damn car!!!” Jack screamed down the phone.

The labouring woman’s foot had come off the pedal already, the car rolling along the quiet rural street. She should brake and safely stop the car, but she wasn’t in control of her body - it was too busy pushing against the heavy boulder in her vagina. The car thankfully slowed to a stop at the side of the road and in between frantic pushes Rosie managed to put the car into “park”.

“Ooohhh Jack… I can feel the head…” she cried out as the round shape pushed against her folds. Rosie tried to lift her knees, to make more space, but the steering wheel blocked any real movement.

“Have your waters broken hun?” Jack’s voice was strained in his attempt to stay calm.

“Nnghh…they-broke-at-the-mall-mmmghhhh…!” Gritting her teeth Rosie disappears into another deep and primal push, her body taking charge determined to get this baby out.

“Fuck. Okay… honey I need you to listen to me; I need you to try and see how much of the baby has come out. Can you do that?”

Rosie panted and nodded her head, forgetting for a moment that Jack couldn’t see her. “…yeah. I’ll try…” she added.

Knowing that removing her clothing wasn’t an option in this position, Rosie moved a nervous hand around her big belly between her spread thighs and felt the clear shape of the top of the baby's head through her leggings.

“It’s poking out a bit but— hooohooo- it’s not fully out yet.” She whimpered and sobbed, the realisation of her situation hitting her full force with the first contact with her baby. She was trapped in her car at the side of a road giving birth.

“Where are you babes? I’m gonna call an ambulance.” Jack's heart was breaking, not only for missing the birth of his child but also not being there to support his soul mate during all this.

“At-the end- of our road… oh Jack,” she whined with fear and tears “I need you. I can’t do this.” Her chest heaved with her rapid breathing, the pressure was overwhelming and her labia was on fire.

Jack flew out of the house so fast he didn’t even shut the front door behind him when he sped down the street, running. “Just hold on Rosie, I’m coming.” He panted down the phone, his legs burning with the sudden physical movement.

“Ohhhh the baby’s coming… I need to push again— ughh…no…have to pushhhh but— mmmnnnghhh!!!— not enough room! ” Rosie was panicking, her legs were as wide as she could get them in the driver's seat but it wasn’t enough to make space for the emerging baby. Her body was too upright, her belly too squished, her legs too close for the large head to get through her birth canal.

“I can see the car Rosie, I’m coming, hold on just a little bit longer.”

“Mnnghhhhh!!!!” Rosie was completely lost to another uncontrollable bout of pushing. When the contraction waned, enough to somewhat control the urge, Rosie threw open the car door and swung her legs out immediately. “Hoooo-hooo… baby hang on just a minute… just give me one minute…ohhhh”

Awkwardly and cumbersomely Rosie managed to pull her body out of the low car seat, gripping the car door and heaving her labouring body to stand. The weight in her womb suddenly dropped even lower, the head pressing against her opening and stretching her lips wider than she thought possible, the baby fully crowning between her legs. “Ohhhhhhhh…shit!!.” She turned around and braced against the door as the baby’s movements prompted another contraction. Before she could take a breath her body was already bearing down and her knees widened and trembled. The car was still running, the phone call with her husband still connected, but she couldn’t speak. All that she could think was getting this baby out and getting it out right-fucking-now.

A long animalistic grunting sound came out her throat as she dipped into a deep push. The baby’s head was slipping beyond the crown into her clothing, pushing against her maternity leggings and bulging it down. A gasp, a desperate gulp of air, was all she was given before she was pushing again giving it everything she had.

If the car wasn’t already in Jack’s eyesight, Rosie’s loud roar would have told the anxious father exactly where his wife was at that moment. He watched her pull herself out the car, her face flushed and exhausted, her hair limp and damp on her shoulders. He thought she must have seen him, and was getting out to get to him, but when she turned around and grunted deeply Jack almost froze in fear. This was really happening, their baby was actually coming, here and now. The car door blocked the view of his labouring wife but her cries echoed down the country road and he could see her body dipping down and bouncing back up. She was pushing, that much was evident, but he was panicked at what he'd find when he’d reach her.

“Rosie!!” Jack shouted as he approached. She turned, tears falling from her cheeks, but her eyes widened with relief for a split second when she saw him. Her mouth opened to shout back but instead the relieved look in her eyes vanished and another groan spilled from her lips as she clasped back on to the car door and pushed again uncontrollably.

Jack could see her body was trembling from head to toe with the strain, and when he passed the open car door he could see why - there was a giant round shape pulling at the crotch of her leggings.

“Jack— the head— hooooo I think it’s out…” Rosie panted, still clinging onto the vehicle for dear life.

“Oh my god. Oh Rosie…” words failed him and his arms went around her back.

“Get them off! Get my leggings off!” She growled through clenched teeth.

“Right… errr of course.” Jack stuttered, completely lost and uncertain. He pulled the clothing down over his wife’s hips and was immediately greeted with the face of his newborn child. “You’re right, heads out I can see them! Oh my gosh hi baby!”

“Mmnngh— Jack… is there a chord? Round the neck?” Rosie shifted awkwardly from hip to hip, leggings bunched at her knees, as she felt the start of the next contraction coming.

“I— I don’t think so. How do I check?”

“Can you see anything— wrapped around the neck?? Ohhhhhh hurry… there’s so much pressure… I’m trying really hard not to push…” Rosie balled her fists and dug her nails into her palms.

“No… nothing is round the neck.” Jack confirmed.

“Ohhhh great. Get— hoooo get ready to c-catch!!…” Rosie warned before taking a gulp of air and clamping her mouth shut as she pushed. Her hips dropped and knees bent, almost into a squat, with the force of her push. She tried to open herself as much as she could, the shoulders pressing against her opening. “Mnnnghhhh— come on baby…!!!” She cried and bore down, growling with the effort and eventually feeling the baby move downwards. “It’s coming— out!!!”

With a gush of fluid the baby slipped from Rosie into Jack’s awaiting hands and immediately gurgled a soft cry.

#answered asks #birth prompts #birth kink #birth denial #birth fic #clothing birth #inconvenient birth #birth fiction #car birth #my writing

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thefunkfactory · 21 days ago

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Breaking In The City Boy

I was a city kid through and through. Raised in Manhattan, I was used to the hum of traffic, the scent of hot pavement, the distant wail of sirens at night. My idea of “nature” was Central Park, and even that smelled like garbage half the time. My sneakers were pristine, my hair gelled just right, and I never left the apartment without spritzing on some cologne. So when my mom sent me to stay with my uncle in Nebraska for the summer—three whole months of dirt, animals, and god-knows-what—I thought I was going to die.

The moment I stepped off the bus, the stench hit me. Thick, pungent air rolled over me like a wave—a mix of hay, cow manure, and something earthy that I couldn’t quite place. It clung to my clothes, filled my lungs, and made my nose wrinkle. Uncle Dale was waiting by his battered pickup, chewing on a piece of straw like a walking stereotype. “City boy,” he greeted me with a smirk before slapping my shoulder. “Gonna be a hell of a summer for ya.” I tossed my duffel into the truck bed, already regretting my life choices.

The farmhouse was old and creaky, but the real shock was the kid waiting for me on the porch. Jeb was barefoot, shirtless, and covered in grime. His shaggy brown hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and his jeans—held up by a cracked leather belt—looked like they hadn’t been washed in a year. His skin was sun-bronzed, arms lean but muscular from hard labor. But the worst part? The smell rolling off of him.

A heavy, ripe musk, thick with sweat, dirt, and something feral. “City boy,” he greeted with a lazy grin. “You don’t look like you belong here.” “Yeah, no kidding,” I muttered, adjusting my clean hoodie. Jeb chuckled, slapping his bare stomach. “Well, you’re gonna have to get used to farm life. Ain’t no place for fancy boys out here.” I rolled my eyes, following him inside. The farmhouse smelled just as bad as he did—an overwhelming mix of livestock, grease, and sweat. But nothing prepared me for the moment we stepped into the tiny bedroom we’d be sharing.

Jeb flopped onto his bed, stretching out. “Ain’t much space, but don’t worry—I sleep like a log.” Then it happened. A deep, guttural rumbling filled the room.

BBBRRRRAAAAWWWWPPPPPP!

The longest, wettest fart I’d ever heard ripped out of Jeb’s ass, vibrating the wooden floorboards. It was thick, a toxic cloud that hit my nose like a punch. It smelled rotten—a feral, earthy stench, like old eggs, cow manure, and something even worse festering beneath it all.

“Dude—what the hell?!” I gagged, stumbling back. Jeb just laughed, wiggling his toes. “Ain’t nothin’ but good ol’ country air, city boy.” I coughed, the reek clogging my throat. My stomach twisted in protest, a dull heat bubbling deep inside me. My skin prickled. Something felt… off. Jeb sat up, watching me closely. “Mighta shoulda warned ya—my gas ain’t just regular gas. Been eatin’ farm food my whole life. My gut’s strong. Strong enough to change folks.”

I barely heard him. The heat in my stomach was growing, twisting into a low, gurgling pressure. My whole body felt heavier—warmer. And then—

BBBBLLLLOOOORRRPPPPP!

My stomach seized, and a monstrous fart tore out of me—loud, ripping, and gnarly. The air went thick with my own brand of filth, a greasy, pungent stench that made my own eyes water. I stumbled forward, gripping the bedpost. My body was changing. My sneakers suddenly felt too clean. My hoodie felt too tight. The air in my lungs was thick with something feral, something raw, and I could feel my body soaking it in.

I wanted to gag, but instead, I breathed deep.And I liked it.

Jeb grinned. “Atta boy.”

I wiped my sweaty forehead, blinking as the room warped. The wood floors didn’t look so dirty anymore—they just looked… natural. My hands—once soft, well-manicured—felt rougher, my fingertips dry and calloused. My gut? It was thicker, just a little, like it was built for eating heavy and processing food the right way.

The smell—my own gnarly, gut-churning stink—lingered around me, but instead of being disgusted, I felt proud. I grinned, lifted a leg, and let another one rip—deep, wet, and dense. Jeb whooped. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! You’re takin’ to it real fast.”

And he was right. The idea of sweating under the sun, of getting my hands dirty, of eating meals so greasy they stuck to my ribs—it all suddenly sounded right. I reached down, peeling off my hoodie. The cool country air hit my skin, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t care if I smelled. In fact, I wanted to.

Jeb grinned, standing up. “C’mon. Let’s getcha fed. You’re gonna need more fuel if you’re gonna be one of us.” A slow grin spread across my face. I lifted a leg and let another thick, gnarly one rip, filling the air with my own brand of country air.I followed him into the kitchen, my gut bubbling again with another nasty fart brewing.

Maybe this summer wouldn’t be so bad after all.

#stink #farts #dumber #musk #jock tf #ttf

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ghostlyfleur · 1 year ago

Text

𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡.

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: the sweet progression of steve and his pretty girl’s relationship.

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, oblivious!reader, shy!reader, inexperienced!reader. pet names (angel, baby, flower girl, pretty girl, princess, sweet girl). 18+ mdni, smut-adjacent. world building.

word count: ~4.5k

pre-relationship—

steve’s girl friend is a soft spoken, remarkably sweet, gentle soul. she’s shy, way too anxious, so inexperienced that she comes off as innocent. her wardrobe consists of flowy skirts and flowery dresses and soft sweaters and cozy knits, puts flowers in her hairdos like interwoven in braids or tucked in a half-up half-down mess, has this ethereal vibe to the makeup she likes to wear (ie. shimmery eyeshadow in soft colors, highlighter, sparkly lipgloss, white waterline pencil, fairy wing eyeliner designs, and slightly blushy cheeks), wears silver wire-framed glasses at home when not using contacts and steve thinks it brings out her gorgeous eyes even more. she always wears pretty dangly earrings with flowers, her nails painted with glitter nail polish or neutral soft colors, and steve thinks she’s an angel.

the rest of the people in town mostly think her to be weird and unapproachable, with the way she stops mid walk to crouch down and whisper softly to a ladybug she sees on the sidewalk, or when she accidentally bumps into a street pole and yells out a panicked ‘sorry!’ as if she would hear a reply back.

when steve first met his girl, he was enchanted.

she was so soft and beautiful and kind, but also very anxious; something he noticed the first time she walked into scoops ahoy, and steve was so excited to finally talk to the pretty girl that started working at the flower shop down the block that he’s been pining for. the pretty girl’s reaction to his flirting however was of shyness, nervousness, and seemingly scared silence… so steve decided to make a fool out of himself just to see her smile. it was worth it. steve felt as if her laughter was the equivalent of the skies opening up to let sunshine peak through dark clouds. they eased their way into each other’s lives after that. his girl started seeking him out, finding comfort and safety in his presence and caregiving personality, though remaining clueless of his feelings and just how much robin teased him for being a smitten fool.

“pretty flower girl” is how steve referred to her at the beginning, all heart eyes and dreamy sighs. working at a flower shop seems to fit her so entirely, like she’s in her own little world while surrounded by flora. she’s able to tell you the meanings, both positive and negative, of any flower imaginable, of different plants too! keeps a log book and a journal to track her flora friends’ growth, pressed flowers and polaroid pictures of different bouquets, photographs each beautiful arrangement she creates in a picture album.

her home is also completely taken over by pots and plants and gardens and hanging vines, secrets whispered to them while she waters her little friends as needed, full conversations kept that seem to make all the plants bloom and flourish even more. lots of natural light comes in from the many windows of her cabin, surrounded by greenery and trees and a small pond that wild animals often visit, knowing her safe haven is also a safe haven for any animals. the place always smells like whatever she’s baking, the decor homey and filled with crystals and incense and hand painted mugs and vases. greens, yellows, oranges, and tan colors. books balanced on any available surface.

she becomes steve’s girl best friend, and he loves her so much. worships her, really. steve makes it his mission to spoil and love his pretty girl, even if he hides it behind silly flirting and the pretense of friendship.

whenever they’re together, steve and his girl are all the other sees. the gang has a little bet on who will break first, steve or his flower girl.

her sit is always his lap.

steve swears off other girls as soon as he meets her.

he is very affectionate towards her, and she loves to kiss his cheeks.

they often have sleepovers just the two of them.

they’re so close they can just exist together and be at peace.

she’s so supportive of him too, always praising him and hyping him up.

steve is overprotective of her.

whenever one goes the other sure follows.

see, steve’s girl is so sweet on him it drives robin crazy. because robin knows the feelings are reciprocated, but she also knows both steve and his girl enough to know she needs to let them figure this out by themselves. it doesn’t mean robin isn’t their number one fan, though.

steve’s pretty girl bakes him sweets often to bring to him at work to “make your day a little easier, stevie”, she brings him flowers from her job that steve learns to preserve in his room, she gives him her favorite ring that he never takes off. but steve also does little things for his sweet girl— takes care of her and buys her chocolate because it makes her so happy and giddy he falls a little more in love each time. he also reminds her to drink water, buys her favorite snacks for movie night or when she’s on her period, takes her to the movies, drives her everywhere (because she’s his pretty passenger princess) to have some extra time with her.

oh! steve’s girl also has a bunch of homemade gifts that she keeps in a small glass trunk in her home because she’s too shy to give them to her stevie— handmade bracelets, handmade wire rings, pretty things she finds at thrift stores that remind her of her pretty boy, handmade necklaces, small gifts with pressed flowers, letters she writes down because she feels so deeply for her sweet boy that she needs to let it out somehow, and a bunch of other small gifts that she hopes one day she can give to her stevie to show him how much she loves him.

she’s so lovely to her stevie without even realizing, though. she’s demiromantic, you see, and after becoming friends with steve she started to slowly fall for him. the thing is, she knew very well what was happening, she’s very in tune to her emotions, and she fell for him willingly! whereas steve fell for her fast and kept falling.

imagine his girl never had her first kiss… she’s so inexperienced and her sweet persona and gentle demeanor make her seem like the softest person ever. steve is so mesmerized by her.

he flirts with her and is sweet to her and devotes his time to her and spoils her rotten and gives her kisses and hugs and cuddles and all the love he has to give— steve quickly decided that even if they’re ‘just friends’ he’ll still treat her like his princess, give her everything he can and shower her in his adoration until she catches up. and even then, even when it’s so obvious that steve is in love with her, that he blushes and stutters and gets flustered only for her, that he shows her every day just how much he loves her, she remains oblivious.

in her pov, she knows she’s in love with her stevie so she’s going to treat him like the most precious person in her world. which he is. the thing is that she gives him all of her love without ever once considering that he might return it, even as he flirts and quite literally says he’s hers and she’s his all the time, it never even crosses her mind to actually believe it. maybe because she’s trying to protect herself from heartbreak. she just decides that her stevie deserves the world so she’s going to give him all she can.

but she’s so soft with him! holds his face between her hands when talking to him sometimes like she’s holding her whole world on her hands, presses kisses to his cheeks all the time, gives him hugs. she always compliments him, isn’t afraid of telling him exactly what’s on her mind…

“you look so pretty, stevie”

“i’m so proud of you.”

“i missed you lots today!”

“i saw this cute puppy and it reminded me of you ‘cause you’re just as cute!”

“i always prefer your company.”

flower girl is the most adorable sight steve has ever seen! she pouts so prettily whenever she doesn’t get the attention she wants from him, all soft lips and furrowed brows and plush cheeks crossed arms, and steve just wants to pepper kisses all over her face.

her love languages:

she bakes him cookies ; buys him things that remind her of her stevie ; plans these cute little “friend” outings that feel more like dates ; she’s never lacking in her affections though she’s very timid and shy when it happens ; will defend him no matter what ; makes sure to always praise him ; she gets all cranky if someone insults him even playfully ; she’s very shy so she often hides her face on his chest or neck and it makes his heart flutter ; she helps him babysit bc the kids love her ; she gave her stevie a special arrangement of flowers that she created just for him plus a little booklet of pictures of the two of them together that also had pressed flowers on it for his birthday ; she checks in with him every day even if they don’t see each other to make sure her stevie is doing okay ; will stay on the phone with him all night especially if he had a nightmare or a fight with his parents.

where steve’s best friend is all cute and pouty and sweet and clingy and loving but only to her stevie!!!!! and she’s a bit ditzy— talks to animals and plants and inanimate objects like they can answer her, her thoughts jump from one thing to another but steve always entertains her, she skips instead of waking a lot, she dresses all cute and coquette and always has glitter on her somewhere, she gives steve handmade gifts all the time with this shy little smile and blushing and sometimes when the gift is specially meaningful she’ll run away as soon as he accepts it 🥺 she trips over her own feet a lot too!!! so steve has to grip her waist to help her find her footing!!! and it makes her break out in goosebumps!!! and steve is so in love with her, with her ramblings and midnight ice cream cravings and true crime rants and the way she talks about murder and psychopath profiling and laughs at horror movies and has crystals and tarot cards and wants to befriend ghosts, how she gives her stevie little glass bottles with protection spells or anti-anxiety spells or how she always needs to hear his voice before bed.

and she’s so pretty and soft and kind and nice and laughs a lot and everyone loves her— but she never notices how so many people flirt with her, and never notices whenever steve scares possible suitors away, because really she only sees steve!!!!!! and it makes him crazy to see how she blatantly ignores anyone and everyone to focus on him!!!!!

but then one day steve’s girl starts feeling sad and heartbroken because she’s convinced herself that steve still loves nancy so she starts pulling away a little and steve doesn’t understand what he did wrong! robin has to spell it out for him that his girl thinks he still wants nancy when that couldn’t be further from the truth; steve now knows he’s never truly been in love before, not like he is with his angel, and that it was his angel that showed him he deserves someone who loves him just as much as he loves them. therefore, steve does his best to find ways to tell his girl that nancy is in the past, that she has nothing to worry about, but he has to do so while him and his angel aren’t together yet so he slowly breached the subject until he can figure out where his girl stands, if he can make a move, if she’s interested in him too, y’know? like those conversations filled with a deeper meaning and both parties trying to drop hints about their feelings but they’re still too hesitant to be more clear in their affections. for now.

imagine steve spoiling her and making her all giddy and happy and shy and giggly :( i want steve to treat his baby like royalty way before they even get together :( i wanna read about their first kiss and how it makes steve’s knees buckle and how she’s so giggly because it’s her first kiss and he tells her he wants to marry her right then and there and she tells him she never ever would consider being with anyone but her stevie :(

after they get together—

their first kiss happens in what steve considers to be the best night of his life to date.

it was halloween, and he was slightly nervous about going to the fair with not only the kids and robin and eddie, but his girl too. the year before, he stayed in with his angel and robin watching movies and eating junk, which was the perfect night ‘cause he got to cuddle his girl, but last halloween he went out to celebrate didn’t end up being very enjoyable for him… what with having your now-ex call you bulshit, bullshit, bullshit.

however, this is his girl he’s talking about. while it wasn’t a date, simply a hangout with their friend group, steve still considers his girl, well… his. and the fact she insisted on meeting them there herself had him slightly on edge.

she was dressed as a fairy.

steve has never seen anyone as pretty, as mesmerizing. and the way she treated this night, treated him, was driving steve crazy.

first, once she meets everyone at the entrance of the amusement park they agreed to go to, she insists on paying for both herself and steve. literally grabs steve’s wallet from his hand and only gives it back after she pays.

he, of course, only really allows it because she gives him her — in steve’s opinion illegal — pouty puppy eyes that she knows steve can’t say no to.

afterwards, once they all enter and the kids disperse to the various entertainment with the agreement of meeting up later to eat, steve’s girl drags him away from robin and eddie, who were both sporting knowing grins, to a shooting booth where she proceeds to win, suspiciously easily might he add, a stuffed frog for him.

and then she grabs his hand. albeit hesitantly, but she does. intertwining their fingers and everything.

the entire night was a dream for steve, and unbeknownst to him, for his girl too. she had a plan, you see. his angel was pulling out all the stops, even if she was shy and blushy the whole time— paying for the tickets for both of them was number one. followed by winning steve a stuffed animal, holding his hand, sharing fried oreos and cotton candy (again, paid by her), and going to the photobooth. the ferris wheel would be last, but it’s what happens inside the photobooth that matters.

once inside, steve made sure she was sat on his lap. she payed again. the pictures go a little something like this:

1st pic steve is laughing and she’s looking at him like he’s her dream come true which he is / 2nd pic she pushes forward not being able to wait any longer and quickly presses her lips to his a bit messily / 3rd pic is her looking all flustered and shy and doe-eyed while steve has this dazed look in his eyes and his jaw is dropped / 4th pic is steve grabbing her cheeks and kissing her fully, brows furrowed and all.

steve steals another kiss at the top of the ferris wheel, it was giggling and smiling more than kissing, though.

on the drive home, angel makes a stop at their self-assigned star gazing spot where she officially asks steve to be her boyfriend, all flustered and timid but oh so hopeful. another kiss, a resounding “yes” from her sweet boy, and dropping him off with a quick goodnight kiss ends the night, and steve has never been happier.

the fact she planned this whole night, took a chance, romanced the hell out of him, and was so genuine the whole time, looking to make him smile, just because, had steve on a high unlike any other. no one has ever taken the time to spoil him, to do romantic things for him. he’s not used to reciprocity in relationships, but here this angel is professing her love for him and not only saying it but showing him she means it. best night of his life.

and so their relationship begins.

steve harrington just worships his girl, spoils her continuously, and wants to do everything for her. he is overly affectionate and just obsessed with his baby, pictures of her and with her everywhere on his house, his car, his wallet, maybe even a locket he wears with a copy of the picture of their first kiss on it. steve took the photobooth strip and got the second picture, his angel kissing him for the first time, copied and altered to fit into the locket.

everyone in town just knows steve is entirely whipped and he does not care. he is definitely touch starved for his girl, quite a bit jealous, however, but trusts her so much that it just comes out as a sort of possessiveness that isn’t toxic but something both he and, secretly, his angel enjoy. steve always praises her and wants to take care of her because she’s his sweet little angel girl.

steve is also her first everything— first kiss, first date, first boyfriend, first time… and it drives him insane! something about knowing he’s the only one that’s ever had her and the only one she’s ever wanted just drives him up the wall and gets him so needy. so desperate. so whiney and pouty.

something else about steve as a boyfriend is that he’s his angel’s biggest fan — always praising, always encouraging, always in awe of her. will brag about his baby to anyone. randomly brings her up in conversation because she’s all he thinks about and he’s so proud to be hers.

buying her flowers whenever he can so she’ll give him this wide, square smile of hers that takes over her whole face like she can’t control it and her nose scrunches up a bit and he never wants to look at anything but her.

her stevie is really into pda too, can’t take his hands off of her, but nothing extreme; casual touches and pecks on her nose or temple or lips or cheeks, buries his face in her neck often, hand holding constantly!!!!!!, plays with her hair, is always playing with the delicate ‘s’ pendant on her neck that he gifted her and she never takes off (steve has this proud little smile whenever he messes with it).

then there’s the casual dominance— steve tucks her hair behind her ears, ties her shoelaces for her, adjusts the clasp of her necklace, puts her dainty jewelry on for her, braids her hair because she’s always clumsy with it and she prefers his braids over hers, gives her water so she stays hydrated, remembers her meds for her, adjusts her beanie on her hair when it’s cold and she’s wearing one, wipes chocolate from the corner of her mouth because his baby is a messy eater, pulls on her waist when they’re walking so she doesn’t bump into someone or something because she’s too busy talking and looking at him, spoon feeds her when she’s too tired and sleepy and pouty, brushes her teeth for her too when she’s being his cute little tired baby or is in subspace, brushing her hair and treating her like a little doll, his little doll, and loves to shower with her so he can do it for her, loves to drive her everywhere too. she’s his pretty passenger princess and they both take that role very seriously.

and whenever his pretty baby gets all glassy eyed and needy and blushy for him? he melts.

steve has a daddy kink. major one. and when he finally finds his baby, his person, he starts noticing things she might be into for the sole reason of wanting to be the absolute best he can be for his baby. the thing is, he knows she’s entirely new to this and still a bit nervous and hesitant and shy, so he starts by filing things away in his brain to make sure once she’s ready and the time comes that he can treat her perfectly, and give her everything and anything she wants.

his baby is probably a sub, she must be, with how pliable and soft she gets. for sure has an oral fixation, always giving him little kisses and little bites randomly and pressing his hand to her lips so she can softly mouth at them (but will shy away and get flustered when she notices she’s doing this) (she just loves his hands and he knows). steve’s girl also gets all flustered and her breath hitches when he jokingly calls himself ‘daddy’, so he takes that as a good sign because there’s nothing steve wants more in this world than to be her daddy. only hers. to spoil and care for and love his baby to the best of his ability.

she also loves when he manhandles her, he’s noticed— it’s just that steve really enjoys carrying his baby around, loves feeling needed and loves holding her and having her body pressed to his and have her hold on to him, but also he just wants to do things for his baby, doesn’t want her to tire herself out, ever!

she doesn’t need to walk around all the time because her stevie’s here and he won’t have his baby do unnecessary work when he’s around. whenever he grabs her waist and places her on top of a counter or something and stands between her legs? she gets all smiley. steve also absolutely loves how clearly his touch affects her; she hums and melts into him and gets a bit breathless and just tries to bury herself into him until they become one. lots of cuddles and hugs from behind and just being entirely wrapped in each other while wearing the coziest sweaters under the cuddliest blanket are common occurrences.

the main thing, though… is how steve’s shy little girlfriend quickly becomes obsessed with his bulge. loves when her stevie hugs her from behind so it presses against her, or when he has her sit between his legs with her back to his chest, or any time where her stevie is holding her close. he doesn’t even need to be hard for her to enjoy it, i mean, he shows through his jeans even when he’s soft! and she just always thinks it looks so…soft? and chubby? and she just wants it smushed against her at all times.

it takes steve a while to figure it out, but when he does? he’s relentless! pressing up against his baby all. the. fucking. time. just to see her blush and stutter and get all shy… but she also fucking sighs and relaxes whenever he does it, like it’s such a comfort for her? to feel all of him? like it’s all she’s waiting for at all times. and it drives steve crazy how his cute, shy, introverted, virgin girlfriend who giggles all the time and is always flustered by him and hiding her hot cheeks with her hands and is so… clumsy and tentative and nervous when it comes to any sort of affection (which she only accepts from her stevie) ((she definitely hates touch except his)) (((and he knows it too! was one of the things that proved to him his pretty best friend had feelings for him too when they were ‘just friends’))) can be so desperate to feel his bulge against her.

angel also loves that her stevie boy has huge hands! absolutely massive. could-wrap-one-hand-around-your-entire-neck massive, beautiful, strong, soft hands.. and yeah, both steve and his girl definitely have huge size kinks. huge. they haven’t said so out loud yet, but it shows through their actions. steve loves how obvious the size difference is when they’re holding hands, or when his hand is on her soft thighs. most of the time his baby holds his fingers instead because it hurts a little bit to intertwine their fingers for too long and steve thinks it’s fucking adorable. she’s shorter too, so 😵‍💫 her sweet boy goes crazy. teasing, best friend steve comes out sometimes too when he uses her head as an armrest to tease her, or when he full on picks her up to take her somewhere if she’s being a brat or is too lazy, too tired to move.

steve’s angel loves their size difference. so much. it shows when she hides herself against his chest when it’s cold, when she compares hand sizes because “stevie, the difference is just insane!”, when steve smushes her into the mattress when they start fucking later on. steve notices his angel blush or sigh or break out in goosebumps whenever his hands are involved— i mean, can you blame her? his hands are so pretty. she’s always holding and touching and tracing her fingertips over his palms and pressing kisses, biting softly, sucking on his fingers when she’s restless, fidgety, or sleepy.

using steve as a weighted blanket is a must; helps angel when she’s anxious or having a bad day.

to be continued…

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masterlist. steve dreams.

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