#can you tell i enjoy thinking about him all day

[spaceyaemonds]

thinking about jack abbot, whose 50th birthday is right around the corner. bug’s a little older than 2, and sucks all the energy right out of him. between tea parties, dolls, all the outside play and begging for just one more sweet treat. he wouldn’t change a thing, he’s obsessed with being her dad, and loves her more than anything, despite how old it makes him feel most days.

late one night, she’s snuggled between the two of you in bed. jack’s got his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he reads, gently holding her little foot that had been digging into his side.

he glances over, she’s half on top of you, mouth open as she snores.

“she gets that from you, just so you know.” you don’t even glance up from your phone when he says it, just huff out a quite laugh.

“if you think so, grandpa.”

he looks from her small, perfect face to yours, heart growing about three sizes.

“i think the two of you are the best things that ever happened to me.”

you smile, setting your phone down and turning your head toward him, “yeah?”

“absolutely. i may be exhausted all the time, but at least she sleeps all night and for the most part can communicate her needs now instead of just cry. plus, she actually enjoys me now.”

for a split second, he spots a nervous look on your face, but before he can ask about it, you gently move your daughter so you can lay down and face him.

“i have to tell you something,” you whisper it, like it’s a big secret.

he leans closer, brow furrowed, “okay?” he whispers back, eyes glancing at bug for just a second to make sure she isn’t waking up when she stirs slightly.

you take a deep breath, reaching for his hand and holding it gently. his holds his breath, mind running to try to figure out what you’re about to tell him.

“you’re going to be extra exhausted in about 30 weeks.”

despite the nervous look in your eyes, he sees a familiar gleam of excitement as a small grin makes its way onto your face.

the furrow in his brow deepens for a moment, confusion lining his features as he looks at you, studying you.

it hits him quickly what you mean, and he doesn’t know how he missed it.

how tired you’ve been, the strange hunger all through the day, and the fact that bug had mentioned at least twice in the last month that you had gotten sick that day.

“really?” he whispers out, voice cracking slightly, needing to hear it, needing you to confirm it.

“yeah.” you still look slightly nervous, biting your lip slightly.

he takes you by surprise when he all but launches himself at you, holding you as tightly as he can with bug in between the two of you.

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 5

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3923

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: This took longer than expected, but it's the moment you've all been waiting for...

Read part 4 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha hasn’t left her apartment in two days. Her phone is on max volume, awaiting any calls or messages from you, but she hasn’t heard from you since she ran out of your home after shooting your wife. She played the local news 24/7 on her ancient television whose image blacked out every time the upstairs neighbors jostled her apartment. They reported a shooting in your neighborhood and showed a clip of flashing police cars and an ambulance fanned out on your street, with the victim hospitalized, but no further updates.

The anticipation was killing her. 

She had called Clint to tell him you knew about her background, despite what he had promised, and he offered to move her out of the city–state, even–immediately. But Natasha couldn’t do that to you. Perhaps she was a little naive to expect you to reach out to her after what she had done, but she believed you would keep your word.

Now, she has to get ready for a shift at Steve’s house, and she’s terrified to go back to your neighborhood. Clint had told her to cancel all her shifts there, but she refused, thinking it looked too suspicious. Plus, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of you while she was in the area. With anxiety knotting her stomach, she packs her car and drives to your neighborhood.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect to see your house still standing, as if the police would burn down a crime scene after their investigation. While the exterior looks perfectly normal, something feels off about it. Natasha wonders if you’re home, but she won’t dare knock on your door now.

Steve comes out of his house just as she squeezes her Nissan between a Mercedes and BMW. The street is surprisingly full of cars.

“Hey, Natasha!” Steve calls as he jogs down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you to cancel. You can go home now if you want, and we’ll pay you for the trouble of coming over though–”

“Cancel?” Natasha asks, stepping onto the street. “Is everything okay?”

“Peggy’s hosting a little gathering right now, so there’s a lot of people in the house,” Steve says. “It’s been so chaotic around here the past few days–”

“Why? Did something happen?” She and Clint had agreed it was safer for her to play dumb, to reinforce the idea that she had been far away from your home the night of the shooting.

“Um.” Steve moves closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened at Y/N and Wanda’s house two days ago?”

“No.” Natasha tries to put on her best expression of confusion.  

“There was a shooting,” Steve says, and Natasha feigns a gasp of shock. “Wanda got shot, and she’s in the hospital now, but in a coma. No one’s seen Y/N since it happened either, and obviously there was only one person who could’ve shot Wanda…”

“No!” Natasha says, more out of disbelief that you’re taking the fall for her. 

“The whole neighborhood is shaken up,” Steve says. “Why don’t you come inside? A lot of the neighbors are here. We have food, and it might make you feel better to not have to process all this information alone.”

Against her better judgement, Natasha follows Steve into his house. It’s not nearly as big or grand as yours, but it feels more like a home. Steve proudly displays pictures of his family on the walls, and his children’s toys and belongings are often scattered everywhere. Natasha had met them only once as they were usually at school when she was there, but James was a mini image of his father, and Sarah was an adorable little girl. Steve’s wife Peggy was also extremely kind to her (unlike yours was), and Natasha genuinely enjoyed having the Rogers family as her client. 

There are only adults present currently, with most of them sitting on the lawn in the backyard, shaded by a canopy. Peggy is in the kitchen, slicing into a gigantic watermelon. 

“Hi, Mrs. Carter. Do you need any help?” Natasha asks out of instinct.

“Oh, hi, Natasha! I thought Steve was going to tell you to stay at home,” Peggy says. “Not that we don’t enjoy having you here–”

“I forgot,” Steve says, walking in behind Natasha. “Too much stuff going on–”

“Well, since you’re already here, help yourself to some food, Natasha. And you can join everyone out back.”

“Thank you.” Some of the people here are also Natasha’s clients, and the last thing she wants to do is share a meal with them, but she forces herself to stay. This is her chance to gather more info on you and Wanda.

Natasha grabs a paper plate and lightly loads it up with fruit and some appetizers she can’t name, then steps out into the yard. While the Rogers don’t have a pool like you do, they make up for it with a half basketball court and a little playground that even Natasha finds herself jealous of. 

“Is that Natasha? Having some fun on her day off?” someone calls out.

“Well, I came here to work, but apparently I wasn’t needed today,” she responds.

“Come sit with us, dear!” The loud voice of Agatha Harkness booms out. While she wasn’t a client of Natasha’s, she knows to keep a wide berth. It feels like she’s entered the lion’s den as she takes a seat next to Agatha, joining the circle of the neighborhood’s elite gossipers. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up.

“Of course! You do housework for most of the families here, so you must have a front-row seat to all the juicy drama, right?” Agatha says.

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Yes, but if something happens in front of you, won’t look away, right?” Dottie Jones, your next-door neighbor, asks. Natasha spares herself from answering by shoving a whole apple slice into her mouth.

“You heard what happened to Wanda?” Agatha asks. “Oh, poor thing. We tried visiting her in the hospital yesterday, but we were turned away. Apparently, Y/N won’t let any visitors in, but conveniently no one’s seen Y/N since the incident, that piece of shit.”

“Wanda should’ve gotten a divorce before it came down to this,” Dottie says. “I can’t believe she might lose her life to that bastard.” She wipes her eyes for dramatic effect, but Natasha sees no tears on her face.

“I heard it was a money issue,” Monica Rambeau chimes in. “Apparently, Y/N’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Wanda wasn’t too keen on loaning her trust fund money to a failing business.”

“It’s just so fucked up,” Agatha sighs. “If your business is failing, that’s your fault and you need to take responsibility for it. Trying to kill your own wife to get her money is just so wrong on every level.”

It hurts Natasha to hear these women speak so poorly of you. She would defend your honor, but she also doesn’t want to give herself away.

“Did the police come talk to you ladies yet?” Dottie asks. “They came this morning to my house and asked a few questions. I told them I’d heard yelling a lot recently–mostly from Y/N. And what Wanda’s told us about not feeling safe or cared for in her marriage anymore.”

“But you didn’t hear the gunshot?” Monica says. Dottie shakes her head.

“I thought it was a trash can falling over or something.”

“Vision’s the one who made the call,” Agatha says. Natasha almost chokes on a cheese cube. “And it’s a good thing he did, otherwise they might not have been able to get to Wanda on time–”

“He’s always looking out for her,” Monica agrees. “He’s a good man. Wanda should’ve left Y/N for him already, then this would’ve never needed to happen.”

“When she pulls through–not if, when–I hope she sues the fuck out of Y/N,” Agatha says.

“I hope Y/N gets life in prison,” Dottie adds. “That bastard deserves to rot for eternity.”

Natasha stares down at her plate, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She hates how these women talk about you, but she hates herself even more for not standing up for you. 

***********************************************************************

Natasha finally manages to escape their clutches and goes home, feeling much worse than she had when she left this morning. While she worked for half of them, she had never seen this side of them before. Clearly, Wanda had influenced them beyond reason: you were none of the awful things they said about you. It also made Natasha extremely uneasy to see how many people were on Wanda’s side when they didn’t know any part of the truth.

She trudges up to the third floor of her building because her elevator is broken again and nearly collapses when she sees you standing by her front door.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” You look like you haven’t showered in two days, and your eyes are strained like you hadn’t slept since you last saw her. Your cheek is still a little swollen where Wanda hit you several times. “Sorry to catch you like this. I would’ve called ahead, but I didn’t want to leave any digital traces.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother to ask how you know where she lives, but she quickly goes over to unlock her door and usher you inside. She wishes she had spent more time cleaning her own place, she thinks, as she eyes the dirty dishes piled up on the counter, the unopened mail on the floor, the kitchen table loaded with used Tupperware.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. “I just got back from Steve’s house. He was hosting the neighborhood ladies, and they said no one’s seen you since–”

“I know. I just got released from jail,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “My lawyer posted bail, so I can’t go far, but I knew I couldn’t go back to the house. I’m sorry to bother you here.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Natasha wishes she could say how happy she is to see you again. “Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s not the cleanest at the moment–when you spend all day cleaning, it’s hard to do it for myself–”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “Do you mind if I use your shower? It’s been two days since I washed up, I know I look like crap.”

Natasha wants to say you still look good as ever, but holds her tongue. “Please, go ahead. I can go down to the laundry room and wash up your clothes while you’re showering too.”

“I don’t want to burden you–”

“You protected me that night and you had no reason to,” Natasha says. “You could never be a burden to me.” She makes eye contact with you and feels her knees go weak when you smile at her. 

“Thank you.” You look away first. “I’m sorry Wanda was always so awful to you and that I never stood up for you. You were always so respectful to her and me, even when neither of us really deserved it.”

“You deserved it,” Natasha says, finding her courage. “You deserve better than her.”

You don’t respond, only nodding and walking to the bathroom.

***********************************************************************

You’re not entirely sure why the first place you went after being freed from jail was Natasha’s. Your lawyer, Murdock, had offered to book you a hotel, but you could’ve done that yourself and to be honest, you were afraid to be alone. It was an extremely vulnerable time for you. You were being charged with aggravated assault that could easily be upped to attempted murder depending on the investigation and Wanda’s condition. Murdock had played the self-defense card, which was an easy sell because of your injuries, but you knew not to celebrate too early.

When news got around of what you had done, you weren’t so sure how many would take your side. It would be dangerous to underestimate what Wanda might’ve said about you behind your back. But Natasha knew the truth. She was responsible for part of it, but you didn’t blame her at all. You knew you could trust her. Maybe that was because you haven’t slept in two days or had a proper meal, but you felt safe with Natasha. More than you ever had with your own wife. Even knowing what she had done in her home country that forced her to flee and take on a new identity. 

It was Wanda’s idea to run a background check on Natasha. You had protested at first, but she was adamant about needing to know every detail about the woman who would be spending all her time in your home. She made a good point, but the second you met Natasha, you knew you didn’t have to worry about her stealing or vandalizing, and to be quite frank, Wanda never cared about those things either. She just wanted the information so she could blackmail Natasha if she ever acted out, but neither of you were prepared for what the investigator came back with, and you were even more shocked when Wanda still agreed to employ her.

“She won’t kill us. It’ll be too obvious who did it,” Wanda says.

“I feel like being dead is enough of a problem on its own,” you counter. 

“If we hire her, with this information–” Wanda clutches at the thick folder the investigator had compiled “–she’ll have to do whatever we tell her. She’ll never argue back, she’ll never refuse, because if she does…” She flips the folder open to the page of a decade-younger Natasha, slightly blurred from the movement of running away from the crime scene. “Everyone will know what she did back in Russia.”

Your stomach twists at the way your wife is viewing the situation. She has no qualms allowing a convicted murderer to clean her home, simply because she could threaten her into doing whatever she wanted. You want to spare Natasha from this fate, but you know there’s no changing Wanda’s mind. 

Besides, if you never had the guts to kill her, maybe Natasha did.

You shower until the hot water runs out, and wrap yourself only in a towel to step out. Natasha is off washing your clothes as promised, but you’re shocked to find her waiting not only with your clothes neatly folded and clean, but also a bag of takeout on the table.

“I thought you’d be hungry too, so I went and picked something up. I would’ve cooked, but the fridge is a little empty right now–”

You cross the room in four large strides and scoop her up in a hug. You barely restrain yourself from kissing her too, but she doesn’t shy away from your hug, pressing her face against your chest and squeezing you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you whisper to her.

“Anything for you.”

You change into your fresh clothes quickly and sit down with Natasha on the couch to eat. The silence is not uncomfortable as you shovel food into your mouth, while Natasha’s appetite seems more reserved than you. She lets you eat all the leftovers and you feel like a bear before hibernation, tiredness hitting you full force as you sink back into the cushions.

“Let me clean up and then I’ll let you sleep,” you hear Natasha say, and she pats your arm as she gets up but you grab her hand to stop her from walking away.

“Thank you,” you say, knowing you sound like a broken record, but you’ve never meant the words more in your life. “You know you saved my life, right?”

Natasha looks away and shakes her head. “I almost killed your wife.”

“Exactly.” You tug on her arm and she loses her balance and falls into your lap. For the first time ever, her body is pressed against yours, her cheap vanilla perfume swirling around your head. Natasha puts her hand on your chest, as if she’s going to push away from you, but she doesn’t, trailing one hand up the back of your neck and cupping your head. You know it’s totally wrong to want her like this, to even have her touching you like this, but as far as you were concerned you weren’t married to Wanda anymore.

“Natasha,” you whisper so faintly you’re not sure if she heard you, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Wanda doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “But I deserve you.”

The proclamation is enough for you. You tilt your head back and part your lips slightly, inviting Natasha to kiss you. She takes full advantage, slamming her mouth into yours, threading her fingers into your hair to hold you there. The touch of her lips is electrifying, with more passion than any of the kisses you’d shared with your actual wife. Your arms wrap around her back; it just feels so right to have her weight in your arms, her body pressed against yours. You never want to lose this woman; you never want to go back to Wanda again.

Natasha surprises you by grinding down in your lap. You moan when her thigh brushes over your bulge. You’re instantly light-headed by the way blood rushes to your groin and your hands slide down to her butt, squeezing until she groans into your mouth. 

She suddenly pulls away, panting, a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Y/N, you’re still married,” she says.

“We’re separated,” you tease, but you know she’s right. What you’re doing with Natasha right now makes you no better than Wanda. Your hands drop from her body to the couch in a sign of submission. “But…yeah. Things are complicated right now.”

“I think we should wait,” Natasha continues, and she sounds as pained as you feel about not being properly together. “I don’t want to rush into this, especially with everything going on.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you admit. You feel yourself deflate in your pants. “Besides, I should probably get tested first. If Wanda gave me anything…I don’t want to give it to you.”

Natasha’s cheeks flame red when she realizes what you’re talking about. “That’s fair. We won’t do anything until you’re tested and all this is settled.”

“Yes,” you agree, even though it’ll take all your willpower to keep your hands to yourself. Natasha stands up and you join her, reaching for her hand again and spinning her around to face you. You can’t help yourself from bending over to kiss her, because you already miss her lips on yours. “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I could never stop thinking about you when you weren’t at my house.”

Natasha hums as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you. “I walked in on you and Wanda doing it once,” she admits. “And ever since, I thought about your body and your cock every time I touched myself.” You practically shiver at the thought of Natasha using you in her fantasies. You can’t wait for her to show you exactly how she wants you. 

“Well, I can’t wait to make it a reality,” you respond, pushing your hips forward so Natasha can feel your growing bulge against her stomach. She brushes her fingers over the outline in your pants.

“I can’t wait until you’re properly mine.”

***********************************************************************

It feels wrong returning to your neighborhood the first time since the incident. But you didn’t plan on staying long, just grabbing some clothes and a few things from the home. Your lawyer had said to be quick and quiet–not that you weren’t allowed to go home, just that it wasn’t the best look to the public. You picked the middle of the day, hoping your neighbors would be out or working so you wouldn’t have to face any of them, but your luck was never great.

“Y/N?”

Your shoulders tense, but quickly drop in relief when you see Steve jogging across the street. “Hi, Steve.”

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, and you’re touched by his kindness. If any of your neighbors had seen you here, they would’ve run you over with their car before speaking two words to you.

“Can you talk inside?” you ask, not taking any chances with anyone eavesdropping.

“Sure.”

You usher him through the front door and lock it. The house feels dirty and wrong, despite its clean appearance. Who knows how many pairs of police boots had walked through it, the amount of chemicals used to clean Wanda’s blood off the floor. But you don’t have a chance to think about that now.

“I’m so sorry about Wanda, Y/N,” Steve says. “If there’s anything Peggy and I can do–”

“Don’t. She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” you interrupt. Steve looks shocked at your words. “She was cheating on me. With a lot of people from this neighborhood.”

He’s silent for a moment as if having some kind of internal struggle. “Wanda tried to sleep with me, shortly after you guys moved in,” he finally reveals. “I should’ve told you, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since because I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” You won’t tell him you were there, spying on them through the closet like a voyeur in your own home. 

“Wanda said she’d tell Peggy we had slept together. And all the other women in the neighborhood,” he says, sounding strained. “Peggy wouldn’t believe her, but I wasn’t so convinced the other women wouldn’t. Wanda has a lot of influence here. You’ve seen how they hang onto every word like it’s gospel.”

“I know.”

“And there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Steve continues. “I knew about the gun.”

“The gun?”

“Wanda asked me if I knew where she could buy a gun,” Steve says. “I referred her to my friend Bucky, who runs an armory, and he sold her a revolver. It was done legally of course, and we’re all adults here, so I didn’t think much of it. It’s her right to have a gun if she wants.”

“Yes, it is,” you state, although you’re not sure why Steve is telling you all this. 

“The weird part is that Wanda specifically asked Bucky to sell her blanks instead of bullets,” Steve says. “He tried telling her that guns aren’t toys, and if it was for protection she needed live bullets. No noisy, flashy blanks were going to protect her from anything.”

You start to laugh. Steve was right; blanks wouldn’t protect anyone, but they would put on a good show. And your wife was all about the theatrics. But you knew her better than anyone, and if she was going to go as far as to fake a shooting, you would make sure she regretted it. 

“She said she wouldn’t buy the gun unless she got her blanks, so Bucky caved,” Steve says. “She could’ve gotten bullets from another source, but it was just so odd. We figured she might’ve just wanted the gun for show, you know? But she could’ve gotten a fake for much cheaper–”

“Steve,” you finally interrupt his rambling. “I knew about the gun.”

“Oh, you did?” Relief breaks out on his face. “That’s great–”

“And I noticed the gun had blanks in it. So I switched them with real bullets.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: The plot continues to thicken...Did this answer any questions or create more? 🤔

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[moth2flamewriting]

He's Mine

I really want to see a fic where Annie is possessive over Smoke. So I wrote one.

Also, be on the lookout for more Annie x Smoke. THAT'S THE ONLY COUPLE FROM THE MOVIE I WILL WRITE ABOUT.

Warning: Unprotected sex. Dirty Talk.

Modern Day!

ENJOY.

"You really think your body can forget me?" She whispered seductively into his ear.

His knees buckled under him. She knew just what to say and do to get him going. And it just wasn't fair.

"Annie, why you doing this?" He tried for months for her forgiveness.

...

Even though the twins had their own club, they decided they were going to throw a good ol' fasioned house party.

Tempted for a good, illegal and sexy time.

They invited the whole neighborhood. Smoke went and invited one person in particular.

Annie.

"I done told you to leave me the fuck alone,' she hissed through the screen door.

Not once thrown off by her tone or demeanor, he proceeded.

"We havin' a house party tonight, wanted to swing by and see if you was lookin to come?" Smoke was always a confident man. Even when she rejected him over and over. Some people were just unwavering.

"Who all gon be there?" Curiosity in her voice.

"Everybody."

"I'll think about it,' and with that Annie closed the door.

What Smoke didn't know is what was going through her head on the other side of the door.

After the last time she rejected him, he promised himself he wouldn't chase her. But that was impossible to him.

He was still coming by in person to invite her to things, checking in with her even when she made clear she didn't want that from him.

He couldn't help but to wonder if it was true, that she didn't want him anymore.

It was just better for him to not think about.

Annie's House..

After she closed the door on Smoke, the breath she was holding in was let out.

He was handsome as hell.

'This nigga hand delivering invites for a house parrty?' she thought to herself.

She hated how quickly he made her forget the principle. She had been doing good since he's been back. Not one relapse. Not a kiss. A hug. Nothing.

He was so persistent. She couldn't help but feel like she was punishing him too hard. She loved him so much. The only man she loved in her whole life.

She went to call Pearline on the phone.

"Hey girl, wassup?" Pearline picked up.

"Girl, guess who just came by my house AGAIN!?" Nothing like gossiping with your friends.

"Don't tell me Smoke not catching the hint," she inquired.

"Well, there may not be a hint to catch anymore.. I think he deserves a second chance kind of?" Annie was confused her damn self.

"I been saying that for months girl. Sammie always saying all he talk about is you, blah blah, and he love you blah blah," you could hear her smirking through the phone.

"You going to the party tonight?' Annie asked.

"Girl fuck yes. This a Smoke Stack Twins House party!"

"Okay, if you going. I'll go." The decision was final.

They hung up the phone.

It was about 6:00 pm now.

She had enough time to shower, do her make up and still show up at a reasonable time. Not too early and not too late.

10:00 rolls around and she's finally ready to go.

She calls Pearline to confirm that she's already there and she is.

Let the night begin.

House Party..

She walks in the party, the air is hot and filled with smoke.

People crowd the hallways and living room as she walks towards the kitchen.

She finds Pearline with a big drunk ass smile on her face.

"Well damn girl, why not just come naked", she jokes on her.

She had on sun dress, yellow that hugged her wasted and curves. Her titties sitting high up on her chest. Ass poking out the back. She looked good and she felt good.

Before she could respond she caught Smoke out the corner of her eye, but he wasn't alone.

He was standing up against the wall with some girl, whispering in her ear.

He fucking with girls now? She needed a drink and fast.

"Pearline where the liquor at?" She asked.

"Ask Smoke, he the one who gave this to me. Aint put nun out, aint want it gone to fast," she replied.

Annie sighed, alerting Pearline that she was moving.

She approached Smoke and the girl. They was so busy having they own conversation they aint even notice her.

That wasn't like him, he always sensed her.

"Scuse' me," she cleared her throat.

"Annie I-," he turned around startled looking between Annie and the girl.

"Smoke, I dont need all that. Pearline said you had the liquor?"

"Uh, yeah," he said straightening his back.

He looked to the girl and excused himself for the next few minutes.

She had an uneasy feeling, everybody knew Smoke and Annie history. Him leading her into a back room didn't sit well, but who was she to say anything?

"Whatchu want? I got beer, wine anything you could think of," he asked her.

She didn't respond.

"So what? You fucking with bitches now?" Annie tried to control the crazy in her, but her eye was twitching and she was furious.

"What the fuck that got to do with liquor?"

Oh.

"You like the bitch or suem?" This was her man. HER MAN. HERS. This is the same man she was rejecting for months.

"So all of a sudden you see me with another bitch and you care? I don't have time for this shit Annie. What the fuck you want to drink?" He boomed.

"You don't have time for me Pa?" She cooed.

She knew was she was doing. Jealousy taking over her.

She moved closer to him. Pressing their bodies together. Both of them breathing heavy.

"Annie cmon' now," he was on thin ice. He would fuck her right here. His dick growing in his pants.

"I know you got time for me baby, you always find time for me," she purred at him.

"Ann-,"she cut him off quickly with a hot kiss. Tongues dancing. He missed her. She missed him too. Without an exchange of words the knew.

She broke the kiss, chest rising and falling slow.

"Go head, and be with the bitch. Just know you always gon be mine. I'll take the wine," she said.

"You jealous." He smirked. He could see it all over her face. From the moment she approached them in the hallway. The nasty looks, the questions about other women.

"Jealous of what? The two cent bitch you making giggle with them corny ass jokes?" She laughed.

"Its gon be corny when my dick in her?"

"Fuck her Smoke, that aint got shit to do with me," she would eat those words later. Anger banging on every part of her body.

"Ain't no issue for me, here go ya drink," and with that he left the room swiftly.

Standing there she didn't know what to do. She just knew she wasn't going to take to kindly to him fucking somebody else. When he supposed to be getting her back.

She left the room. And there he was back in the same position with the same girl.

Annie was so mad you could see steam coming out her ears. She walked passed them purposely bumping him so that he fell into her.

She figured tonight, she could drink her problems away. Saving her from watching him and some random bitch together all night.

He watched her, watch him. Distracted by her eyes he couldn't even pay attention to the girl.

He watched the rage grow in her like a building on fire.

All night she been shooting him dirty looks, flipping him off, demanding liquor from him.

He was so lost in his thoughts, when he came to she was standing in front of him shaking her cup in his face.

'Damn, another refill?' he thought to himself.

He had another reason to be alone with her. To address the issue head on. Shit, why not? They was both fucked up.

He excused himself and guided her to the back room for the 8th time tonight. Her steps lazy but careful behind him.

They entered the room, the door swinging closed. Only cause she slammed it. Additude prominent. She waited for him to refill her cup.

But he just stood there. Looking at her. Trying to find an explanation without words.

"What the fuck is your problem? Huh?" He didn't realize how upset he was.

"I ain't got no problem Smoke," obviously drunk.

"You don't get to do this shit! YOU FUCKING ME UP ANNIE! I CANT FUCKIN FOCUS CUS YOU BURNING HOLES INTO ME ALL NIGHT!," he was screaming now.

Thankfully the music drowned out what was being said.

"Oh fuck you! FUCK YOU! You think parading that bitch around the party aint annoying me? You my nigga-" the words slipped out by mistake.

"I'm not, you made that clear. Bad as I wanna be," he's seething. He could tear down a fucking building.

She ignored his words. "You grinding and shit! She can't even dance. Yall look fucking stupid. She doesn't know what to do with you," she didn't care how she sounded. She didn't care if she was drunk. Annie wanted her man back.

"So what?! I'm trynna have a good time," he was in complete shock. She was trying to control his night.

"She not gon' fuck you like me," her eyes low.

"She don't know what you like, how you like it," she was walking towards him again.

"Annie cmon' now, you drunk," he tried to resist her.

Annie wrapped her hands around the back of his head. Pressing into him, sitting her titties up on his chest.

"I'm not that drunk Pa," she teased him.

'Pa' when she need some dick.

She had to decide whether she wanted this man on not. If she was willing to give him another chance after all he did. He worked so hard to get her back. The back and forth was wearing him down.

"Annie what do you want from me?"

"Right now?" she teased.

She lowered herself down onto her knees. Rubbing his dick through his pants. Pressing her face up against him. Unable to control herself, she moaned at his print against her face.

"Oh my god, your dick is so big," she was panting over it.

Looking up at him, she took her bottom lip into her mouth, "Let me suck on you, Elijah."

Hands reaching for his belt slowly, she pulls down his pants. His dick springing through his draws. Annie wraps her hands around the base of him. Peppering kisses down his shaft.

"Fuck," he groans out. She always stroked his dick like a pro.

Opening her mouth just enough to take the head into her hot, wet and ready mouth. She's slurping on his tip. Wrapping her tongue around him to catch all the warm pre cum spilling out of him.

"Your dick taste so good Papa," she was moaning in between sucks.

She pulls him out her mouth, slow. Making sure to make eye contact with him.

"Fuck Annie," he growls.

She stood up, running her hands up and down his body. Gripping the base of him.

He threw his head back.

She dragged her body against his as she stood up.

"You really think your body can forget me?" She whispered seductively into his ear.

His knees buckled under him. She knew just what to say and do to get him going. And it just wasn't fair.

"Annie, why you doing this?" He tried for months for her forgiveness.

A thousand drunk thoughts running through her head. She didn't like what she did, but she loved him. She loved him so much it was sobering. She wanted him. She tried so hard to stay away but this is where she was supposed to be. With him.

"I love you," she said just above a whisper.

"Whatchu say?"

"I love you. And seeing you with that bitch made me angry. I couldn't see anything but red. Cause no matter how hard I try, it's always going to be you."

Their lips crashed into eachother. Tongues dominated eachother. Heavy panting coming from them both.

"Ahh- Elijah," she moaned.

His fingers were sliding around in her sex.

"I missed you," he grunted in her ear.

And the truth is, they REALLY missed eachother.

His fingers slipped over her clit, eliciting moans and gasps from.

Annie's hand slid down his chest, on to his belt buckle. Fumbling she got it undone and his pants dropped to the floor.

She dropped to her her knees, abandoned by his fingers, on a mission. With no desire to wait or have him fully erect, she wrapped her mouth around his dick.

Moaning at how warm it was in her mouth. She took him all the way in her mouth while she still could.

"Fuck Annie, suck that dick baby," he groans.

She bobbed her head lazily on him, leaving a trail of spit on his shaft and it dripping from his balls.

"She couldn't do this to you Pa," her doe eyes looking up at him all innocent.

"Were you going to fuck her?" she asked while she pumped his dick rapidly.

"Fuck- I," he couldn't think straight.

"No," he mustered.

"You belong to me," it wasn't a question. She was telling him.

She let him go. And stood up. Stripping down to nothing at all.

"Come get inside of me, I can't wait to have that dick fill me up," she turned her back to him as he lined himself up with her wet pussy.

"Fuck, you're so tight. Put your leg up for me," he tapped the table in front of them.

She threw her leg up and he slid inside of her.

"Fuck Smoke, your dick is so big baby," she whimpered.

He was stroking her slow, letting her feel all of him.

Grunts and groans filled the air as he pumped into her. His balls smacking her clit as he fucked her. Sending her into a frenzy.

She threw her ass back on him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

"You love this pussy don't you Pa," his hand came across her ass. Watching it jiggle from contact.

He did it again and again.

"Fuck Annie, you gon make me cum in you. Your pussy so good," he was moaning uncontrollably.

"Papa please, give it to me," she begged him shamelessly.

"Give me that dick baby, oh my god," her body gave out collapsing onto the table.

But he was merciless. He pounded into her, pussy squirting all over his dick.

"Fuck here it come baby," he was cumming in her.

"Thank you baby.

Thank you.

Thank you so much," she finished with him.

Cum dripping out her pussy, he spread her ass to see how far he stretched her.

Pleased with the view, he kissed her on her ass cheek.

"Now, go tell that bitch you belong to me," face dead serious.

"That ain't no problem with me," Smoke grinned.

The End.

i never talk to yall after but this was so much fun to write. i'm trying to figure out what direction im going in for options. but its just so unclear.

thanks for reading as always. 🩷

-m2fw.

[curious-trickster]

Oh my goooooood I wanna write this so badly, my fingers are itching. Just. The idea of passive aggressive caretaker Jaskier with a big amount of mischief and a general want to take care of his witchers???

Like. He found them and he will make them feel better if it kills him???

What do you mean you don't get to have good things in your witcher life??? You just haven't been stubborn enough about it, just you wait and see, Jaskier got you!

I can absolutely see Geralt bluescreening every time Jaskier gives him something nice and runs away with a tinkling laugh.

Lambert might square up and growl every time he hears those damned little giggles that hint at Jaskiers presence, but mind you, he will enjoy the little snack the fae left for him, even if he glares at everything while eating it.

Eskel will startle very badly every time Jaskier suddenly appears close to him on a rainy day, pressing healing balms into his hands that help with the way his scars itch due to the weather, and he'll always feel a little guilty about the way he doesn't quite manage to thank Jaskier before he is gone again.

Vesemir won't tell anyone about the extra thick blankets he found in his room, or the way his bed is suddenly much fluffier then before. Just like he never tells anyone about the way his body hurts less and his sleep is much better than before, the improved bedding helping against the aches that come with old age.

The cats, once they manage to get to Kaer Morhen, are hissy and bristle every time they get approached by one of the other witchers, not yet trusting their new surroundings. No one is surprised about the fact that Jaskier does not get the same reaction, each time he seems to appear out of thin air, the cats seemingly knowing whenever he approaches. No one says anything about the way some of them aggressively rub their cheeks against Jaskiers soft hair, whenever he does something nice for them, or the way they stalk away all stiff and grumbly, daring anyone to comment. No one remarks on the way the Cats start to relax more and more around the keep, until it's not unusual to find a pile of them just napping in a sun spot. (Everyone notices when Jaskier gets included in the pile. Nobody is surprised when more often than not, witchers from other schools seem to get included in the cuddle pile, whenever the fae is around.)

Most of the other schools have only a few, sometimes only a single member left. No one really expected Jaskier to be able to find Leto, or the last remaining Griffins and Bears.

But he manages.

Not all of them join them for the winters, but they still find it easier to breath in the cold winter air, knowing that somewhere in a certain mountain range, there is a place they could call home. Knowing that somewhere, there lifes a fae that loves all witchers, even though the rest of the world thinks them monstrous, or a necessary evil.

The keep is no longer a cold crumbling strong hold, but a safe haven, which rises back to its old glory with each winter that sees it getting taken care of by more and more hands, rebuilding, fixing, warming its halls.

And in the evening, once everyone has gotten the work done for that day and the hunger in their belly is gone, the, will settle in the big hall, that only a few years ago, housed only the few remaining witchers of the wolf school and is now bustling with the nearly a hundred people.

And every evening, each and every witcher in Kaer Morhen will settle down next to kin, to new allies and old bonds, and listen to the voice of the fae that made them come together.

And every single evening, Jaskier will stand there, look out across the hall, see his witchers home, safe and loved and smile.

Fic idea where Jaskier is a fae who keeps breaking into Kaer Morhen despite everyone's best efforts.

He doesn't want to hurt any of them (obviously), he just thinks the Witchers are cool and wants to shower them with affection. So he breaks in every winter and brings them food and helps fix up the keep and makes sure they're okay and sings them songs.

The Witchers are understandably very upset and freaked out by this random fae breaking into their home every winter. They spend so long trying to ward the keep against him, they try chasing Jaskier away, there are multiple attempts on his life. Jaskier just laughs and boops them on the nose before fluttering away. They end up reluctantly accepting him like one of those wild foxes trying to domesticate themselves.

Jaskier then starts kidnapping leading other Witchers to Kaer Morhen and the keep eventually fills up with very confused, very grumpy Witchers and a very satisfied fae who's happy with his collection.

[acosmicbee]

Heyyyyy I have a request...

Can u do a platonic yandere police chief with a child reader who grew up in an abusive household?

Also your stories are the best! I especially loved Teddy Bear that one is probably my fav! 💕 I hope I have an amazing day... Or night 😊

Liar Liar

(Thanks so much for the compliments! I really hope you enjoy my take on your request!)

You had first met Sheriff Hayes when you were five. He was still an officer back then, one of two who had come to your home after you'd told the teacher about how your parents had disappeared all weekend and you'd been left all alone.

He'd then listened as you lied through your teeth about everything because your parents had promised to get you a toy you wanted if you behaved and didn't tell on them. He'd never believed you, always side eyeing you when he saw you around town after that.

It was a small town, the kind with one elementary, middle and high school. You would walk the semi-paved mile to get to the bus stop every morning. One of the other parents there, the mom of your friend Issac, would usually have some sort of snack for you because you almost never ate breakfast at home.

Sometimes you'd see a cop car circle past the bus stop right before the bus came, Hayes at the wheel as he peered at you from behind dark sunglasses. You used to wave but stopped after your parents had told you that cops couldn't be trusted.

It was a nearly identical talk every day. They'd tell you what they'd get you if you kept the dirty home, long periods alone and almost permanently empty pantries to yourself. They'd whisper about how everyone wanted to take you away from them, how they'd put you in a house with a million other kids where no one would know your name.

You didn't think they were right, but after hearing something so many times it started to worm it's way into your thoughts. Officer Hayes never did that for any other kids, you didn't think, only you. He must be watching you because he wants to take you away from your parents.

You began acting out more, little things at first but quickly growing. At home you acted out because it was the only time you could get your parents to actually look at you. Even if they yelled and screamed and threw things, at least they were looking at you for once.

At school you only acted out when you felt it was necessary. You liked most of your classmates and teachers, but often barely did your work. Instead you'd read a book under your desk or talk with your desk mate or doodle something. It was how you coped with everything, how you escaped the wrongness of your life.

Then he got promoted to Sheriff and suddenly you were seeing him around a lot more. When the neighbors called the cops on your parents for yelling at each other and throwing things he was there. When the school called in cops for demonstrations and PSAs he was there.

One thing about being a small town meant there wasn't much crime. He had a lot of free time outside of doing paperwork to just cruise around and watch you. He never approached you, but you knew he was there, watching you.

It all came to a head one day when Sheriff Hayes was waiting for you at the bus stop. You had just gotten off the bus when you saw him, waiting with the other parents, his arms crossed and his face grim. You ignored him, walking past him and starting down the street when you felt a firm hand grip your shoulder.

"Kid, I'm gonna need to bring you to the station. There was an... incident at your home so you're going to need to answer some questions while we wait for a caseworker to get here." He said, his voice deceptively even.

"An incident? Yeah, right. Let me go home." You demanded, pushing his hand off your shoulder as you kept walking. He sighed, stepping out in front of you to block your path.

"Y/N. Listen to me. You need to come to the station with me because legally you cannot go back to that house. It's a crime scene currently under investigation." You froze realizing he was being serious.

"What happened?! What did you do?!" You hissed, hiding your sadness and fear under anger. "You did something! You're always following me around and watching me!"

"Will you let me take you to the station or will I have to restrain you?" He asked, clearly showing you the handcuffs attached to his belt. You reluctantly got into the back of his car, your stomach sinking when you drove past your house, taped off with at least three cop cars outside it.

It was all a bit of a blur and then you were in the police station, sitting across from Sheriff Hayes as he talked with some person from CPS about something. The caseworker had brought some coloring pages for you which you refused to even look at.

They still hadn't told you what happened yet, just that one of your parents had gotten hurt and the other was in custody. Now you were in limbo with no idea where you'd end up. You were about to start taking your frustration and anxiety out on the colored pencils you'd been given when there was a tap on the table, drawing your attention.

"Y/N, Sheriff Hayes is the closest available foster parent we can place you with. It would mean that you wouldn't have to change schools or lose any of your friends. Is that alright with you?" The CPS worker asked, her tone one of practiced kindness when it was clear to you she couldn't care less as long as it was out of her control.

She took your shrug as a yes and within an hour the papers were signed and you were being led back towards the sheriff's car, allowed to sit in the passenger seat this time. "You never told me what happened."

"Thats because it isn't appropriate for child ears." He responded, clicking his seatbelt into place. "You've heard and seen enough as it is with those... people."

"They're my parents. Tell me what happened." You demanded, staring at him as he pulled out of the police station's parking lot. The familiar scenery of the town began to whiz by, but you never took your eyes off of him.

"You really want to know? Fine. We assume there was some sort of argument while high on drugs and it led to your mother shooting your father." He said bluntly. Your eyes narrowed.

"We don't own any guns." You stated. "You're lying."

"Are you really one who should be talking about lying, Y/N? You lied to me about your home life. You lied to your teachers, to your friends and your friends' parents as well." He said, his voice not harsh or cold. He was simply stating a fact.

"You did something. I know you did and one day I'll make sure everyone knows!" You swore, your eyes burning with a fiery hatred.

"I'm sure you will pipsqueak. I'm sure everyone will listen to the kid who starts claiming that the sheriff broke into their home, knowing their parents would be in no state to remember anything or defend themselves. They'll totally believe you when you say that I shot your father and planted the gun on your mother, making sure to leave a backdated receipt paid in cash. Go ahead, Y/N. Tell them." He said, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. "They'll call you a liar, because you are one. If you've lied once, whats stopping you from lying again?"

You fell quiet, fear and disbelief fighting in your head. He... he had just told you exactly how he'd done it... hadn't he? But he seemed so unbothered, his eyes never even leaving the road. Your parents had taught you not to trust the police, but others clearly respected Sheriff Hayes. Would they even listen to you at all?

"You'll learn what it's like to have a full fridge and pantry all the time. You'll learn what it's like having a parent who follows through on what they promise. You'll learn, Y/N, that what I did was right. You can't see it now, you're still a blind little kid, ignorant to the wider world. But one day, you'll wake up and you'll thank me for saving you and stealing you away."

He pulled up in front of a little house. It was a stereotypical suburban house, identical to all the others on the block. He parked the car but didn't unlock the doors, taking a moment to just stare at you.

"Remember Y/N, no one likes a liar, so let's not tell any stories to anyone. Now, are you ready to be a good kid and come inside or do I have to cuff you first?"

[kxsagi]

Hii, i hope ur doing well ! I saw that u write a headcanon where the bl boys comfort s/o about their stomach and thighs. Can u write about s/o trying to lose weight. But not really healthy,like skipping meals and just eating a little bit and the boys realize this,trying to comfort s/o again. Thanks in advance. Love ya ! ❤️

“𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐭. 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐭.”

a/n: hiii i'm doing well and i hope you are too!

i don’t promote this behavior or these eating habits (and this request didn't make me uncomfy or anything dw), but i know that some people struggle with this issue, so i wrote this to give some fluff but please please please do not restrict yourself, life is too short to not eat that dessert and you’re still young, your body deserves to be fueled and your life deserves to be enjoyed!!!

tw: unhealthy eating habits, body image issues

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, ness alexis, niko ikki

isagi yoichi

he doesn’t notice at first. he just assumes you’re not hungry when you say “i’ll eat later” three days in a row. 

but it clicks when you faintly say you’re dizzy and brush it off like it’s nothing. 

“when was the last time you ate?” he asks, and your vague shrug gives it away. 

immediately goes full gentle, but firm mode. he doesn’t scold, but the hurt in his eyes is enough to make your chest ache. 

“you don’t need to do this to yourself, you know? your body… it deserves kindness.” 

spends the rest of the week making you little meals and eating beside you, even if he’s not hungry. 

“even if it takes a hundred times, i’ll remind you you’re beautiful the way you are.” 

itoshi rin

rin notices immediately. he watches you like a hawk, even if he pretends not to. 

you push your food around more than eat it. you excuse yourself from dinner. you say “i’m just not hungry” but your stomach growls. 

“stop lying,” he says bluntly one night. “you haven’t eaten all day.” 

you snap, “i’m just trying to look better,” and he goes quiet. 

his brows furrow as he walks toward you, takes your face in his hands, and says softly, “i already think you look perfect. this isn’t the way.” 

he won’t pressure you to eat, but he will sit beside you in total silence with food between you two, waiting until you take even one bite. 

and when you finally do, he mumbles, “thank you,” like you just saved him. 

nagi seishiro

“huh? you didn’t eat again?” 

at first he’s just confused. why would you willingly skip food? food is good. 

but when he catches you googling low-calorie hacks and skipping meals, he gets unusually serious. 

“is this because of something someone said? was it reo? i’ll kick him.” 

nags you into letting him cook (horribly). ends up ordering your favorite takeout instead. 

he lounges beside you with snacks and says, “you’re already soft and comfy. don’t change that.” 

and then adds with a pout, “i like hugging you like this. don’t shrink away from me.” 

mikage reo

reo’s alarm bells ring the moment you say “i already ate” and he knows you didn’t. 

he doesn’t confront you right away. instead, he starts inviting you out to cute cafes and bakeries, always getting extra portions “by accident.” 

when you finally say, “i’m trying to lose weight,” he stares at you like you just insulted a priceless painting. 

“you think you need to look better? babe, you're literally my dream girl.” 

he showers you in compliments and validation and even pulls up a long speech from a body-positive influencer like he’s giving a TED talk. 

“you don’t have to earn love by shrinking yourself,” he says, softer now. “not with me.” 

kaiser michael

kaiser notices everything, especially when it comes to control, and you not eating sets off every alarm in his head. 

he corners you gently one morning, coffee in hand, eyes narrowed. “you’ve been skipping breakfast. why?” 

when you tell him, he scoffs, not out of cruelty, but in disbelief. 

“liebe, you think i’d want a half-starved girlfriend who can’t even keep up with me?” 

pulls you into his lap like you weigh nothing and holds you tightly. 

“your body is not the problem. the world is. but i won’t let it break you.” 

he offers to cook for you… badly. burns the eggs. you eat anyway because it’s the first time he looks genuinely nervous. 

karasu tabito

karasu jokes about everything. until he notices. 

your portion sizes get smaller and smaller. you laugh it off, but he knows what you’re doing. 

“don’t think i haven’t noticed you playing peek-a-boo with your dinner,” he says one evening, tone unusually calm. 

when you avoid eye contact, his grin fades. “you don’t have to punish yourself to be worthy of love.” 

he stays beside you all night, making dumb jokes and bad impressions until you eat a full bowl of ramen. 

“look, if i wanted someone with a model’s diet, i wouldn’t be with you. i like you. don’t disappear on me.” 

shidou ryusei

“wtf do you mean you’re skipping meals? are you dumb?” 

not the most tactful, but extremely concerned. 

he throws a protein bar at your head like that’s gonna fix it. it doesn’t. 

when he realizes it’s more emotional than physical, he softens (slightly). 

“hey,” he says, dragging you to sit on his lap, “i like you the way you are. actually, i like you a lot. and you starving yourself makes my stomach hurt.” 

gets real pouty and starts threatening to eat your meals if you won’t. 

“seriously. don’t hurt yourself. you’re already hot, don’t mess that up.” 

itoshi sae

he’s not oblivious. he’s just observant in silence. 

you say “i’m not hungry” and “i already ate,” and he doesn’t question it, at first. 

but when he notices your mood swings, tiredness, and the way your clothes are suddenly loose… he connects the dots. 

“you think this is healthy?” he asks, monotone, holding your untouched lunch. 

you try to play it off, but his jaw clenches. not out of anger, out of helplessness. 

“you think i’d love you more if you were skinnier? you think any version of you could be more perfect than the one i already have?” 

sits down beside you, long fingers brushing yours, eyes dead serious. 

“don’t do this to yourself. you’re already everything. everything.” 

then quietly adds, “and if anyone ever made you feel like you’re not… i hope they rot.” 

ness alexis

at first he believes you when you say you’ve already eaten. he doesn’t want to accuse you of anything. 

but then you start avoiding meals every single day, and his anxiety kicks in. 

“you’re lying,” he says one day, softly, smile still on his face, but his eyes look hurt. “you didn’t eat. again.” 

you break and admit it, and he just pulls you into a long hug, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“you don’t need to change yourself to be loved. not by me. not ever.” 

he doesn’t cry, but his voice wavers. “please don’t treat yourself like you’re not worth feeding.” 

starts preparing elaborate little meals for you, packed with love and bright colors and notes that say “you are beautiful. i mean it.” 

still smiling, still gentle, but if anyone ever made you feel this way, his rage is quiet, sharp, and dangerous. 

niko ikki

niko notices the moment your lunchboxes get smaller. he’s quiet about it at first, hoping it’s just a one-time thing. 

but it becomes a pattern, and niko, sweet anxious baby niko, starts worrying like crazy. 

“did someone say something to you?” 

he thinks you’re beautiful in every way, and he stumbles over his words trying to say so. 

“y-you know, i think… i think you’re amazing. and, um, you don’t have to change anything. not for me. not for anyone.” 

makes you small, healthy meals with cute animal toothpicks and carefully portioned sides. 

the way his eyes light up when you eat just a little, it’s all the reassurance you didn’t know you needed. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠���

[nikkento-writes]

Guess

Summary: You’ve got the most horrible roommate imaginable. The worst part of it all: he’s incredibly fucking hot. When you find out he’s stealing your dirty underwear, you decide to get back at him the best way you know how.  

Word Count: ~2.6k

cw: explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, mutual masturbation, underwear stealing, panty kink

Author's Note: In honor of brat summer approaching, I’ve written a little piece inspired by the song Guess by Charli xcx (ft. Billie Eilish of course). This song has always seemed so Toji-coded to me. I hope you enjoy! Divider credit to @/cafekitsune.

To say that you’re not the biggest fan of your roommate is the understatement of the century. The disdain and contempt you have for Toji Fushiguro isn’t without reason, though. Since you moved in about two months ago, he’s been nothing but the epitome of a bad roommate. He’s messy, never cleans up after himself, eats your food without asking, disrespects your boundaries. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, used take-out containers on the counter until you can’t take it anymore and have to throw it out yourself. Groceries you’ve allocated for yourself always mysteriously disappear into his protein smoothie or post-workout meal. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s “accidentally” walked in on you naked in the bathroom after a shower. His apology is always a lazy, “Oops, sorry”, his gaze lingering way longer than it should. He was a walking red flag since the beginning. If the rent wasn’t so cheap and the location so close to your work, you’d have been out of there after the first week. 

It also doesn’t help that you’re stupidly attracted to him.   

Call it carnal attraction or whatever, but no matter how fucking irate he makes you, you can’t help fantasizing being trapped beneath his massive pecs, bulging biceps surrounding you, kissing and licking him all over that delicious scar across the right corner of his lips. You know he has a big dick; you haven’t seen it for yourself, but you’ve peeked at the outline of it through those grey sweats he always wears, parading it around for everybody to admire. He’s brought women home before, railing them in his bedroom across the hall, their moans always so excessive and wanton that even the max volume on your noise-cancelling headphones isn’t enough to drown them out. Another goddamn reason he annoys you beyond wit’s end, even if you do imagine yourself being on the receiving end, getting pounded by that huge cock of his. Screaming  “Fuck me Toji!” over and over again into his pillow until it’s wet with your spit. 

Ugh, what a fucking prick. 

It finally crosses the line though. You start noticing it two weeks ago when you were folding laundry. A few pairs of missing underwear. At the time, you chalked it up to the washing machine eating them to never be found again. It happens, nothing too concerning to worry about. But when you clock that it’s always a certain pair, something skimpy, something silky, something tiny, like the thongs you typically wear on a date, then you start to suspect something more nefarious. In this case, someone.

You decide to test it out by laying out a trap, a small piece of cheese to lure the rat. In this case, it’s panties, the lacey black pair with the little bows. You suspect the worst, that your disgraceful and frustratingly hot roommate is totally sneaking into your room to steal your worn garments. Part of you still gives him the benefit of the doubt, a very tiny, miniscule part of you. But of course, it’s just as bad as you think. Because when you come home, it’s completely gone from the top of your hamper. Despite the evidence being clear as day, you can’t fully believe it. This sick fuck is actually taking your dirty underwear! 

When he leaves for the gym, your body reacts before your brain can tell you to stop. If this motherfucker is sneaking into your room to take your things, then you have every right to sneak into his room to take it right back. You march straight for his bedroom and search the first place you think he’d be hiding this filthy secret of his: the bedside drawer. And lo and behold, it’s there in all its perverted glory. Five pairs all bunched up next to a half-empty bottle of lube and an obscene sex toy. Real classy. 

In theory, you should be disgusted, absolutely appalled by this abhorrent discovery. And you are, you absolutely are. It’s right there, your dirty underwear further defiled by whatever vile acts he’s committed with it. It’s awful, totally repugnant and revolting and sleazy. Straight up nasty. You imagine him laid out on this bed, your hot pink thongs between his fingers as he strokes his throbbing cock in his fist, precum dribbling out of the tip. Or your silk piece stuffed inside his mouth as he fucks his fleshlight so hard that its fake pussy lips rip at the seams. Perhaps all he does with it is sniff it, inhale your womanhood through his nostrils so deeply that he can almost taste your pussy. And maybe he does just that, running your lacey panties across his tongue, salivating at how delicious you are in his mouth. 

Oh no, oh god no. This is bad, this is so so bad. You’re not disgusted by this at all. In fact, you’re aroused. You’re wet just thinking about him getting off to your panties, his brows furrowed tight, sweat beading off his forehead as he jerks himself into oblivion. And if he’s allowed to have this much fun with it, why can’t you?

By the time he returns from the gym, you’ve already washed the evidence and have it back in your possession. You confront him after his shower, knocking lightly on his door dressed in a nightgown that’s a little too short on you. He opens it, sporting a tight white tee and an even tighter pair of briefs, scrubbing a towel over his damp hair as if he isn’t casually looking like a Calvin Klein model. “What do you want?” His tone is blunt as usual, expression indifferent, though his eyes take a quick scan of you up and down in the attire you’re wearing.

You swallow your nerves, smiling politely at him. “I just wanted to ask you something. Can you come to my room?”

There’s a tinge of confusion when his brow raises ever-so-slightly at you. This never happens; the two of you tend to avoid each other at all costs. He’s never been invited to your room before. Still, he follows you down the hall, not questioning it. You lead him inside, not bothering to shut the door closed. Pointing at the floor, you tell him, “Please sit.”

He glares at you. “Excuse me?” 

“I think you’ll want to be seated for this,” you respond, unbothered. 

“What the fuck are you – ”

“I found my underwear in your room.”

He gawks at you, then quickly gathers himself to deny it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really? Seems like you know exactly what I’m talking about. It was all there, right next to your lube and fleshlight.”

This shuts him up. Taking a deep breath, he steps towards you, pointing an accusing finger. “You had no right to sneak into my room.”

You do the same, shortening the distance between you. “You had no right to sneak into my room and steal my dirty underwear, you fucking freak.”

“You have no proof,” he challenges you.

“The proof is right here, asshole.” You point to your bedside drawer, where the evidence lies hidden from view. “I have reason to report you to the police.”

He crosses his arms over his big chest, his nipples peaked through the fabric. “Then fucking do it. See if I care.”

The tension is so heavy between you, it’s taking everything to resist yourself from pouncing on him. You give him a smirk, feeling confidence you’ve never felt before. “Not yet. Doesn’t seem fair that you got to have all this fun in my expense. I want to play a little game with you first.”

He snarls at you. “What the fuck are you on about?”

You sit down at the edge of your bed, the hem of your nightgown riding up your thighs as you cross one leg over the other. “Out of all the ones you’ve taken from me, I want you to guess which pair of underwear I’m wearing right now.” You fold your hands over your lap. “And no cheating.”

At first, he’s perplexed by this proposition, unsure if this is real or if it’s just some trap he’s destined to fall for again. Then, he gulps loudly, asking, “What happens if I guess right?”

You grin at him. “I’ll let you fuck me.”

He licks his lip, erection growing in his briefs. “And if I’m wrong?”

“You’ll have to watch me play with myself. And get these panties dirty all over again.”

He can’t help himself from swearing under his breath. “Sounds like a win-win situation.”

You chuckle. “Trust me, I think you’re a loser either way.”  Scooting farther back onto the bed, making sure to pull down the hem of your gown to hide yourself, you ask, “So…what’s your guess?”

You’re fully aware of how ridiculous this “game” is. Toji is completely right; it’s a win-win situation. If he’s right, he’ll fuck your brains out. If he’s wrong, you get to torment him by spreading your legs while he watches, wishing he could fuck you. And to be quite honest, you’re hoping he’s wrong. To see him on his knees, groveling, begging for a touch, a taste. It’s a sight you want to engrave in your memory. You realize in this moment that you’re just as much of a freak as he is, finding pleasure out of this fucked up situation.

Toji studies you carefully, trying to see if he can get a glimpse of an outline, shape, or color. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s familiar with the panties he stole from you. You haven’t accused him yet of specifics, but he can guarantee that whatever your suspicions are, they’re absolutely right. He’s sullied them in all the ways he can think of. But this is something he never dreamed could actually come true. First and foremost, you absolutely despise him, for good reason. Even he can admit to himself that he’s a terrible roommate. He knew he’d eventually get caught, he wasn’t exactly being discrete about it. It was always there, your bedroom door wide open, waiting to be snatched up. In his fucked-up mind, he saw it as an invitation. You were too dumb to notice it before, but he always figured you’d catch on. His secret would be exposed, get the cops called on him, maybe get a smack in the face or restraining order, no big deal. But this right here is an outcome straight from his wet dreams. You in front of him, on the verge of spreading yourself open upon finding out the truth, wantingto be fucked. Being a complete degenerate has finally paid off for Toji. 

After what seems like hours of him contemplating, you clear your throat to regain his attention. “Final answer?”

He’s got a one and five shot of getting it. There’s no way he can tell what you’re actually wearing, no matter how hard he tries to manifest x-ray vision. So, he makes an educated guess based on his own personal favorite of the bunch. It’s a tough choice to make, considering he likes them all. The silk ones were the first he stole from you. It feels so good on his cock, smooth and luscious on his skin. The cheeky pair is fun because he imagines you parading around in it, your ass bubbly and bouncy as he pictures himself admiring each cheek with a hard slap. Despite all the options, there’s still one that reigns supreme in his head. “The pink thongs,” he finally answers. 

The pervert likes the ones with the least fabric, big shocker. You mimic a wrong buzzer sound, shaking your head at him. “Nope, you lose.” Lifting the hem of your dress up, you reveal the lacey black underwear, the one you caught him with. “Guess you’ll just have to watch.”

He sucks air through his teeth, breathing out, “Fuck.” His hand hovers over his briefs, palming his boner. “You’re a fucking slut, aren’t you?”

You slip your hand beneath the fabric, middle finger circling your already aching clit. “Takes one to know one.”

It surprises you when he actually does get down on his knees, getting as close to you as possible without making contact, rubbing himself faster. “You gonna make a mess for me?”

“Only if you do it first.” You gaze at his hand, obscuring the cock you’ve been dying to see for yourself. “Show me how big you are.”

“Fuck,” he swears again, shrugging his briefs down his thighs. His cock is sprung against his abdomen, bigger than you imagined. The tip leaks with precum, veins prominent on the shaft, his balls hung heavy. Your brain turns to mush as touch yourself, thinking about how good he’d feel completely unsheathed inside you. 

“Am I big enough for you?” he grunts, stroking himself with a tight fist, his forearm flexed.

You nod, spreading yourself wider, your wetness starting to seep through the lace. “Even bigger.”

“You think about this cock?” He massages his balls in his other hand, saliva practically drooling out the corners of his lips. “Fuck yourself to it?”

“All the time,” you tell him, dipping your finger in your wet cunt, smearing arousal on your clit. 

He laughs, his voice getting huskier the closer he gets to his limit. “I bet you do. Smelled it all over your panties. Tasted it.”

Asshole. An absolute deviant. Depraved and disgusting human being. It’s all so fucking filthy and you like it. You’re getting off to it. It drives you crazy when he admits it, the mere thought of your dirty underwear in his mouth. His debaucherous nature has clearly rubbed off on you, and at this point, you’re too far gone to ever go back to normal. Hell, the two of you aren’t even touching each other and this is still some of the hottest sex you’ve ever had. Some of your guilt for being equally as weird as him is absolved by the fact that you’re not crossing that line of actually fucking one another. Not yet at least. For now, you can live with that. 

You jerk against your hand, needing to feel more. Toji groans, “Are you close?” 

Unable to verbalize your response, you nod, bucking your hips faster. 

“Show me,” he demands. “Show me how wet that pussy is.”

You hook your finger on the crotch of the panty, revealing yourself to him, cunt shiny and glistening. All of it for Toji. 

This does it. He curses, lifting his shirt up, wrist working overtime as he orgasms on himself, cum shooting out onto his chiseled six-pack. It’s enough to push you over the edge; you rub yourself through it until your panties are soaked.

He relaxes, pulling his briefs back on slowly, using the hem of his shirt to wipe himself off. You watch him as he stands up, staring at you still on display for him. You smile, removing your hand from the mess you made, fiddling with the waistband. “Want a consolation prize?”

He scoffs, trying to contain his excitement at this unexpected offer. “Are you serious?”

You shrug as you slide the panties off, tossing it over to him to catch. “Yeah. It’s pretty hot knowing you get off to this kind of shit.”

Toji plays it cool, walking away with them in his hands and leaving with a quiet, “Goodnight.” An hour later, he’s sucking on the fabric saturated with his saliva and your cum as he fucks his fleshlight, desperately wishing it was you.

[theofthevalley]

Could we have a Lil blurb on Telemachus x princess reader who's literally so shy she doesn't speak. Like she's basically mute ? 💛💛

“The Sound of Your Voice.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Telemachus Headcanon’s with Shy Princess!Reader (Arranged Marriage)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ You were a princess of one of the Greek lands. And your family had come to Ithaca to arrange a marriage for you with the prince of Ithaca, Telemachus. The sole reason was that you wouldn’t talk to any of your suitors, rejecting every single one of them as they had tried to force you to speak. You were just…shy, some people would even say mute. The people of your kingdom would barely ever hear your voice; the only people who witnessed that were your parents.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ So when you heard the news of an arranged marriage, you couldn’t help but feel upset at your parents' orders. It was like you didn’t even have a say in it! It was true to an extent; you wouldn't dare speak against your parents, but in your head, you were. And so, you finally met the prince with whom you were to be wed. Prince Telemachus was handsome, sweet-looking, and he was even kind when he greeted you.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ More importantly, he was understanding. He openly whispered to you that he could tell I didn't want this whatsoever, and that he doesn't take offense to it. You nod your head at him, and then he blinks at you. You didn't introduce yourself to him, now that he thinks about it, it seems like you didn't talk to his parents at all either.

“Are you…mute? Wait, that must sound rude!”

You shake your head at him and giggle at how he immediately tries to apologize for asking. You weren’t mute, not at all. In fact, your parents say you rant too much. It’s just that you only speak if you’re comfortable with someone. It was tempting to speak to him, but he would have to wait a little more.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ He was the one who showed you around the palace, stating that if you were to be wed to him that the least he could do is show his future wife around the place. You raised your eyebrow at his statement. He’s quite optimistic about this for someone who claimed he didn’t want this either. He was probably just being polite!

⇢ ˗ˏˋ After you were wed to Telemachus, he’s learned to get used to your silence. Your whole relationship seemed to be him being the one yapping away about some dramatic story he had to tell you. He was currently telling you about the story of how he got scammed in town the other day. As usual, it was silent as he talked, and you simply nodded in agreement at certain parts. That is, until you suddenly spoke, the comment spilling from your lips by accident.

“I love your voice.”

He shot up in surprise at the suddenness of your voice. It’s only been a week since you’ve been wed. A week of silence, and now you finally speak to him! He was cheering with joy.

“You spoke to me!! You can actually speak!…”

“Yes, I can speak. Look? I’m speaking again, happy?”

“I’m very happy! Thank you very much!”

You rolled your eyes at him but smiled. He was being silly, of course you could talk. You didn’t talk to him before because you barely knew him. So now that your comfortable and enjoy his company you decided it would be nice to have an actual conversation with him.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Ever since that day, he’s made it his goal to get you to speak to him even more. Trying to draw out your words to the point of you ranting at him. He was a bit frustrating when he wanted to be. A bit annoying, though, but you started to genuinely fall in love with him. This arrangement wasn’t so bad after all, it seemed.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Advertisement: Hey you! Yeah you, the person who read this whole thing, do you like Telemachus? Well this blog is THE place for Telemachus fanfiction. Check my bio if I have requests open and my rules.

A/N: Thank you Anon for the request! Here’s your little blurb as requested!! I think this is a neat little thing, so I hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 630 words

[lucy-literates]

I’m baaaack with another request 🩵🙏🏾

Arthur gets a female race engineer who is great at all the technical info, she knows her stuff and is very good at her job. But also she starts flirting with him on the radio, never at points where it could seriously affect his race but often enough that people start to notice. He doesn’t react or respond to it and everyone thinks it’s because he’s not interested but really it’s because he is trying not to blush under his helmet and his brain is suddenly void of any witty responses (& on certain occasions, he may be focusing on not getting hard in his race suit…). At some point she is pulled up by the higher ups and told to stop flirting with their driver and since she is getting zero response from Arthur she stops because the last thing she wants to do is make him uncomfortable. And he misses it. More than he should.

Maybe he sees her flirting with someone else, I don’t know?

So he somehow has to muster up the courage to tell her that he would really like it if she would start flirting with him again and yeah I don’t know how it would end but I’m sure you can come up with something. Thank youuuuuu!!

Shy

A/N: Ahhhh thank you for another requests, I had a little laugh when I thought about how this could go. I based off of Prema, so we could get as much driving as possible. Enjoy!

Requests are open.

Arthur’s current race engineer had been asked to join Ferrari in Formula 1, which meant that needed a new engineer. He was expecting to meet some guy in his late 20’s/early 30’s.

He was sitting in a meeting room, waiting. The team principle and walked in with a girl, on the younger side. She might have been early to mid 20’s, and she was pretty. Arthur’s breathing became nervous and shallow.

He thought she must be related to the team principle, only for the principle to say “Arthur, this is Y/N. She is your new race engineer”

Arthur had to fight the urge to let his jaw drop.

You?

His new engineer?

He was dreaming.

“Earth to Arthur?”

He snapped back to reality, seeing the concerned look on your face.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N” he stood to shake your hand. You leaned over and shook it, “I think we’re going to have a great year Arthur” you said with all the confidence you could muster.

He was cute, like painfully so. His fluffy hair, chiseled cheeks, and sharp jaw were stunning. He looked like he radiated warmth and comfort.

You both agreed on a day to start testing and bid each other goodbye.

You arrived at the track earlier than you needed to. You spent your time familiarising yourself with the garage and the new technology around you. Little did you know, Arthur also likes to show up early and take a walk around the track to center himself and prepare for the day.

Your music was blasting through your earbuds as you took it all in. A tap on your shoulder made you jump through the roof.

You turned to find an amused Arthur, asking you were ok and why you were at the garage so early.

After talking together for an hour, the rest of the team showed up and got everything prepared for the day.

"Radio check. Permission to flirt over airways?" you call once he's out and ready.. You heard Arthur give a small chuckle "Radio check, loud and clear" he responded, ignoring your flirt.

He continued to race around the track you watched his tires and asked "Tire deg check — still holding steady, or starting to feel the heat like I am?"

"Tires are good" he responds curtly, making you chuckle.

That is how every practice, quali, and race goes. You flirt, he responds in silence. Outside of the car, the relationship dynamic was smooth. You throw a flirty line his way and he was respond with a cheeky quip, but it changed when he was in the car.

You didn't know why

He did.

When he is racing around the track at 250km an hour, his heart is beating faster every time you flirt with him. He blushes, and all train of thought goes out the window. Heaven forbid he also has to stop himself from getting hard in his race suit, because it would definitely be noticeable when he got out of the car.

You made it halfway through the season when, just before FP1, the higher up's requested your presence. You quickly ducked into the makeshift office to meet them.

"We see that you have been flirting with Arthur over the radio. He doesn't acknowledge that you do. We think you need to stop, it is clear that his silence is evidence of discomfort"

Your heart sinks in your chest. If you knew he was uncomfortable, you wouldn't have done it. He seemed to enjoy that attention outside the car. You thanked the bosses and headed back to the garage. You put on your headset just as Arthur goes out.

"Radio check" you state

"Copy, loud and clear" he replies

"Copy that" you finish off.

You turn to speak to an engineer when you hear Arthur's voice come through the radio "Are you ok?"

"I'm good. Are you ok?"

"I think I'm losing my hearing" he jokes "I didn't hear a cheeky comment in the radio check

You chuckle to yourself, then reply "There wasn't one, I was asked to stop because it makes you uncomfortable."

Athur is silent for a moment, then says "We'll talk after this"

You continue to watch him race around the track for another hour before telling him to retire the car and get ready to head home. He caught you just as you were leaving the garage, "We need to talk."

He pulls you to a quiet spot outside.

"I like the flirty jokes. I like them every time. When I'm not in the car, I have less to think about, so I can respond well. When I'm in the car, I feel flustered and I'm thinking about so many other things, I can't come up with anything" he explains.

You nod, thanking him for explaining, and idea forming in your head. "Arthur, would you be able to drop me home today please?"

He nods, "Sure"

Arthur pulled up to the sidewalk in front of your place, and you just sat there and said, "What would you do if I said I didn't want to get out of the car yet?"

Arthur turned to look at you, his hand still on the steering wheel, knuckles white. His eyes searched yours, hesitant, almost afraid to misread the moment.

“I’d say…” he began slowly, voice lower than usual, “that I was hoping you’d say that.”

You smiled, nerves bubbling up in your stomach. “So, you’re not going to report me to the FIA for emotional interference on track?”

He chuckled, finally letting his shoulders relax. “You’re more of a performance enhancer, actually. Bit unfair to the other drivers.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—charged.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips, and you knew he saw. You could feel the tension shift, crackling like electricity in the quiet car.

“I’m serious though,” you said, voice softer now. “I like this… whatever this is. I wasn’t just messing around.”

Arthur gave you that little side smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle and your heart skip. “I know. I wasn’t just ignoring you. I was trying not to crash… and maybe trying not to make a complete fool of myself.”

“You wouldn’t,” you murmured.

He leaned in just a little. “But I might right now,” he whispered.

You didn’t stop him.

And he kissed you—soft, tentative, and completely worth the wait.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, he grinned. “Radio check… Permission to kiss you again?”

You smiled. “Loud and clear.”

[miaoua3]

Hello sissy Ana, See, I've something in mind and I want to see how would you make it. I've been imagining on how Seventeen members would propose to their S/O? Would it be romantic? Or chaotic? Or anything?

(I'm picturing in my mind that Hoshi will propose at the zoo in front of the tigers😭😭 I don't know why but I think he would do it😭😭)

Anyways, I'm willing to wait. Take your time.

😭im gonna assume that english is not your first language because the word “sissy” DEFINITELY doesn’t mean sister like you probably thought it did (i mean it can mean sister but that’s not the primary meaning, the primary meaning is actually kinda BAD). dw im not mad or anything, im just telling you so you can know for the future🩵

english lessons aside-ofc i can! hope you enjoy this!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

SVT- How Would They Propose?

scoups-rents out the whole rooftop restaurant, roses and candles scattered everywhere. tries his hardest to make it as romantic as possible, but he’s so so nervous, he’s not acting like himself the entire night. forks are dropped, forehead is sweaty, he almost drops the ring from his pocket as well😭 but eventually, he brings you to the balcony, using the excuse “i heard the view here is beautiful” just so he can kneel behind you while you are looking at the city from above. stutters all over his words, and is so emotionally overwhelmed with the feeling of love that he starts crying halfway through. in the end it’s just you two kneeling in front of each other, holding onto each other as you both cry

jeonghan-simple, kind of unplanned but so on brand for him. you two are just having a regular breakfast, sitting across from each other in your kitchen, softly talking to each other about anything and nothing. jeonghan gets up for a moment to go to your room, and when he gets back and sits down in his chair, he takes your hand. softly kisses the back of it before he gently puts the ring on your ring finger. he looks at you with adoration as you’re staring at your hand with shock, trying his hardest not to laugh at your expression. and like it’s the easiest thing ever, he just asks “marry me?” pulls you onto his lap the moment you start crying, softly shushing you and lightly teasing you for crying in the true jeonghan fashion

joshua-at the beach on the day of your anniversary. you weren’t even expecting it because joshua by nature is a very romantic man, always doing the most insanely romantic things just for the sake of showing you that he loves you. the day is perfect-sunny, warm and wholly spent with the love of your life. you two spend the whole day at the beach, eating, laying around, chasing each other playfully, trying to push each other in the water. as the sun starts to set, he asks you to just walk down the beach a bit. suddenly stops you so he can gently kiss you before he gets down on his knee. his eyes…god, his eyes are so big and filled with love, it immediately causes you to cry. has a whole speech remembered but in the end still freestyles a bit. immediately jumps up when you say yes, kissing you breathlessly the moment his hands grab your cheeks

jun-tries to incorporate your children (cats) in it. you noticed him acting a bit strange the whole week, but never gave it too much thought. you spend your saturday night like any other-you two went on a little dinner, got some ice cream before you two came back home. he asks you to stand right beside the balcony, before he disappears. when he reappears, he has your son in his hand, smiling nervously at you. tells you call your cat over to you. although you find it a bit strange, you do it. once your cat gets to you, you see something tied around his neck. jun slowly walks over to you, impatiently waiting for you to get it. once you notice it’s a ring, he wordlessly takes the ring from your hand and gets down on one knee. the words are messy in the true jun nature, but they are honest, and authentically him. he sighs in relief the moment you throw yourself in his arms and cry out a yes

hoshi-randomly blurts it out in the middle of a regular date. you two are just strolling around after a fun day full of fun activities. breakfast at your favourite bakery where you jokingly fed him as if he were a baby, then a zoo where he absolutely lost his shit when he saw a tiger, then the arcade where you cleaned the floor with him, then a quick lunch. now, you two are just walking around, talking about some stupid and insignificant topic but still having so much fun because it’s you two, spending time together. hoshi was telling some stupid joke and you absolutely lost it, throwing your head back as you laughed in the middle of the park. and you looked so beautiful, so happy, hoshi could only think about one thing-the weight of the ring he has been carrying with himself for weeks. he just stopped, looking at you seriously before he just said “marry me.” you didn’t have to think twice before you just smiled gently at him and responded with a ‘yes’

wonwoo-on your balcony in the middle of the night while you two are stargazing. it was a bit chilly considering it was 3 in the morning, but it was okay because your back was pressed into wonu’s strong chest, his arms wrapped around you with a blanket thrown over them, keeping you warm from the cold wind. you two are mostly silent, and if you do say something, it’s very quiet, almost like you two are afraid that anything louder would break the peace you two have created. wonu is thinking his words over, unsure why the urge to propose to you is so strong. but he has been preparing everything for your proposal for weeks now, the date only a week away. and yet…something felt off about it. it suddenly hit him once you deeply sighed and relaxed into his arms, head nuzzling under his chin. it doesn’t have to be planned, it doesn’t have to be perfect-it just has to be intimate. and so , he softly kisses your cheek before he calls you “baby?” you only hum in response. he then softly asks you “marry me? please?”

woozi-he doesn’t even ask, he just puts a ring and the implication is clear. although many think him to be very emotionally closed off, jihoon is never like that with you. you have opened all the doors and windows to his heart, making him to be the man that he is today. but still, something about the idea of proposal gets him all…chocked up. almost shy. he doesn’t know why, but he knows he won’t have enough courage to directly ask you. and so, on a night of your birthday while you two are in his studio, eating take out, he has a present for you. he wordlessly grabs your hand and puts the ring on your finger, shyly looking down as you admire it. you ask him “what does this mean?” after a second he quietly says “it means exactly what you think it does.” as you stare at the ring, quietly sniffling, he blushingly asks you “so…is that a yes?” he only sighs in relief once you get up to kiss him, hands shaking as he holds your face

minghao-on new years eve when he took you to china to visit his home. spending a whole week with his family was so nice, but seeing the country with the love of your life-the country where he was born and raised, the country that made him to be the man that he is today, was even better. you saw so many new places, experienced so many new things, ate so many new foods. and all with hao by your side. on new years eve, you went to the city with his family, all just walking around, surrounded by so many people it was incredible. but before the midnight, you two parted ways with his family, hao claiming he had something to show you. he took you to the hill he used to call his secret place. the place was beautiful-overlooking the whole city that was currently lit up by thousands of lights. you two distinctly hear people count down from 60, and as they did, hao started speaking. telling about how you changed his life, how you are the first and only thing he looks for the moment he opens his eye in the morning. by the time people get to 10, he’s on his knee, breath shaky as he asks you “would you make me the happiest man and marry me?”

mingyu-in the early hours of the morning, while you two have spent the whole night together, naked under the sheets. the sun was peaking from behind the curtains, still very dark outside despite the early morning arising. you two are laying on your sides, mingyu’s big hand gently caressing your cheek, eyes full of love as he’s looking at you. you two have spent the entire night together, first making love to each other, and then just…talking, like you used to at the beginning of your relationship. reminiscing about the old times, talking about everything and nothing, talking about the good and the bad. it was all so…easy, doing it with you. in that moment, mingyu was sure. as you two laid there for a few minutes, smiling at each other, mingyu took the chance, thought to himself “to hell with it” and gently asked you “what do you think…about marrying me? please?”

dk-at the park where he first met you. he knew he wanted to marry you from the very first time he met you, but waited a few years because you said you wanted to wait a bit before jumping to the whole marriage thing. but the moment your 3rd anniversary arrived, he started planning. he knew exactly how and where and why. on the bench where he took a photo of you, where he saw you looking beautiful and ethereal, that’s where he was going to do it. the bench was in a beautiful spot too, overlooking a river, hidden a bit from the public, surrounded by beautiful cherry trees. he was so so nervous, but so so sure, getting down on one knee ended up being one of the easiest things he ever had to do. his hands were shaking, words were messy, and his smile was so so bright as he opened the little box and asked you “will you marry me?”

seungkwan-angrily rants to you after a fight. it was all so stupid-the fight was stupid, how the fight started was stupid, he was stupid and so were you. he loved you, really to the moon and back, but god if you didn’t piss him off. but the fight…it lasted longer than usual. usually, you two would make up the same day. but then you two went to sleep, still angry at each other. and were still angry the next morning. but then he didn’t hear from you the entire day while he was still at work. nothing-no message, no angry phone call, nothing. and the thought made him want to vomit. so, when he came home, he angrily marched to you, still just as angry as yesterday when he started ranting at you “you. you are such a pain in my ass most of time. you can be so selfish and so arrogant. the way you didn’t even care to say sorry, the way you let us go to sleep while still angry-even when we said we would never do that! you can be so fucking mean, it’s actually ridiculous! you are a pain, you are annoying, and…and you are the love of my life. i would rather die than have to live without you. this day has been a hell for me-not knowing what you were doing, not hearing your voice the entire day, not hearing you say that you love me-it made me want to vomit. i don’t ever want to ho through this again. but knowing us, we will. but goddamn it, i want you to know i will never stop fighting for us. i will always choose you, in every life time. you are my whole life, my entire universe. and so…would you want to fight with me for the rest of our lives? will you marry me, you absolute insane but beautiful idiot?”

vernon-spoils the whole plan by accidentally messaging you instead of his sister. the plan was in motion-the place was picked, the tickets were booked, the photographer was paid, everything was set. except for one thing-the ring. he never knew what size to order, and he also needed help with what design to pick. so imagine your surprise when you open your messages only to see a photo of ring sizing along with a text message that read “next ill need help on what design i should pick, you know i suck at things like that, soph. but first explain to me how on earth i measure her finger without her knowing?” when you screamed his name, he quickly came running, only to see your shocked face and your open messages. his messages. messages definitely not meant for you, but for his sister. he just closes his eyes and sigh, cursing himself for his stupidity. well. since the cat was out of the back. he doesn’t waste any more time-to hell with booked plain tickets and all-he just wants you to make you his forever already, wants to see you walk down the aisle as fast as possible. it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a ring, or that he was only in his boxers and that you were only in his shirt-it was so on brand for you guys that you had no choice but to say yes

dino-books a trip to paris and proposes under the eiffel tower. chan was a romantic at heart-he loved you so much and so hard, he was ready to just give you the world already. and what better place to propose at than at the city of love? the whole week was so wonderful-it was clear that he spent so much on this trip. everything that you ever dreamed of seeing, he got you. and he was so sweet, the entire week, you felt the proposal coming from a mile away. it wasn’t that he wasn’t good at keeping secrets-because he was. it was just that he was so easy to read, you knew what was happening the moment he suggested you do your nails before the trip. and so, when he got down on one knee, you thought that because you expected it, that you wouldn’t be crying. but then, he started crying softly while saying the words “i want to spend the rest of my life with you” and it was over for you. the moment you jumped in his arms as you sobbed, chan knew he never made a better decision than this one

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[5:09 pm]

(cw: f!reader, hurt dog, vague description of a snake bite)

tagged! @severeanxietyissues

There weren't very many days when the guys of Nu Chi Theta just relaxed however they wanted. No partying, no hosting people, just enjoying the warm sun and the fresh breeze. Fratboy!Taeyong sat back in a lawn chain in the front yard, feeling more relaxed than he had all week. He had all his assignments turned in, he was ahead on his homework, and his brothers were quiet. If he opened his eyes, he'd find a few of them in the yard with him or around the house, finding things to keep themselves busy and quiet. Johnny and Jaehyun were grilling for dinner out back, Jungwoo and Doyoung were inside baking some kind of dessert, and Taeyong really couldn't bring himself to care about anything beside food right now. This was his new version of paradise.

Paradise that was interrupted by someone shouting, hurried footsteps, and barking. He pried his eyes open just in time to catch a blur of brown and black fur and someone in an all blue outfit chasing after the blur. Right into the backyard.

The brothers sitting around him all sat up, looking confused, but only Taeyong sat up and decided to follow. He jogged right past Johnny and Jaehyun, who was standing frozen with tongs in his hand and staring right into the far corner of the yard. Where you and a dog were.

Taeyong approached slowly, listening to your soft coos as you kneeled to the right of the dog a few feet away with your head downcast as you spoke, "hey baby, hi. You're okay now. I'm not here to hurt you."

Your eyes snapped up to Taeyong, your voice still calm but firm, "he's scared, approach from the side and keep your eyes down."

Taeyong didn't argue and followed your instructions without question. It was quiet, save for the quiet panting and whining of the dog. Occasionally, the scared dog would growl or bare his teeth, but you weren't deterred. "What happened to him?" He asks you softly.

"I saw him limping around campus and his paw looks infected. I tried to approach him, but I scared him instead," you explain lowly.

Taeyong nods, "poor guy."

The two of you sit side by side for a while, calmly and quietly making small talk while you both give the dog time to relax and come to you. Taeyong learns that you're in your final year of an undergrad veterinary program and that you love animals. You tell him all about the pets you have at home and the animals you've helped save through your internship at a local clinic. He finds that the excited twinkle in your eyes when you talk about animals has his heart racing, just a little bit.

The dog inches forward slowly, sniffing around the two of you before he whines and lays his head in your lap, clearly tired from running and his stress. "Such a good boy," you coo, petting behind the dog's ears.

Taeyong holds his hand out for the dog to sniff and smiles when he feels the wet tongue on his skin. "Hey, I'm Taeyong by the way. This is my frat house," he introduces himself with a shy smile.

"Nice to meet you Taeyong," you smile as you shake his hand, "my friends call me Bug."

Carefully, you lift the dog into your arms and begin walking back toward the open gate. Taeyong stops beside Johnny and snags a few pieces of meat for the dog. The dog snaps it up happily, his tail wagging in your arms as you laugh and smooth a hand over his fur.

Taeyong takes a look at you and the dog, feeling his heart skip a beat at the sight of you smiling at the dog sweetly and the happy dog in your arms. His eyes catch on your shirt and his eyes widen in panic, "oh my god! Are you alright? Is the dog fine? Why is there blood?!"

"Huh?" You ask, looking down at yourself in confusion before your eyes crinkle up in a smile, "oh! Yeah, we're good!"

Johnny coughs, eyeing you warily, "do mind giving an explanation for the blood on your shirt, please?"

You giggle in what Taeyong can only assume is excitement, which he didn't think anyone would feel when talking about a bloodied piece of clothes. Your eyes are shining with elation, "I helped birth a set of twin calves earlier!"

Taeyong feels his heart soar. You love animals, you're pretty, you're kindhearted, and you have the cutest giggle he's ever heard? He might go out and buy a ring right now.

"Just uh, willy nilly?" Jaehyun asks as he feeds the dog some more of the meat.

"Oh no, silly!" You laugh again. Taeyong finds himself smiling unconsciously at the sound as you continue, "one of the vets at my clinic got called out to a farm for an emergency delivery and I tagged along. It was totally awesome!"

Johnny and Jaehyun's eyes dart over to Taeyong, looking at the look of pure wonder on the frat president's face as he looks at you. They both recognize the look well and smile at each other. Jaehyun's elbow knocks Taeyong's, "hey bro, aren't your fish having some kind of issues?"

You perk up as Taeyong panics, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say. You speak first, "I can help! I've been helping the doctors at the clinic with their aquatic cases. Please?"

The dog in your arms pants happily and his tail wags even harder. Is it possible that this dog is rooting for the two of you too? Taeyong gulps but smiles, nodding jerkily, "feel free to come by whenever. I'd appreciate the help and your expertise."

You squeak happily, accepting the wet kisses on your cheek from the dog, "I'll be here tomorrow morning! Bye!"

You trot happily back out of the backyard with an obstructed wave as you leave. Taeyong stands breathless and staring at the same spot where you were just standing.

Johnny chuckles, plating the last of the food before he claps a hand on Taeyong's shoulder, "you know, I'm pretty sure I saw her climb that oak tree in the middle of campus to save a nest of baby birds. Then again, she was about 30 feet in the air and I was focused a little more on the firefighters swarming the trunk."

Jaehyun laughs, shaking his president's shoulders with a teasing smile, "I heard that she did a hike a few years ago and saved the professor from a rattlesnake bite. She used a huge stick to get the snake away and then carried the professor down the hill on her back. It was totally sick!"

Taeyong nods noncommittally as he gulps, "I think I just fell in love."

[romanscool]

quick thing I've written in approximatively fifteen minutes cause I was too obsessed and brainwashed on the maxiel post from yesterday,, so anyways, enjoy and don't look too much into the bad grammar and all again, this was written in fifteen minutes:

Daniel doesn’t actually have to upload the post. He doesn’t and he knows it. 

Max is fourteen thousands kilometers away, in Monaco. He’s just won the Imola GP, and Daniel hadn’t missed a second to congratulate him on that. Hadn’t missed a second to send a text and say, hey I miss you, come in Perth after the triple header, because Daniel cares about Max and knows Max cares right back. Knows Max will answer, in a couple days because he never texts back right away I’d love to.

Daniel has managed to cut off everything that is f1 from his life, and he thinks he’s better off that way. He doesn’t want to look at Christian’s frown telling him he’s going to be let down for Liam to step up, he doesn’t want to see Helmut’s grin as Christian says these words. He doesn’t want to look at the shit car he’d been driving for a coupe years or the even shittier before that. 

Sometimes, oranges mixes with abhorrent blues in his dreams, and he can’t escape it. The car, the grin, the frown. But when he’s awake, he tries his best. 

He’s been trying to lay off social media for a while now, even before he’d been fired. 2022 was a rough year, and he’s gotten better since then, but it’d been rough. Social media hadn’t helped. He’d kept it going because he liked looking at his archived pictures of himself as a young guy, scrawny and smiley, and liked deleting posts just to delete them, like that will make the moments they depict gone from history. 

He does this a lot, these days, delete posts. He takes a dozen of them off at a time, shows them in the trash like children their baby blankets. I’m better off without it, he keeps repeating to himself, I’m better off without them. 

He believes it sometimes, when the sun is high in the sky and brushes its not so gentle rays on his skin, burning slightly. Tingles, tingles, tingles. He scratches his cheeks and believes that he’s better off here, in the middle of nowhere Australia, taking care of the farm and himself, nothing else. 

But in the morning, he’s alone too. And he doesn’t have anyone to tickle and kiss, squirm around with until the sun gets back to high up in the sky and burning. He has to drag himself out of bed by himself, brush his teeth by himself, make calls about his brand and work out by himself. It gets lonely sometimes, but then he thinks, I’m better off like this, and it’s easier. 

Max makes it easier too. He texts. He calls. He sends weird pictures from nowhere and everywhere all at once, the window of an airplane over the ocean, his body in a random hotel bed. 

It should’ve been like this, too. Today. Max is in Monaco, thousands of kilometers away and Daniel knows it. But he posts it anyways, his stupid Frank Hermann video. 

It’s not even a video he took today. It’s been a while now, since he’s had the thing buried in his photo gallery, waiting to be sent. He’d taken it thinking he’d sent it to his ‘ma to something, caption it look how well I can ride a car now ha. Both self deprecating and actually funny. What he’s become. What he’s maybe always been. 

But he posts the video on Instagram and captions it Frank Hermann because maybe, just maybe, he wants to remember this moment. Whether it’s Max having just won the Imola GP, or being bold enough to give a fake name for no other reason than his own enjoyment, or if it’s just because he thought of Max. He thought of Max today, waking up cold with the sun low in the sky, a slight breeze of arid air coming through the window and rattling the wind chime. 

He thought of Max in the morning, taking his truck to buy groceries. He thought of Max during lunch, eating salad with a slice of cold anchovy pizza, something Max would scrunch his nose at and says Daniel’s disgusting. He thought of Max as he sent a picture of the pizza to him, thought of him the whole day until he answered right before his bedtime, which is approximately Daniel’s bedtime anyway, even with the six hour difference. 

He thinks of Max now, as Max comments on the instagram post silly laugh and bicep emojis, bland as fuck, and thinks of him too when Max calls two seconds later, his reddened face filling up Daniel’s phone screen. 

Max is already laughing when Daniel answers, setting himself on the mattress on his neutral bedroom. “You’re silly, Daniel,” he says, and Daniel feels it in his ribs. 

“I love you,” Daniel answers, even though he’d already said it with a shitty post on Instagram, “I think of you always. You’ll come round soon, yeah?” 

And Max nods, a small smile on his lips, crinkly eyes. “I’ll come, yes.” He scratches his jaw then, where his beard is getting longer and longer everyday where Daniel remembers there was nothing but soft stubble not too long ago, “I will drive the tractor of course. Franz Hermann is much better than his husband Frank.” 

And Daniel laughs and says, “Sure he is,” because he’s busy thinking of which posts he’s going to delete next. If maybe he’d delete them and only leave this silly one, the only one that says, outright and plain and obvious I love you Max, I think of you.

[sugardollcurse]

you did what if the boys wrote a song for you, which was so adorable oh my godddd....but what if you wrote or were writing a song for THEM???

𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔

𐙚 note ; ohh, what a delicious thought.. thanks for planting this sweet little seed in my heart! hope you enjoy!!!

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

"You don’t think I’m soft, do you? Not for likin’ it? …’Cause it’s proper good, what you’re doing. Makes me feel real."

He stumbles upon it by accident, rifling through your notebook like a nosy bastard when you leave it out.

You walk in to him dead silent, perched on the edge of your bed, blinking down at the words.

“S’the song. For us,” he mutters. “For me?”

He acts like it doesn’t touch him.

Says it’s “a bit sappy,” but you catch him humming the melody the next morning while making toast.

Gets weirdly clingy after reading it. More teasing, more physical, almost annoying. But his eyes go soft when he thinks you aren’t looking.

He tells you “don’t go changin’ it, alright?” even though he hasn't heard the chords yet. “Wrote it like that for a reason, didn’t you?”

Won’t admit it, but he’s gutted when you go quiet about it for a few days. He’s walking on eggshells wondering if he ruined it.

One night, you play a rough version on your guitar, half-finished lyrics and all. You hear a sharp inhale, and John blinking hard.

Starts saying things like “when that song’s out,” as if it’ll ever leave your bedroom. He needs it to exist now.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

"That bit, it’s about me, yeah? I know it is. No, don’t laugh. I know your writing voice, I can hear it when you mean me."

He’s ecstatic. Absolutely beaming. You’re writing a song for him???

He’s preening like a proud cat.

Immediately volunteers to help finish it. Suggests harmonies, chords, a bridge. You’ve barely written the first verse.

Keeps interrupting you while you’re writing. “Is that about the time I-? Oh, that’s gotta be my bit. I can tell by the phrasing.”

Once hears a lyric that’s vaguely self-critical and goes

“Oi! What d’you mean ‘doesn’t let anyone in’?! I’m very accessible emotionally”

You have to tell him gently to let you write it first. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. “It’s your love letter. I get it.”

Still sneaks peeks at your notes. Sometimes scribbles in the margins things like ‘what if you add a minor here?’

When you finally play it for him, he’s quiet. It stuns him.

He didn’t expect it to hit that hard.

“I always wonder if you see me, y’know? And then you write this, and I think maybe you do. Like, all the way through.”

Hugs you so tight you nearly drop the guitar. “I’d write you a thousand back.”

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

"If you’re writin’ it about me, don’t make it too sad, alright? I’ve got enough of that. Just… somethin’ warm. Somethin’ to come back to."

You mention offhandedly you’ve been writing a song about him.

He just blinks. “Me?”

You go, “Of course you.” And he bites his lip and nods and turns pink and says nothing else for ten minutes.

Doesn’t ask to hear it. Doesn’t hover.

But every now and then he’ll ask quietly: “Still working on that song?”

Once he does catch a lyric over your shoulder and goes “that bit’s for me, innit?” You nod. He looks away, swallows hard.

Secretly terrified you’ll write him in a way that’s too painful, too close to how he actually feels inside.

But he wants to be known.

When you play it for him, nervously, softly, he closes his eyes.

Breathes it in like incense.

Doesn’t clap when you finish. Just opens his eyes and says: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

And then, “Can I have it? Like… write it down for me? I wanna keep it.”

You catch him playing the chords to it months later, quietly, alone.

He adds a harmony of his own. It’s gorgeous.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

"I don’t know what you were expectin’, but I’m gonna cry, alright? Just warning you. I am."

Is so moved the second you even mention you’re writing a song about him.

“Like, me me? I’m in it??”

Wants to know everything.

“What’s it like? What kinda vibe am I? Is it sad, is it funny, is it dancy?”

Tries to act chill but keeps peeking at your instrument when you’re playing under your breath.

You finally let him hear one verse and he goes “Oh! I’m-oh!” and starts laughing.

“That’s what you think of me? Really?? Like that? Oh, you sweetheart.”

Insists you record a demo and plays tambourine on it.

“Just so I can say I was in the song about me.”

Once tells someone, “Y’know, they wrote a song about me. That’s how you know you’re loved, innit? When someone sings you home.”

Requests you play it for him when he’s feeling low.

Just sits with his chin on your shoulder while you strum.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[yeahiveheardofbears-fics]

Be My Anti-Valentine

You and your best friend Steve have a movie night on Valentine's Day, since you are both perpetually single. Except, maybe not for long...

hey babes! Happy way late Valentine's Day! I will say that i did base the reader character, once again, on my OC Mac from my ST rewrite series. so some side characters, relationships, and places will be from that universe. You don't need to read that to get the story, but if you like this dynamic then I definitely recommend it! I treat this little smut one shots like deleted scenes that didn't make sense in my main fic, but wouldnt escape my brain. I also did a lot of build up because I can't seem to write smut for Steve without making him an absolute loverboy <3 Enjoy!!

l-bombs, friends to loves, lots of exposition word count: 14,096 TW: uhhh, really not much, this is pretty loving honestly. underage drinking i guess

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLZ MESSAGE ME CAUSE I NEED INSPO <3

fic masterlist

read on ao3 or read below the cut:

February 14th, 1986

The neon glow from Family Video flickers just across the street, casting a greenish hue onto the wet pavement outside. Through the glass doors of Vinyl Frontier , you can see the faint movement of Steve inside, pacing behind the counter, no doubt pretending to look busy. You know better.

He’s probably just spinning a tape case in his hands, waiting out the last few miserable hours of his shift—same as you.

You stretch your arms above your head with a groan, then lean against the counter, staring at the real misery: the Valentine’s Day display Jet had you set up. Rows of records with love songs, sappy ballads, and an obnoxiously large hand-drawn sign that reads MAKE A LOVE MIX FOR YOUR SWEETHEART! in looping red letters. The entire thing makes your skin crawl.

You’re halfway through reorganizing the New Releases section—because some asshole put Iron Maiden next to Cyndi Lauper —when the store’s phone rings behind you. You sigh, abandoning the records to grab the receiver.

“ Vinyl Frontier , what do you want?”

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line. “Wow. That’s how you answer the phone now?”

You smirk, already recognizing the voice. “Oh, it’s you. My bad. Vinyl Frontier , home of angsty losers and overpriced imports. How can I help you, Steve?”

“Much better.” There’s a pause, then his voice lowers conspiratorially. “Listen, just giving you a heads-up—there’s a couple that just left my store, all lovey-dovey, handsy as hell. They’re headed straight for your store, so you’ve got, like, thirty seconds before you have to witness… whatever the hell they were doing here.”

You groan, already standing to peek through the store window. And sure enough—there they are. The couple in question, walking hand-in-hand across the street, their matching red sweaters obnoxiously bright.

“Ugh. Them?”

“You know them?” Steve asks, bemused.

“They were making out between The Smiths and Bauhaus the other day,” you say, flopping back against the counter. “I Lysoled the shelves after they left.”

Steve makes a disgusted noise. “Jesus Christ. They were all over the romance section at Family Video . Like, I get it, love is great, whatever, but I work here. Have some goddamn respect.”

You snort. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Harrington.”

“Oh yeah, it’s been real happy,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching every couple in Hawkins remind me that I’m pathetically single.”

You roll your eyes, even though you feel the same way. “It’s like an infestation. Can’t even walk two feet without seeing someone swapping spit.”

“Tell me about it.” There’s some muffled conversation on his end, the sound of a VHS tape clattering onto the counter. “Anyway, you still coming over?”

“Obviously.”

“I grabbed your stupid movies,” he says, sounding so put out that you have to grin. “But just for the record, I still think your choices are ridiculous.”

“They’re perfect,” you correct. “What’s wrong with them?”

Steve exhales like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Alright, let’s start with The Thing . How exactly is that an anti-Valentine’s movie?”

“Because it’s about paranoia and distrust,” you say. “There’s no love. Just body horror and existential dread.”

“Uh-huh. And Sleepaway Camp ?”

“You know damn well why.”

“Okay, fine, that one’s fair.” He pauses. “But My Bloody Valentine ? You picked a Valentine’s Day slasher . That’s, like, half giving in to the holiday.”

“It’s a classic, Steve.”

“Mm-hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I feel like you just wanted an excuse to watch a bunch of horror movies with me.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. I don’t need an excuse for that. I can bully you into watching horror movies whenever I want.”

There’s a beat of silence before he huffs a quiet laugh. “You know, I hate that you’re right.”

“I love that I’m right.”

Steve sighs dramatically. “Fine. But when I get nightmares about shapeshifting aliens, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.” Another pause, then his voice softens just slightly. “Robin’s not gonna make it, by the way. She’s got a ‘not-date’ with Vickie.”

That gives you pause.

“So it’s just us,” you say.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just us.”

There’s a moment of… something. Not awkwardness, exactly. Just an awareness that wasn’t there before. You glance around the store, suddenly finding it hard to focus on anything. The record stacks, the cheap plastic Valentine’s decorations Jet made you put up, the couple now giggling in the corner near Fleetwood Mac .

“Well, that just means more popcorn for me,” you say, brushing past it.

“And I won’t have to listen to Robin complain about my movie choices.”

“ My movie choices,” you correct.

“Whatever.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “So, uh… you still coming?”

You twirl the phone cord between your fingers, a habit you thought you’d grown out of. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Cool. See you later.”

“See you.”

You hang up, staring at the receiver for a second longer than necessary.

This was fine. Totally normal. Just another movie night.

Right?

---

Steve sighs as he hangs up the phone, rubbing the back of his neck before turning toward the counter—only to find Robin standing there, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it’s practically in her hairline.

He stops short, already exasperated. “Don’t.”

Robin tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Don’t what?”

“ Don’t make it weird.” He gestures vaguely toward the phone, like somehow the conversation itself was to blame for whatever this was.

She scoffs. “Oh, I didn’t make it weird. You did that all on your own.”

Steve groans, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Robin.”

She just smirks, shifting her weight against the counter. “It’s not my fault you two sound like a couple in a bad rom-com.”

He glares. “It’s your fault for having a date tonight.”

Robin immediately corrects him. “It’s a not-date.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”

“Uh, huge difference,” she says. “Dates are romantic. Not-dates are for pretending it’s not romantic while still getting nervous about it.”

He gives her a flat look. “That literally makes no sense.”

Robin shrugs. “Well, good news, dingus—you’ve got a not-date too.”

Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. “It’s not a date.”

Robin just lifts a brow. “That’s what I just said.”

He throws his hands up. “No, I mean—it’s not even a not-date! It’s just a normal night. We watch movies all the time.”

Robin sighs, then pushes off the counter, walking over to him with that look—the one that means she’s about to call him on his bullshit.

“Steve.”

“What?”

She softens just slightly. “You do realize that you two are both my best friends, right?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah?”

“And that I’m not blind?”

He groans. “Robin—”

“I mean, come on.” She starts ticking off fingers, like she’s listing off groceries. “You grab her movies for her even when you think they’re stupid, you call her at work just to talk, you let her make fun of you without even trying to fight back—”

“I fight back,” he protests weakly.

Robin ignores him. “—and, oh yeah, you both spent the last five minutes awkwardly dancing around the fact that you’ll be alone tonight.”

Steve crosses his arms tighter. “So what? It’s not weird to hang out with a friend.”

Robin nods sagely. “Totally. Just a friend.”

“Exactly.”

“Just a friend. On Valentine’s day. that you think is funny and hot and cool and—”

“Okay, I never said that I find her hot.” He throws his head back dramatically. “She’s annoying and bossy and thinks she knows everything—”

Robin hums. “Mmm, yeah. Real convincing, Harrington.”

“—and she’s constantly making fun of my hair—”

Robin shrugs. “You kinda deserve that one.”

“—and she has this stupid little smirk when she’s right about something, and she always has to be right, and when she gets all smug about it, she does this thing where she tilts her head a little, and she has this way of looking at you like she’s three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing—”

Robin lifts an eyebrow.

Steve doesn’t notice.

“—and she has that voice, you know, like all confident but a little raspy, and when she laughs at something she actually finds funny, not just something dumb Dustin says, it’s, like—”

Robin makes a face. “Steve.”

“—all breathy and warm, and she smells good all the time even when she’s just coming off work, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s like cherry or maybe something floral, but not too much, and—”

“ Steve .”

He finally stops, blinking at her.

Robin stares at him, then slowly grimaces. “You do hear yourself, right?”

Steve pauses. Blinks again. “Shit.”

Robin claps him on the shoulder. “There it is.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She doesn’t even like me like that.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve points a finger at her. “You don’t know that.”

Robin raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. If you say so.” But she’s grinning, and it pisses him off.

Before he can argue, the bell over the door jingles, and a couple walks in, already giggling to each other. Steve immediately straightens up, plastering on his best customer service face.

Robin steps back with a smirk. “Don’t worry, lover boy. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Steve glares at her as he turns to the customers. “I hate you.”

Robin flashes him a grin. “You love me.”

And unfortunately, she’s right. Again.

---

You hang up the phone, exhaling through your nose, then lean against the counter and let your head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. The sound of a throat clearing makes you lift your head, and when you glance to the side you see your boss, Jet, standing in the doorway of the back office, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused.

"Was that Harrington?" he asks, voice dry as ever.

You roll your eyes and turn away, stacking the pile of records you’d been sorting before Steve called. "No, it was the Pope. He wanted to know if we have any Black Sabbath in stock."

Jet snorts, stepping further into the shop. "So, Harrington."

"Maybe."

Jet leans against the counter, watching you work with that knowing look that always makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. "You two sure do talk a lot."

"Yeah, it’s called friendship, Jet."

"Uh-huh." He tilts his head. "Y’know, back in my day, we didn’t call it friendship when two people made goo-goo eyes at each other across a counter."

You nearly drop the stack of records. "Oh my god, shut up."

Jet just grins. "I’m just sayin’."

You huff and move to the other side of the store, grabbing a rag to wipe down the shelves. The Valentine’s Day display mocks you from the corner, obnoxiously pink and full of records Jet made you pull— Foreigner , REO Speedwagon , Whitney Houston , all the stuff people were eating up today.

"He's annoying," you say, mostly to distract from whatever the hell Jet was implying.

"Sure."

"And bossy."

"Mm-hmm."

"Thinks he knows everything."

Jet makes a vague gesture. "Yeah, yeah, you’re really selling it, kid."

You scowl at him, but Jet just chuckles, watching you scrub furiously at a perfectly clean shelf.

"You know," he says, a little softer, "you don’t gotta dance around it with me. If you like him, you like him. No shame in it."

You pause, grip tightening on the rag. "I don’t."

Jet tilts his head, unconvinced. "Look, all I’m sayin’ is… I’ve been around the block a few times. And I know the look of someone trying real hard to pretend they don’t care about someone when they definitely do."

You set the rag down a little harder than necessary. "And what look is that, exactly?"

Jet just grins. "The same look you get when you talk about him but try to pretend you’re just complaining."

You open your mouth, then close it. Scowl. Pick up the rag again.

Jet chuckles. "Listen, I don’t give a damn one way or the other, but if you wanna keep lying to yourself, at least try to be good at it."

You groan. " Jet ."

"Hey, just giving you some wisdom." He pushes off the counter, stretching. "Y’know, back in the day, I had a girl I danced around with like that. Thought I was bein’ slick, thought no one noticed."

You glance at him, wary. "And?"

"And turns out I was just an idiot," he says with a shrug. "So maybe don’t be an idiot, huh?"

You roll your eyes. "Thanks, dad ."

Jet winks. "Anytime, kid."

---

Steve shuts the register with a satisfying clack and stretches, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. It’s finally closing time, and for once, he’s actually looking forward to tonight—not just because it means getting the hell out of Family Video , but because he has plans.

Casual, totally normal, not-a-date plans.

Robin is watching him, arms crossed, in that ‘I know something you don’t want me to know’ way that makes his skin itch.

He sighs. “Just say it.”

Robin grins. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you were gonna make a move tonight.”

Steve groans, grabbing his jacket. “Jesus, Robin. Again with this?”

“What?” she says, following him as he grabs the store keys and heads for the back door. “I think it’s a valid question.”

“Well, I think it’s a stupid question.”

Robin shrugs, undeterred. “That’s funny, because you didn’t actually answer it.”

Steve flicks off the lights, plunging the store into dim shadows illuminated only by the neon glow from the sign outside. He turns back to Robin, exasperated. “There’s no move to make.”

Robin smirks, watching as he fumbles a little with the keys. “Uh-huh.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Sure, sure.”

Steve scowls. “You really think I’d make a move?”

Robin shrugs again. “I mean, yeah.”

Steve groans, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Okay, fine, let’s say hypothetically I was gonna make a move. What would that even look like?”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head, but then—he starts talking. Slow at first, still pretending this is all theoretical, but then it starts flowing a little too easily.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “first of all, I wouldn’t just spring anything on her. She’s not the type you can just, like, surprise with that kind of thing. So I’d make it seem like a regular movie night. No pressure, no expectations. Just us hanging out, watching her dumb horror movies, which—by the way—are not romantic at all, so she wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

Robin hums. “Sly.”

Steve points at her. “Exactly.”

They step outside into the cold night, their breath fogging in the air. Steve locks the door behind them, still talking.

“Then, I’d wait for the right moment. Maybe during The Thing, since she always gets way too focused on the practical effects and starts ranting about how they were done. That’s when I’d sit next to her—real casual, nothing weird. But, like, closer than usual. Just enough to see if she notices.”

Robin leans against the wall, intrigued. “And if she does?”

Steve shrugs, flipping the keys in his hand. “Then I’d play it off, act like it’s no big deal. But if she doesn’t ? That’s when I’d start testing the waters. Maybe during Sleepaway Camp , since she’s seen it a million times and won’t be as locked in. I’d stretch, put my arm on the couch behind her—”

Robin snorts. “The yawn move?”

Steve glares. “No, not the yawn move. Just an arm casually placed behind her. If she leans in, then, boom—I know she’s comfortable with it. And then,” he continues, getting into it now, “if everything feels right, if she’s not pulling away or making fun of me, then I’d make my move.”

Robin crosses her arms. “Which is?”

Steve exhales, eyes flicking upward like he’s playing it out in his head. “I’d wait for the perfect moment. Maybe when she’s talking, because she always talks during horror movies—”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “You like that she talks during movies?”

Steve waves a hand. “That’s not the point. The point is, she gets really into it, and when she’s really into something, she forgets to be sarcastic for, like, a whole second. So while she’s mid-sentence, I’d just… shift toward her, lean in a little, make sure she notices before I do anything.”

Robin watches him, interested now. “And then?”

Steve tilts his head slightly, picturing it.

“And then,” he says, voice softer, “I’d go for it. Just—slow, you know? Like, give her the chance to pull away, but hoping she doesn’t.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t make it some big thing, no cheesy lines, nothing rehearsed. Just… see what happens.”

Robin stares at him for a second. Then makes a face.

“Okay, ew,” she says. “Reel it in, Romeo.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“You were getting way too into that.”

Steve scowls. “I was just answering your question.”

Robin smirks. “Oh, you so weren’t. That was not hypothetical. That was a step-by-step plan.”

Steve huffs. “It was a theoretical —”

“You definitely have thought about this before.”

Steve groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “Robin—”

“You even mapped out the exact movie timing—”

“Shut up.”

“You are so nervous.”

“I am not—”

“Hey, what are you guys talking about?”

---

You’re walking toward Steve and Robin, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, head tilted slightly in curiosity. You glance between the two of them, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like you just walked in on the tail end of something you weren’t supposed to hear.

Steve immediately panics. “Why are you here?”

You blink. “Uh… hello to you too?”

He clears his throat, scrambling to backtrack. “I just—I thought we were meeting at my house.”

You shrug. “Eddie’s still working on my car, so I figured I’d just come straight here.”

Steve nods a little too fast. “Right. Cool. Yeah.”

Robin, who had been standing beside him with a smirk so smug it could power Hawkins for a week, is now outright grinning. She’s practically vibrating with barely restrained laughter.

Your eyes flick between them again. “What?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to Steve with a knowing smile. “Well, I’m off to my not-date . Wish me luck.”

Your brow furrows. “Good luck?”

Robin winks—not at you, but at Steve. “You too.”

Steve glares at her. “Robin.”

She just grins wider and gives him a two-fingered salute before turning on her heel and heading off down the sidewalk, leaving you standing there with an eyebrow raised.

You shift your weight onto one foot, watching her go before turning back to Steve. “Okay, what was that?”

He shakes his head way too quickly. “Nothing. Just—nothing.”

You don’t buy it for a second. But whatever that was, Steve clearly isn’t going to spill, so you let it slide. For now.

You exhale, rocking back on your heels. “Alright, weirdo.”

Steve shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You ready?”

You nod.

“Cool,” he says, fumbling for his keys like his hands suddenly forgot how to function.

Without another word, you both head to his car.

Once you’re at his house, Steve pushes the front door open first, stepping inside and flicking on the lights without a second thought. You follow behind him, toeing off your shoes as the familiar silence of the Harrington house settles around you.

As usual, the place is empty.

“Where are your parents this time?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Steve snorts, tossing his keys onto the hallway table. “No idea. They left a note on the fridge, but I didn’t read it.”

You roll your eyes, unsurprised. “So, what? Business trip? Spa retreat? Another month of pretending they don’t have a son?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket. “Not like it matters.”

It’s not like you’ve been here a ton, but every time you have been, it’s been the same—big house, too much space, and no parents in sight. Just Steve, filling the empty rooms with music or movies, like background noise could make up for the lack of anyone actually being home.

You don’t push it. Instead, you drop your bag on the couch and walk straight to the TV, glancing over your shoulder. “Movies?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ‘em. You set up, I’ll grab snacks.”

You flip through the stack of VHS tapes he brought home from Family Video .

“You actually grabbed all the ones I asked for?” You sound surprised.

Steve scoffs, walking past you toward the kitchen. “You don’t pay me enough to improvise.”

“I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly.”

---

Steve tells himself he isn’t nervous.

He tells himself this as he unlocks the door, steps inside, and watches as you walk in after him, dropping your bag on the couch like you belong here. Which, in a way, you do.

He’s not nervous.

It’s just a normal movie night. Just like all the others.

Except it isn’t.

Because tonight, he has a plan.

A foolproof, step-by-step, can’t-go-wrong plan—one he stupidly let Robin in on, which means there is no backing out now. She’ll ask about it later, and if he tells her he chickened out, she’ll never let him live it down.

So he’s doing this.

…Right?

This is fine. If he just acts normal, you won’t suspect a thing. He pours the popcorn, pops open a couple of sodas, and grabs a bag of chips for good measure. When he comes back into the living room, you’re already loading The Thing into the VCR.

Steve watches you from the doorway for a second. The way you move so easily in his space. The way you don’t hesitate, like it’s your house too.

And yeah. Fuck . He wants this.

He clears his throat and heads to the couch, dropping down beside you—closer than usual.

You don’t say anything.

Step One: Close the Distance.

Easy.

Done.

You didn’t call him out on it, which means he’s in the clear.

The movie starts, and you sink into it, fully focused by the time the sled dog is sprinting through the snow, the helicopter in pursuit.

Steve lets himself relax. Just a little.

Step Two: Casual Arm Placement.

He waits. Gives it time.

You’re locked into the movie, already muttering something under your breath about the brilliance of practical effects. You do that a lot—talk through horror movies, not in a bad way, but in a way that shows how much you actually care about them.

Steve listens, nodding like he’s paying attention to what you’re saying, but really, he’s timing it.

Then, casually, effortlessly, he stretches, letting his arm fall across the back of the couch.

Not touching you. Just there. Close enough to be felt but not enough to be anything.

You don’t react.

So far, so good.

Steve suppresses a smirk. See, Robin? I got this.

Step Three: The Lean-In.

This one is trickier.

It has to be subtle . Smooth.

He waits again, watches as you settle further into the cushions, legs curled up beneath you, completely lost in the movie. That’s when he shifts—barely, just enough to angle himself toward you. Just enough to close the gap a little more.

Still, no reaction.

That’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing.

He reminds himself of the plan.

Wait until Sleepaway Camp for the next move. That’s when he’d test the waters, when you wouldn’t be as focused, when he could ease into it without making it weird.

But then you glance at him, just for a second, and something about the way you look—eyes slightly narrowed, like you noticed but aren’t saying anything—makes his stomach flip.

Fuck it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

You’re completely locked in when the scene shifts to the research station, the dog curling up in the kennel with the other huskies. It’s the moment before all hell breaks loose, the moment before the thing reveals itself.

It’s perfect.

Steve watches your profile, the way your eyes flick between the screen and your soda as you reach for it.

This is it.

This is the moment.

He turns toward you, leans in slightly, ready to shift even closer.

And then, of course, everything goes to shit.

Disaster: The Soda Incident.

He reaches for his drink at the exact same time you do.

Your hands knock together.

Oh, fuck.

Cold liquid spills all over your shirt.

You gasp, jerking upright as the icy soda soaks through your clothes.

“Shit—”

Steve freezes. Stares. His brain short-circuits.

This was not part of the plan. Not even close.

“Fuck—hold on—” He scrambles to set his drink down, moving fast like he can somehow reverse time and undo the absolute catastrophe he just caused. “Shit, shit, shit. I—I’ll grab a towel—just—shit—hang on!”

He bolts up so fast he nearly knocks over the popcorn bowl, tripping over the coffee table in his rush.

You’re just sitting there, stunned, dripping soda onto the couch, blinking at him like you can’t believe what just happened.

The movie keeps playing in the background, oblivious to the fucking disaster unfolding in real life.

Steve disappears down the hall, heart pounding, and he knows—

Yeah.

This definitely didn’t go according to plan.

---

You sit there, staring down at yourself, blinking at the damp fabric clinging to your chest.

What the hell just happened?

One second, you were watching the movie, minding your own business, and the next—Steve fucking Harrington managed to dump an entire soda all over you like some teenage rom-com protagonist who can’t keep his hands to himself.

Except this isn’t a movie, and Steve is currently gone, having bolted from the room like the place was on fire.

You exhale, peeling the wet fabric away from your skin, grimacing at the way the cold sticks to you. From somewhere in the house, you hear the telltale signs of Steve running around in a panic. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. The sound of a cabinet slamming. A muffled curse. Footsteps back down the stairs, faster this time, followed by another thud and another round of cursing.

Then silence.

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably, and just as you’re about to get up and find a towel yourself, Steve comes jogging back into the living room.

He’s got a hand towel in one hand and a shirt in the other, looking a little too disheveled for someone who was gone for all of thirty seconds.

“Okay, here—” he starts, reaching out with the towel.

And then he stops.

You blink at him. He blinks at you.

Because, yeah. If he was actually going to clean you up, that would mean touching your chest.

Steve goes bright red. “Right. Shit. Here—just—take it.”

He thrusts the towel at you, along with the shirt, and you grab them both, giving him a look.

“Yeah, genius. Didn’t really think that one through, did you?”

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I was panicking!”

“No shit.”

You push yourself off the couch, the wet fabric sticking uncomfortably as you shift. “Gonna go change.”

He nods quickly, eyes locked very purposefully on anything but you as you walk past him and down the hall toward the bathroom.

You shut the door behind you and sigh, shaking your head.

Steve had been weird all night. Fidgety. Kind of jumpy. Not normal.

And this? This had to be a new record for him in terms of absolute dumbassery.

You grab the bottom of your shirt, pulling it off with a wince, already shivering slightly as the air hits your skin. Then, you look at the shirt he gave you.

It’s not one of his polos or his sweaters—it’s a T-shirt, old and worn, with the faded logo of the Hawkins High basketball team across the front.

You snort. King Steve in his prime.

The fabric is soft, smelling like detergent and him, and when you pull it on, it’s tight. Not uncomfortably so, but enough that it stretches a little over your chest, fitting snug around your torso in a way that most of your own shirts don’t.

Great.

You shake your head and step back out, making your way to the living room.

Steve is at the VCR when you return, swapping out the tape for Sleepaway Camp , his back to you.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you come in, eyes flicking down to his shirt on you before darting back up to your face.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Again.”

You shrug. “It’s cool, this is how most guys try to get me out of my clothes.”

Steve chokes.

Like, actually chokes.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, watching him. “That was a joke.”

Steve shakes his head so fast you think he might snap his own neck and you narrow your eyes. Something is off with him. But you let it slide, stepping back toward the couch as he finishes setting up the movie.

When he sits down again, he leaves a little more space between you this time, but you don’t comment on it. The movie starts, the opening credits rolling, and as the familiar music kicks in, you shake your head.

Steve Harrington is acting weird as hell tonight.

---

Steve is reeling.

He never fucks up like that.

Sure, yeah, maybe he’s been in a bit of a dry spell lately. Maybe he hasn’t had as many dates as he used to. Maybe he’s been selective (Robin’s word, not his) about who he flirts with. But when he does?

This is the part he’s good at.

The easy charm, the confidence, the effortless way he makes a girl laugh and then smoothly inches closer—that has always been his thing.

But this? This was a fucking disaster.

It has to be a sign that this was a bad idea, that Robin got into his head and made him think there was something here when there wasn’t.

Because if there was, he wouldn’t have botched it so badly. He wouldn’t have dumped a fucking drink all over you like a nervous wreck. Wouldn’t be sitting here now, stiff and awkward, trying way too hard to act like nothing happened.

He flicks a glance at you, at the way you’re curled up on the couch, adjusting yourself in his old Hawkins basketball T-shirt.

And—fuck.

The thing about that shirt?

It was his from junior year.

Which means it used to fit him.

Which means, on you, it’s tight .

Steve swallows hard and yanks his gaze back to the screen before his mind can wander any further.

Platonic. Just friends, Harrington. And friends don’t look at their friends’ boobs in a too-small shirt and think about—

He shoves the thought down so hard it practically leaves skid marks in his brain.

Instead, he focuses on the movie.

Sleepaway Camp isn’t a great distraction—it’s weird, and dumb, and kind of awful in the best way—but it’s what’s on.

You talk through it, like you always do, making the occasional joke, sometimes pointing out a particularly bad effect or cheesy dialogue.

Steve answers, strictly platonically.

He ignores any comment that could be vaguely sexual, even when you joke about the guys’ ridiculously short shorts or when you outright laugh at the worst attempt at seduction in cinematic history. Normally, he’d engage—he’d throw something back, tease, maybe flirt just for the hell of it.

Tonight, though, he forces himself to keep it neutral.

Because the more he thinks about what almost happened—the way he was about to go for it, the way he was about to shift even closer—the more his stomach twists.

The movie ends, and Steve is way too quick to jump up.

“Want another drink?” he asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

You nod, stretching as you get up to swap the tapes. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve heads to the fridge, grabs the handle, and—

---

You’re kneeling in front of the VCR, sliding My Bloody Valentine into place, when you hear Steve’s footsteps behind you.

“No more soda,” he announces like it’s a death sentence, hands perched on his hips. “I got, uh—water, orange juice, milk—”

You pause, turning to look at him. “Milk?”

Steve throws his hands up like that’s somehow your fault. “I don’t know, I’m just listing shit. We’ve got juice boxes if you wanna feel like a kid again.”

You roll your eyes, but the second he says it, an idea sparks in your head. You glance at the TV, then back at Steve, then at the couch, where the remnants of the soda disaster still linger. Tonight’s already off the rails, so why not lean into it?

“Why don’t we just make it a drinking game?”

Steve blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on, we’ve done drinking games before.”

“Yeah, but that’s when there’s more people.”

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head slightly. “And?”

Steve opens his mouth, then stops. He looks at you, thinking, probably trying to come up with a reason why that matters, why it’s somehow different when it’s just the two of you. But he doesn’t have one. Instead, he lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, okay, I guess that doesn’t actually matter.”

You smirk, victorious, and push yourself up from the floor. You don’t know why he’s hesitating. It’s not like this is some big deal. It’s just a stupid drinking game to go with a stupid horror movie on a stupid holiday. It’s a way to make the night a little more fun, a little less whatever the hell this has been so far.

Steve still looks skeptical, like he’s waiting for some reason to say no, so you press on before he can talk himself out of it.

“We’re both alone on Valentine’s Day,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Everyone else is out on their dumb dates, drinking their dumb fancy wine, eating overpriced chocolate, being all lovey-dovey. And we’re here, watching horror movies and trying not to spill anything else on my shirt.”

Steve lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

Encouraged, you keep going. “For once, we don’t have to deal with interdimensional bullshit, no creepy government guys, no nightmare monsters from hell. Just a normal, boring, stupid romantic holiday that we’re stuck spending alone.”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “So, your grand plan is to drink through the pain?”

You shrug. “We deserve a night of dumb, normal young people shit.”

It’s only when you say it out loud that you realize how true it is. You’ve spent so much of the last couple of years dealing with things that no one your age should have to deal with. Near-death experiences, government cover-ups, missing people, watching friends suffer and not being able to do anything about it. It’s been a lot, and maybe it’s selfish, but you just want one night that feels easy.

Steve is quiet, considering. You step closer, just enough to reach out and clap a hand on his shoulder, half in encouragement, half in challenge.

“Come on, Harrington. It’s one night. What’s the worst that could happen?”

For a second, he just looks at you. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite place, something unreadable behind those brown eyes. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go grab something my parents won’t miss.”

---

Steve comes back into the living room, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other, expecting to see you on the couch where he left you. Instead, you’re sitting on the floor, pillows propped against the coffee table, legs stretched out, completely at ease like this is just how movie nights are supposed to be.

He stops short, eyeing you with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You glance up at him, completely unfazed. “It’s more fun this way.”

Steve squints. “Sitting on the floor ?”

“Yeah.” You pat the space next to you, smirking. “Come on, try it.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue, lowering himself down beside you, setting the bottle and glasses on the floor. His knees knock against yours briefly as he gets comfortable, and for some reason, that small, barely-there contact sends a little jolt through him. He ignores it, grabs the bottle, and tilts it in your direction.

“Alright,” he says, twisting off the cap, “rules.”

You hum in thought. “Okay, obviously, we drink every time someone dies.”

“Obviously.”

“Drink every time someone says ‘Valentine.’”

Steve snorts. “This is My Bloody Valentine , we’re gonna die.”

“That’s the point.” You grin and hold up a finger. “Drink when someone does something really fucking stupid, like running upstairs instead of outside.”

“Classic.” He pours your glass, then his, setting the bottle aside. “What about drink if you get spooked?”

You narrow your eyes. “You just want an excuse to make me drink more.”

He grins, bumping his knee against yours. “Gotta level the playing field somehow.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. “Fine. And… drink if there’s a sex scene.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You just made that one up.”

“Maybe.”

“You so did.”

You smirk. “It’s still a good rule.”

He shakes his head, but his smile lingers as he lifts his glass. “Alright, to terrible horror movies and drinking games.”

You clink your glass against his, and with that, the game begins.

Two-thirds of the way through the movie, and you’re both comfortably tipsy. Not drunk, but warm, relaxed, feeling looser, laughter coming easier.

At some point, Steve stopped noticing when your knee brushed against his. He didn’t think much of it when your arm pressed against his as you reached for your glass. Didn’t acknowledge the way you shifted slightly, leaning more into him as you adjusted yourself on the pillow, both of you sinking deeper into the comfort of the moment.

But now?

Now, he notices.

His focus snaps to the way your thigh is flush against his, how your elbow nudges his arm when you gesture toward the screen, still mid-rant about the practical effects.

And suddenly, it sobers him up just a little.

Not enough to stop enjoying himself, but enough to remember.

The plan.

The one he’d botched spectacularly earlier when he panicked like a fucking idiot and spilled soda all over you. He should have waited for the right moment, should have followed through exactly the way he told Robin he would.

But maybe this is the moment.

He watches you as you talk, completely wrapped up in explaining why this particular death scene is underrated. Your eyes are bright, hands moving as you emphasize certain points, and you’re not filtering yourself the way you sometimes do. This is that window—where you’re passionate, where your guard is down, where you aren’t trying to be anything other than exactly you.

And you look so fucking pretty.

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t overanalyze. He just goes for it.

His hand moves before he can stop it, reaching up to cup your face, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw. Your words falter, breath catching, eyes flicking to his in startled confusion, but you don’t pull away.

And then he’s leaning in, closing the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s soft, tentative but steady, warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. His thumb strokes lightly along your cheek, grounding himself, savoring the way your lips part slightly, like you weren’t expecting this but aren’t against it either.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t pull away.

It’s a slow, lingering kiss, the kind that feels like it’s meant to happen, like it’s been waiting to happen. The kind that shifts something in the air, something unspoken but undeniable.

When he finally leans back, just enough to look at you, he searches your face, breath unsteady.

And for the first time all night, you’re speechless.

---

You stare at him.

For a full minute, maybe longer.

The kiss still lingers, warm on your lips, your brain lagging behind, trying to catch up with the reality of what just happened. Steve watches you like he’s waiting for something—maybe for you to freak out, maybe for you to say something, anything.

And eventually, you do.

“What—” You shake your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What the hell was that?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, you cut him off.

“Wait, no. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re drunk, and you’re feeling weird about Valentine’s Day, and you were caught up in the moment—”

“I—”

“We’ve been drinking, and you’re—”

“Jesus, would you let me—”

You’re still talking, half-rambling, voice layered with that dry disbelief you always get when shit blindsides you, and Steve, clearly realizing that you’re just gonna keep going, shakes your shoulder a little. Not hard, just enough to jolt you.

You stop. Blink.

He exhales. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Your stomach does something stupid and traitorous at that, but you shove it down, tilting your head slightly, giving him the flattest expression you can manage.

“Okay,” you say. “Well. Now you have.”

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, but something. You’re still way too aware of the fact that his hand was on your face, that his lips were on yours, that you let him do it.

And worse—you kissed him back.

Steve shifts beside you, turning his attention to the movie, but his voice is softer when he says, “For the record, you kissed me back.”

You don’t respond. You just keep watching, your heart pounding way too hard for something as simple as sitting next to him. Your brain spins, trying to process the entire situation, trying to put all the little pieces together, trying to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with this new information.

And then, for some reason, you look at him.

Like, really look at him.

He’s still staring at the screen, trying to act normal, and to the average person, he probably looks normal. But you know him better than that. You’ve spent too much time around him not to pick up on the small tells—the way his jaw is a little tighter than usual, the way he shifts slightly like he’s trying not to fidget, the way his fingers tap lightly against his knee. He’s trying to keep his cool, trying to play this off like it isn’t a big deal.

And now, you can’t stop noticing things.

The two beauty marks on the side of his neck, just under his jaw. The way the glow of the TV flickers against his skin. The shape of his mouth, the way his lips look softer in this lighting, the way his eyes shift when something catches his attention on screen. The way his arms look in that stupid polo shirt, his biceps just defined enough that—

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shake yourself out of it, tearing your eyes away, trying to breathe properly again.

And then—like puzzle pieces clicking together—your brain finally catches up. The closeness, the arm around the back of the couch, the spilled soda. You turn to him, narrowing your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you smack his arm.

He flinches, looking at you, completely caught off guard. “What the hell?”

“You planned this.”

Steve’s face does this weird thing—half shock, half shit, I’ve been caught —before he recovers, shaking his head. “What? No.”

You stare at him.

“Steve.”

He doesn’t say anything and you raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He shifts, clears his throat, and you see it all over his face—he’s absolutely about to try and deflect.

And then, just as he’s about to speak, you say his name again.

“Steve.”

And just like that, he freezes.

---

Steve feels cornered.

And not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a ‘shit, there’s nowhere to run and I’ve already been caught’ kind of way. You’re looking at him, waiting, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, the full force of your glare locked in.

And Steve—Steve does what he does best in moments of extreme pressure.

He rambles.

“If I planned this, it wouldn’t have gone so disastrously,” he starts, gesturing wildly like that’ll somehow help his case. “Like, this is the part I’m usually good at, okay? The flirting, the���moves, the whole making-it-seem-effortless thing. You know, the part where I don’t look like a complete idiot and spill an entire drink on you like I’ve never spoken to a girl before.”

You don’t say anything. You just raise an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.

Steve exhales, shaking his head. “And, honestly? It’s kind of your fault.”

That makes you blink.

“My fault?”

“Yeah, because you—you throw me off!” He gestures at you like that’s an obvious answer, like that explains anything. “You’re always making these stupid jokes, and you’re too quick, and you make fun of me before I can make fun of myself, and you never let me get away with anything. It’s—”

His mouth keeps running. His brain catches up about three sentences too late.

“—it’s really annoying, except it’s not, because I actually kinda—”

Steve stops mid-sentence, everything catching up with him at once.

Fuck.

You tilt your head, waiting.

He swallows, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”

You hum. “Yeah, but I already knew that.”

Steve lets out a short, almost nervous laugh before dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay, listen. That wasn’t—I didn’t mean it’s actually your fault. That was—I’m sorry, that was just me being defensive, and that was a dick thing to say.”

You nod slowly, clearly waiting for the rest.

He sighs, looking at the ceiling for a second before bringing his gaze back to you. “Robin put this thought in my head. I mean, she’s been putting this thought in my head. Since, like, the second I met her at Scoops.”

You don’t look surprised.

He shakes his head. “But if I’m being completely honest, it was already there.”

That’s when you stop him.

“Of course she did.” You sigh, rubbing your temple like this is something you’ve been expecting.

Steve frowns. “Wait—what do you mean of course she did?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight slightly before reluctantly admitting, “Because she’s been saying the same things to me for months.”

Steve blinks. That is not what he expected you to say.

It takes him a second to process, but when it clicks, when he realizes what you just admitted, his mouth stretches into a slow, growing grin.

“Wait.” He points at you. “Are you saying you like like me?”

Your entire face shifts into the most unamused expression he’s ever seen.

“Did you just say like like ?”

“Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

“Okay, what about fancy me?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Sweet on me?”

“Oh my god.”

“Got a little crush on me?”

“Steve.”

“Are you pining over me?”

You groan, shaking your head. “I refuse to answer if you keep saying it like that.”

Steve leans in slightly, tilting his head. “Not answering kinda is an answer.”

You look at him, lips pressing into a thin line, but you don’t pull away.

And that’s when something in him shifts.

For once, he stops talking. Stops trying to play it off, stops trying to dance around it, stops deflecting. He just watches you, watches the way your expression flickers—sharp one second, a little softer the next, like you’re not quite sure where this is going.

And then, quieter than before, he says, “How do you actually feel?”

You inhale. Exhale. Then, with the kind of reluctance that makes his heart beat just a little faster, you start listing.

“Despite the fact that you’re ridiculous.”

He grins.

“Despite the fact that you’re a little too cocky sometimes.”

“Objectively false.”

You roll your eyes.

“Despite the fact that you’re an idiot who spilled an entire soda on me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that was bad.”

You pause, hesitating, but then, softer, you add, “Despite all of that… I still like being around you. More than I should.”

Steve swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Something settles in his chest.

He exhales, gaze flicking down to your lips briefly before meeting your eyes again, smirking a little. “So, theoretically,” he starts, tilting his head, “if I wanted to kiss you again, would I still be at risk of getting punched, or…”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something there now, something warmer, something less guarded.

So Steve doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just leans in and kisses you again.

This time, it’s different.

The first kiss had been tentative, careful, almost testing the waters. But this one—this is something else entirely. This one is lingering, deeper, his hand sliding along your jaw again, the warmth of his palm grounding you as his lips part against yours.

The shift is slow but undeniable—the way his fingers slide back into your hair, the way he tilts his head just enough to deepen it, the way your hand moves, resting lightly against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt like you’re steadying yourself.

Steve barely has time to think—barely has time to do anything other than sink into you—before the next thought crosses his mind.

Holy shit. This is actually happening.

He smiles against your mouth and feels the corner of your lips curve upward.

When you finally lean back, it takes a second for his brain to catch up, his eyes opening, his breath coming in unsteady, shallow waves. He stares at you, the way the glow of the TV dances against your skin, the way the softness in your eyes matches the one in his chest, the way his hands are still cupping your face, his fingers threaded through your hair.

He exhales, letting his forehead rest against yours.

And then, without thinking, he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Wanna be my Valentine?"

You snort.

You literally snort.

"That was so lame," you mutter, pulling back enough to look at him, laughing a little. "Seriously, Harrington?"

He shrugs. "So?"

"So, you missed it. Valentine's Day technically ended like an hour ago."

"Yeah." Steve pauses, thinking. Then, "We can do better next year."

Your stomach does a fucking somersault.

"Next year?"

"Yeah." He's got that dumb, boyish grin again, the one that makes his eyes bright and that's simultaneously too much and not enough. "I can take you out. Somewhere nicer than just my living room, somewhere where we're both not covered in soda. We can dress up, make a real thing of it. Maybe dinner, maybe a movie, maybe the stupid arcade."

"You hate the arcade."

"Not the point."

You huff a quiet laugh. "And what about the year after that?"

"Ah, see that's the year we get really crazy. We take a vacation, maybe road trip to Chicago, rent a hotel room for the weekend."

"A hotel room, huh?"

"Yeah, and we can have a fancy dinner at a nice restaurant. One with tablecloths and candles and everything."

You narrow your eyes slightly, watching him. "So, basically, you're planning a bunch of cliche, classic Valentine's dates."

"Basically."

"Like we're a couple."

"Like we're a couple." He nods.

"And you want to keep doing this for years?"

"And I want to keep doing this for years."

Steve looks so certain, so unbothered by the fact that he just threw out the words 'for years' like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's a promise, a guarantee. And when you see the way his gaze softens, the way his eyes flick between yours, the way his expression goes a little more serious, you realize—

That's exactly what he's doing.

You swallow, looking at him, and then, slowly, you ask, "Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

You roll your eyes.

"Because I'm an idiot," he amends, "who's liked you for way too long, and I've just been trying not to notice it."

"Steve—"

"And because I know I've made a lot of mistakes, okay?" He pauses, exhaling a little shakily. "Like, a lot of mistakes. But the biggest mistake would be not going for this, not seeing where it could go."

You shake your head, your heart beating way too fast.

"Steve," you say, "we've only kissed twice."

"Yeah, and?"

"And... it's been twenty minutes."

"And?"

You let out a small, exasperated laugh, looking at him like he's insane. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Listen," he starts, and the fact that he's using the exact same tone of voice as you, the one where he's trying to argue, the one where he's determined and stubborn and refusing to back down, makes something in your chest shift.

He reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers with yours.

"There is a lot of shit we've had to deal with. A lot of crazy, unbelievable shit. But this is something I know, okay? This is something I'm sure about. So, maybe we go into it too fast, and maybe we take our time, and maybe we try a few things and figure out what works. But I don't care."

Steve squeezes your hands gently.

"We've spent the last three years dealing with monsters and evil Russians and upside-down hellscapes, and the second I got to kiss you, the second I got to actually act on the thing I've wanted for way too long, I didn't think about any of that. I didn't think about the fact that the world is probably gonna keep fucking us over. I didn't think about all the reasons why this wouldn't work or why we shouldn't be doing this. I didn't think about the risks or the bullshit. I didn't even think about the fact that I'm supposed to be spending Valentine's Day alone. I just..."

He stops, his breath catching a little.

"I just felt it. The way it made me feel. The way I just want to keep doing it, again and again. And the fact that I know, I fucking know, we're gonna have to deal with a lot more weird shit before we can even begin to be normal, I'm not worried. Because at the end of the day, if you're there, then everything else doesn't matter."

And with that, the last of your defenses crumble.

You stare at him. At this ridiculous, self-proclaimed idiot, with his perfect hair and his pretty smile and his dumb, charming confidence.

At Steve Harrington, the guy who used to be the most annoying, egotistical prick you'd ever met.

At the guy who's become one of the best people you've ever known.

At the guy who is, somehow, right now, here, saying all the right things.

"Shit," you mutter. "You're making it really hard not to fall in love with you."

Steve grins, and then, the absolute bastard, leans in.

"Then stop trying."

He kisses you again.

You feel it everywhere—in the way his mouth slides against yours, warm and inviting, the way his fingers tangle into your hair, the way he pulls you closer.

Your fingers curl into his polo, gripping tightly as you shift closer, and Steve groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like he can’t not touch you now. The warmth of your body pressed against his is enough to make him lightheaded, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint whiskey on your breath making his head swim.

His hands start to move without thinking, fingertips tracing over the fabric of your shirt—his shirt—feeling the heat of your skin underneath. You gasp softly, and Steve nearly loses his mind right there. He has to pull back, has to take a breath before he does something completely reckless, but even then, his forehead stays pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Bedroom?” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

You nod. “Yeah.”

That’s all he needs.

Steve gets up first, pulling you with him, hands firm on your waist as he steadies you. You both stumble slightly, tipsy but nowhere near drunk, laughing under your breath as you navigate through the house. It’s not far—just up the stairs, past the stupid family portraits his parents insist on keeping up despite never being here.

And then, finally, his room.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you both in, the soft glow from outside casting long shadows across his walls.

And then, Steve is on you again.

He doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t second-guess himself as his hands find your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he kisses you like he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s scared it might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you sink down, pulling him with you. Steve follows, pressing you down gently, settling between your legs as he leans in, his lips never leaving yours.

His hands start to wander, slow, exploring—mapping you out like he wants to memorize every dip and curve. And god, you’re soft. So warm, so right against him.

 His mind is already racing, imagining every place his lips could follow, every inch of skin he could trace, every way he could make you melt into him.

Your own hands roam, sliding down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Steve leans back, just enough to let you pull it off, the cool air hitting his skin making him shiver. His chest is exposed, his hair a little messy, his arms flexing slightly as he props himself up, and the sight is enough to make you pause.

Steve smirks, catching you.

But instead of teasing, he leans down, kissing along your jaw, his voice low and soft as he murmurs, "My turn."

Steve teases the hem of the shirt he let you borrow. You sit up a little and he starts to lift it up over your chest, but it's a tight fit and it gets stuck. You're about ready to have him just rip it off at this point, but when he speaks, his voice is soft and gentle and his breath is hot on your skin and all the words die on your tongue.

"Hold your arms up, okay?"

You obey, raising your arms and letting him slide the shirt off. He tosses it on the floor and you shiver at the sudden cold, but it's quickly forgotten as Steve looks down at you.

"Fuck."

The word slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. His eyes drink you in, trailing over the swell of your breasts in your bra, the smooth skin, the curve of your waist, and suddenly, he's overwhelmed.

"So you don't think I'm like, a total perv, I didn't think that shirt would be that... snug when I grabbed it. So, uh, sorry, but I'm also not complaining, because you have a really great—shit, what was I saying?"

"Shut up, Harrington," you mutter, grabbing his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

He chuckles against your lips, then shifts.

Steve starts slow, his mouth tracing a line down the side of your neck. He pauses, sucks at the hollow of your throat, feels the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze over the delicate skin. Your fingers card through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and the sensation is enough to make him shudder, a quiet groan slipping out.

Then, he moves lower, lips pressing a kiss in the space between your breasts. His hands trace over the tops of them, then down, cupping you, feeling the weight, thumbs swiping along the edge of your bra. You sigh, arching into him, and it takes every ounce of control not to lose it right there.

Steve leans back, eyes meeting yours, silently asking permission.

You nod, and he reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with a little more ease than expected. When he slides it off, his eyes flick down to the newly exposed skin, and you swear you hear his breath hitch.

Then, his mouth is on you, and all rational thought leaves your brain.

Steve knows his way around a girl's body.

But right now? With you?

It's like starting from square one.

Because right now, everything is heightened. Every noise you make, every little gasp and moan, every hitch of your breath, every brush of your skin against his. It's enough to drive him absolutely insane, enough to make him lose focus, and when he feels you shift underneath him, when he sees the way you look up at him, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, sucking gently, he feels that familar tug in his stomach.

It's that same feeling—the one he can't shake, the one he can't get rid of, the one that has him thinking thoughts like 'fuck, she's so pretty' and 'holy shit, I really like her' and 'god, this is gonna ruin me, isn't it?'

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he can't stop.

You're arching into him, fingers buried in his hair, tugging lightly, and the sound that slips out when he scrapes his teeth lightly is enough to make his cock twitch. His mouth trails lower, over your stomach, kissing along your hipbones, and he's moving faster now, impatient, hands sliding to the button of your jeans.

He hesitates, just for a second, looking up at you.

"Is this okay?"

You nod, swallowing, and Steve's hands move. He undoes the button, slides the zipper down, and hooks his fingers into the sides. He doesn't wait for a response this time—he yanks, hard, and the sound that slips out is one part surprised, one part pleased, and it's so fucking hot that he can't stand it.

Once they're off, he looks at you, taking a second to breathe, to appreciate how fucking gorgeous you look, laid out on his bed in nothing but a pair of panties. Then, his gaze trails lower, and he sees the wet spot on the fabric, and it hits him.

Fuck, you're soaked.

He exhales sharply, his eyes flicking up to yours. "Holy shit."

"Yeah." Your voice is breathy, a little embarrassed, but there's something there, too. Something needy, something desperate.

"Do you have any idea," Steve says, leaning over you again, "how long I've wanted to see you like this?"

His hand slides down, palming you through the fabric, and when he rubs lightly, your entire body shudders.

"See, this?" He rubs a little harder, the fabric of your panties sliding against your clit. "This is my new favorite thing."

You gasp, arching into him.

Steve keeps going, rubbing you through the thin layer of cotton, watching the way your hips lift into his hand. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then to your neck, sucking lightly, and then, without warning, he slides off your panties and his fingers are back on you. 

"Fuck," he groans, feeling the heat, the wetness coating his fingers. "So fucking wet, baby."

His voice is lower than before, the pet name slipping out without thinking, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to start fucking his fingers into you. Instead, he teases, sliding his fingers, feeling the slickness, the way your breath catches when his thumb circles around your clit.

And then, he dips a finger inside.

You let out a low moan, a sound that has his cock twitching again, and the urge to just bury himself in you and fuck until neither of you can breathe is almost overwhelming. But he doesn't. He doesn't rush it.

Instead, he keeps going.

"This is what I'd think about," he says, adding a second finger. "When I would lay here, at night, after I was done talking to you."

You don't say anything, too focused on the feeling, but he knows you're listening. He kisses down your neck, fingers moving slowly, curling inside of you, his palm brushing over your clit, and then, when he adds a third finger, the stretch is enough to make your brain short-circuit.

"I'd be in bed, alone, and all I could think about was this." His voice is rougher now, the way you're squeezing around his fingers driving him insane. "What you would look like, how you'd feel, how you'd taste."

Steve picks up the pace, thrusting a little harder, his fingers curling, finding that spot, and the whimper that escapes is the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard. He's fully hard now, his cock straining against his jeans, and he has to shift, has to grind his hips against the mattress to take the edge off.

"And now," he murmurs, "I get to find out."

Steve presses his lips to yours, swallowing the moan as he fucks you with his fingers. He can feel the way your body starts to tighten, the way you squeeze around him, the way your breath gets unsteady, and he knows you're close.

"God, look at you." He curls his fingers again, watching the way your hips rock into his hand. "So pretty, baby. So perfect."

His free hand comes up, brushing over your nipple, and that's all it takes.

You gasp, clutching onto his shoulder, your head falling back as the orgasm rips through you.

And then, Steve has an idea.

Before you can even process, he's sliding lower, his lips moving, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, then down, until he's settled between your legs. You can feel the heat of his breath, and then, his tongue drags along the inside of your thigh, and the realization of what's about to happen sends a jolt through you.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you, and fuck, the sensation is overwhelming.

"Oh, god," you gasp, and your hands fly down, tangling into his hair, trying to anchor yourself.

He doesn't go slow this time. He's not gentle or teasing. He just licks a long stripe over your pussy, his fingers parting you, his tongue swiping through the wetness, savoring the taste, and when his mouth finds your clit, his lips closing around it, you have to fight to keep your hips still.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire, the pleasure sharp and white-hot.

Steve is relentless, his tongue moving expertly, swirling around your clit, alternating between hard, firm strokes and light, teasing ones. When he sucks, his tongue flicking, you cry out, a string of curses slipping out as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He groans against you, the sound muffled, his fingers gripping your hips tightly, and then, you feel it.

One hand slides under your thigh, his arm hooking under your leg, pulling it up and over his shoulder. His other arm wraps around the other, holding you down, his hand spreading you, keeping you wide open for him.

Then, Steve goes harder.

He doesn't give you time to breathe, doesn't let you recover. Instead, his tongue moves faster, licking, sucking, his face buried in you, his grip on your thighs iron-tight. The sound is obscene, filthy, wet and messy and fucking perfect, and when his teeth scrape over your clit, your back arches off the bed.

"Steve," you pant, trying not to lose it completely. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

He hums, like he already knows, and the vibrations are enough to send you over the edge.

Your entire body seizes, the pleasure shooting through you like lightning. You don't even know what's happening, if you're crying out or moaning or gasping or a mix of all three, but you can't focus, can't breathe, can't do anything other than let it rip through you, white-hot and fucking amazing.

By the time it finally fades, the aftershocks rolling through you, you're completely breathless. Your legs feel like jelly, your fingers are numb from gripping his hair, and you're positive that every nerve in your body is fried.

When Steve pulls away, sitting up, you look at him.

Your eyes are wide, your chest heaving, and it's only then that you notice the lopsided smile.

"Did I kill you?"

"Shut up," you mutter, your face flushing.

Steve's smirk widens. He crawls up, leaning in, his lips brushing against yours. "You taste amazing."

You're too weak, too fucked out to respond. All you can do is look at him, his mouth slightly parted in a loose smile, his lips shiny. And the fact that you're the reason, the fact that he was just between your legs, eating you out, is enough to make another pulse of warmth spread through your stomach.

Then, Steve looks down at you, his smile turning softer.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You good?"

You exhale. "Yeah. Just... a little lightheaded."

"Sorry," he says, not sorry at all. "I'll try not to be so good next time."

He grins in a way thats too sweet, too genuine, and then, he presses a kiss to your forehead. He shifts, pulling back, and you're about to ask what he's doing when he reaches for the nightstand. He opens the drawer, digging around, and you're about to ask him why he's suddenly acting so weird when he holds something up.

A condom.

Steve glances at you, and his face does that thing—that half-shy, half-smirking thing—like he's still trying to play it off.

"We don't have to," he says. "If you don't want."

You hesitate.

It's not like you've never thought about it. You've imagined him more times than you'd ever admit, late at night, under the cover of darkness, when it's just you and your own mind and the things you'd like to do. But now the guy is currently in front of you, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes of all time, as if he didn't just give you the best orgasm of your life with his tongue a few minutes ago.

Your heart stutters, and it's not because you're scared or nervous.

"Yeah," you say. "Okay."

Steve blinks, and then, he grins.

"Yeah?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes, asshole."

"Hey." He points a finger at you. "No name-calling while we're having sex."

You snort, and the laugh that follows makes him smile wider.

Then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses you.

The kiss is soft, gentle, almost hesitant, but you can taste yourself on his lips and it's enough to send a shockwave through your system. You wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and the second his bare skin presses against yours, the weight of him settling between your legs, the hardness of his cock pressing against your thigh, your pulse jumps.

Steve reaches for the button on his jeans, fumbling slightly, but once he's kicked them off, he's on you again. His body is warm, the skin soft under your hands, and his mouth finds yours, his kiss a little more desperate now, like he's trying to ground himself, his fingers sliding into your hair, nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

When you shift underneath him, spreading your legs, his breath hitches, the friction enough to make him grind into you. You bite back a whimper, arching into him, and when you reach between you, palming him through his boxers, his cock twitches.

"Off," you say, tugging the waistband. "Now."

Steve huffs a laugh against your mouth.

"Demanding."

But he doesn't hesitate.

He sits back, just enough to pull them off, and the second they're gone, you swallow.

Fuck.

Steve Harrington is a lot of things.

Gorgeous. Annoying. An absolute idiot.

But right now, you're noticing a whole new set of adjectives.

He's hard, the tip flushed and swollen, and he's a little bigger than you were expecting. He's lean and fit in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he reaches for the condom, and the sight is enough to make you a little dizzy.

"I can practically hear you thinking," he mutters, leaning in again, his mouth finding your jaw. And then, there's that stupid, cocky smirk. "Like what you see?"

"Absolutely not," you deadpan.

"Uh-huh." Steve's grin widens, but instead of saying anything else, he tears the wrapper open, rolls it on, and then, he's leaning in, bracing his weight over you. "You're cute when you're lying."

You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, and when he leans down, kissing you softly, his hand finds yours.

He tangles his fingers with yours, pressing them down into the mattress, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand.

"Still okay?"

His voice is different now. Quieter, softer.

And something about it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah."

"Tell me if it hurts."

You nod, and then, slowly, Steve pushes into you.

He goes slow, inch by inch, his gaze locked with yours. It's intense, overwhelming, and you can't tell if it's the fact that his eyes are so fucking pretty, or the way his fingers lace with yours, or the way his breath stutters a little when he bottoms out, but whatever it is, you feel it everywhere.

Steve holds still, letting you adjust, his chest rising and falling unsteadily, his eyes a little more focused now, and you know he's holding back.

"You can move," you whisper, squeezing his hand.

He exhales, nodding, and then, he does.

The first few thrusts are slow, experimental. He's careful, gentle, and the feeling of him, stretching you open, the way his hips meet yours, the way his hand finds your thigh, pulling it up and wrapping it around his waist, it's all so much.

But when Steve looks at you, his hair falling into his face, his eyes dark, the words slip out before you can stop them.

"Harder."

His rhythm stutters. He blinks.

And then, the corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"Yeah?" He pauses, the smirk spreading. "Are you sure? Cause you might not be able to walk tomorrow—"

"Oh my god, Harrington."

"You know, I think we're past the last name thing at this point."

You groan, burying your face in his neck. The laugh that escapes him is so fucking dumb and beautiful and perfect, and then, without warning, he slams into you.

"Jesus," you gasp, your body arching, fingers clutching onto his shoulders.

"Still not my name," he quips, and before you can respond, he keeps going, his hips snapping into yours, and the noise that slips out when his cock hits a certain spot is obscene.

It's different, being with Steve.

With anyone else, you're always a little guarded. Always a little reserved. Always trying to keep yourself in check, make sure your reactions aren't too exaggerated, make sure you're not too loud, not too much, not too needy. But with him, it's different.

There's none of that.

Right now, the only thing in your head is him.

The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, the softness of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his voice, low and breathy and perfect. His hand slides over your breast, cupping you, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the pleasure shoots straight through you.

And then, he leans down, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

"God, you're gorgeous." He hikes your leg higher, angling deeper, and the drag of his cock inside you is almost enough to send you over the edge. "So beautiful."

You whimper, the sound high and desperate, and his lips press against your neck.

"Could stay here forever," he murmurs, and then, his teeth graze your skin. "Inside you. Just like this."

"Steve," you gasp, your head falling back.

His name on your lips does something to him.

It's almost instinctive, the way his body moves, the way he fucks into you, his hips grinding against yours. His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand moving down, sliding along your hip, gripping your ass, and the way you react is perfect.

"Just like that, baby."

Steve keeps talking, his mouth running, whispering the most ridiculous things, like how he loves the way you feel and the way your nails drag over his shoulders and the way your breasts bounce when he fucks into you. And every single one of his stupid, filthy compliments has your body tensing, the heat building in your stomach.

Your legs are around his waist, the heels of your feet pressing into the small of his back, and when he leans forward, shifting the angle, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue swiping over your nipple, the sound that escapes is embarrassingly loud.

"Steve," you whine, the sound needy and desperate.

"I know," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "Fuck, I know."

Steve knows what he's doing. And the fact that he's got you wrapped around his finger, completely under his spell, makes him feel like he's on top of the fucking world.

His hips start to lose their rhythm, his movements getting a little sloppier, and when you start to tighten around him, the whimper he lets out is downright sinful. He leans back, his eyes meeting yours, and when his fingers find your clit, his touch firm, the feeling is enough to send you over the edge.

You don't even try to stop the moan, the sound slipping out, and then, the words.

"Don't stop." Your nails drag down his back, fingers curling, and Steve nearly loses it right there. "Steve, please. Don't stop."

"I won't." His voice is rough, the sound making you squeeze around him. "I won't."

And then, his mouth finds yours, and the second your lips part, the second his tongue slides against yours, the sensation is too much.

"Steve," you pant. "Fuck. Steve."

The sound of his name, over and over, coming out like a plea, is too much.

It's the combination of everything—the way your body arches, the way you clutch onto him, the way you squeeze around him, the way his name slips out.

"Shit," Steve groans. "I'm gonna—"

"Me, too," you gasp, and when you squeeze his hand, the orgasm ripping through you.

He chases after you, the pleasure slamming through him, his hips stuttering as he comes, his forehead falling against yours. Your names spill out, mixed together, and then, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex and his cologne mingling together, the faint buzz from the TV downstairs drifting through the room.

By the time Steve catches his breath, his head is spinning.

His limbs feel like jelly, and his arms shake slightly, his body half-collapsed on top of yours, the feeling of your bare skin against his making his pulse race. He doesn't pull out, doesn't move, just lets his forehead rest against yours, the sound of your breath the only thing keeping him tethered.

After a few moments, his brain finally catches up.

He leans back, watching you.

Your face is flushed, lips slightly parted, the light sheen of sweat on your skin making you glow. And the expression on your face—the blissed-out, relaxed, fucked-out expression—makes his stomach flip.

"Shit," Steve whispers.

And then, before he can stop himself, before he can think, he says, "I love you."

The words are quiet, a little shaky, and the second they slip out, his breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

Fuck.

He didn't mean to say it. Not now. Not like this.

The thought comes, unbidden, and then, he's hit with the realization.

Oh.

That's exactly what he meant.

Because it's true.

It's always been true.

Steve has said those words before, a handful of times, and each time, it never meant the same thing. The first time was in eighth grade, during a game of truth or dare. It was a joke, an inside-out version of the words that had everyone laughing. The second time was to a girl he dated briefly during sophomore year. He wasn't in love with her, not really, but the way she reacted, the way her entire face lit up, made him wish he was. And the third was to Nancy, when he was convinced it was true. That it would be true. Forever.

But the second it leaves his mouth, the second he says it now, the weight of the words settles over him.

It's heavy. Solid. Like the kind of thing that can't be taken back, the kind of thing that changes everything.

And when he looks at you, when he sees the way you stare back, the look in your eyes making his chest ache, the words hit him again.

He loves you.

"Fuck," Steve says, exhaling sharply. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—"

"You love me?"

Your voice is soft. Small. A little incredulous.

"I..." He pauses, looking at you.

You don't say anything, and Steve doesn't know if he's ever felt this fucking terrified in his entire life.

And then, slowly, your lips curve into a smile.

"You love me," you repeat, the smile spreading.

"Yeah."

"Like, love-love?"

"Oh, so ‘love love’ is okay to say, but ‘like like’ is childish?"

You ignore his call back. "Like, 'I want to hold your hand in public and fall asleep on the couch together and wake up with my face buried in your hair and spend the next ten years wondering what took us so long' love?"

The corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"All of the above."

Your heart jumps, and without thinking, you lean in, kissing him softly. When you lean back, Steve's eyes are a little wider, and the hope in his expression is almost painful.

"Do you...?"

You grin, and the second the words slip out, you know they're true.

"Yeah. Iove you too, Harrington."

"Hey," he starts, tilting his head. "I told you, we're past the last name thing."

"Fine," you say, rolling your eyes. Your face softens as you meet his gaze, and you move your hand to fix some of the hair stuck to his forehead. "I love you, Steve."

He's never loved his name more.

"So," you start, "where does that leave us now?"

"Well, according to my calculations, you are currently in my bed, naked, and I am stil insi-" he pauses, realization hitting him. "Oh my god. I told you I loved you for the first time while I was still inside of you. What kind of maniac does that?"

"Is this what love is like for you?"

"Oh shut up," Steve says, smiling, and finally, he pulls out.

He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and then, without looking, he reaches for your hand.

"How about," he says, squeezing lightly, "we sleep, and then, tomorrow, we can talk about all the ways we're going to tell our friends and make them suffer?"

You snort, looking over at him. He's taking the condom off, tying it off, and then, he tosses it into the trashcan beside the bed. He turns back, shifting closer, and the fact that you're both naked, in bed, post-coitus, isn't lost on you.

"And the day after that," he adds, pulling you closer, "we can spend the entire day here, naked, in this bed, and we'll figure out a new plan."

"A new plan?"

"Yeah."

He's so close, his nose brushing against yours, and when his eyes flick between yours, there's a look there. A promise.

"We can make a new plan every day," Steve says, his voice a little lower, "for as long as you want."

And then, he kisses you, and it feels a little like the world shifts.

It's a small shift, just enough for everything to click into place.

Because now, everything is different.

Everything is new.

It's a promise.

And when Steve pulls away, when his eyes meet yours, when he smiles, a little crooked, a little sleepy, a little in love, you can't help but smile back.

[lucydixon]

Casual pt.1

Summary: You discover that your two, not so casual fuck buddies not only know each other, but live and work together.

This will be a miniseries bc I just cannot help myself, after this, y'all will get flashbacks to the nights the reader met each boy, then the aftermath of your discovery. You can thank @thetobaccotornado for the brilliant idea bc they made a request that I have not been able to stop thinking about for like 2 weeks.

You hadn’t realized that Faust and Euronymous knew eachother when you’d started seeing them. 

It was just supposed to be casual sex with both of them, but you just kept coming back for more, and pretty soon you were in a little deeper than you’d planned.  

Eventually, it got to a point where you were seeing them on alternating nights every week. You couldn’t decide which one you liked more, and you could tell that they were starting to get attached.

To be fair, so were you. 

It had been an offhanded comment made by Faust while the two of you were lying in your bed that had connected the dots in a sudden, horrifying moment of realization. 

You’d just finished fucking and he had one arm around you while his other hand played with a strand of your hair. Your head was resting on his chest, and you were enjoying his warmth. 

Faust always tended to ramble after sex, telling you all about his band and gigs he’d recently been to. 

He kept asking if you wanted to go to the next one with him, and you kept making excuses as to why you couldn’t. 

To be fair, you had told him from the jump that you weren’t looking for anything serious, and certainly not exclusivity.  You’d known just from the look on his face after you’d said it that he didn’t just do casual hookups, but you’d taken him home after he’d unconvincingly told you that it was fine anyway. 

Then he’d fucked your brains out so lovingly that you couldn’t see him as a stranger anymore and you’d let him stay the night like an idiot. 

When you were kicking him out in the morning, he’d kissed you at the door and asked if he could maybe get your phone number. 

You’d given it to him, of course, you had. How could you not when those big brown eyes were boring back down into yours? 

He’d called you not even an hour later when he got home and asked if you wanted to hang out again. 

You tried to remind him that you weren’t looking for a boyfriend, but he reassured you that it was fine. You’d told him that if he came over the following night, it would just be to fuck. 

You’d said it so bluntly that he flinched on the other end of the line, but he still said he wanted to see you and that he could handle it. 

Euronymous was supposed to be a palate cleanser. 

You needed to make sure that you understood that what you were doing with Faust was as casual as you insisted it was after you’d started seeing eachother two or three times a week. You had to prove to yourself that you weren’t tied down and figured that the best way to do that was to go out and fuck someone else. 

You’d met him at a bar and let him buy you a drink. 

Him, you hadn’t been worried about when it came to keeping things casual. 

He wasn’t as soft as Faust and had fucked you into the matress roughly and left immediately after. 

No cuddling, no post-sex kissing, and no asking for your phone number when he was leaving. 

But then he showed up on your doorstep a few days later, thankfully on a night when you didn’t have Faust over, and had grabbed you by the back of the neck and slammed his lips onto yours the second you’d opened the door.  

He fucked you in the hallway, then toyed with you for an hour on the couch untill you were begging him to stop. 

That time, you’d given him your number and told him to call next time. You couldn’t have him just showing up unannounced. 

He just kept getting softer. Every time, he fucked you just as hard, but then he’d started holding you afterwards and eventually started staying the night and kissing you goodbye just like Faust did. 

Now, you were stuck with two lovers who felt a little too much like boyfriends, unable to stop seeing either of them. 

On the night in question, Faust let it slip that he worked in a record store that one of his friends owned and told you that you should come check it out sometime. 

Your heart had started racing almost immediately. 

The night you’d met Euronymous, he’d told you proudly that he had his own record store and it was the only one of its kind, specially tailored towards metalheads. 

Metalheads like Faust. 

“A record store?” You swallowed thickly, trying to keep your voice neutral. “That’s cool.” 

“You think so?” He smiled softly, out of view. “My friend Euronymous opened it a while ago, and I’ve worked there from the start. He’s got a label that he runs out of the store, too, it’s really cool.” 

Your eyes widened, and you were so glad that he couldn’t see your face from this angle. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

“I just remembered that my mom is coming over.” You shot up into a sitting position, scrambling to find your clothes and get dressed while he watched, clearly startled. “You have to go.” 

“Your mom is coming over?” his brows pulled together as he glanced over at the clock. “At two in the morning.” 

“Yeah.” You pulled yourself to your feet and started gathering his clothes for him, throwing them onto the bed. “And I’d rather not still have a booty call here when she does.” 

You didn’t have to look to know that Faust looked like a kicked puppy, hurt and confused by your sudden cold tone. 

You couldn’t bear to look at him and just muttered something about needing to tidy up the kitchen before rushing out of the room. 

You saw him shuffling out of your room a few minutes later, out of the corner of your eye, and noticeably stiffened. You could tell without even looking at him fully that he was waiting for you to say something. An explanation, maybe, or even a goodbye, but he got neither. 

You just continued moving things around on the counter. 

He hesitated in the doorway, but stopped himself from reaching out for you and let his shoulders slump forward on his way to the door. 

When the door slammed shut and he was gone, you threw the loaf of bread in your hands at the wall with a frustrated grunt. 

“Fuck!” you muttered, letting your head fall in your hands. 

It had physically hurt to ice him out like that, but you needed to be alone with your thoughts right that fucking second and it was the easiest way to get him out. 

You were going to have to pick one. 

But how the fuck were you supposed to do that?

You still didn’t want a boyfriend. 

Didn’t want someone to hang around during the day or to take you on dates. 

You could acknowledge that it hadn’t just been sex with either of them for some time now, but it wasn’t a full-blown relationship either.  

What you really wanted was to keep doing what you were doing. 

Keep seeing both boys and just hope that they never find out about eachother. But now, knowing that they were friends and likely saw eachother every day, you were sure that it wouldn’t be long before they figured it out, even if you stayed as far away from that god forsaken store as possible. 

You felt like such an idiot. 

You didn’t know much about metal music other than you seemed to really have a thing for it’s fans, but you were very much aware of how tiny the scene was in Oslo and decided to pick two metalheads as fuck buddies anyway. 

Of course, they knew eachother. 

You groaned and slunk off to bed to stare at the ceiling and go over your options. 

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[karver518]

SOOO guess who had another dream about Shadow Milk Cookie and Dreamweavers!! It’s SUPER long this time because I had a super long nap, so be prepared for that. 

So, Shadow Milk Cookie accidentally introduced Dreamweaver Y/N to Pure Vanilla Cookie a while ago due to Y/N falling out of Shadow Milk’s hair when he and PV were talking to each other, and Shadow Milk was not happy about it whatsoever, since he was really hoping that Y/N would never meet Pure Vanilla at all. He started to become especially unhappy about PV and Y/N meeting because Y/N was slowly spending more time with PV than him, and to him, that meant that Y/N was eventually going to abandon him.

Instead of talking to Y/N about that, though, Shadow Milk decided to sulk in his spire and think all of the worst thoughts he could about himself and Y/N hanging out with Pure Vanilla while watching them spend time with each other, and Y/N isn’t talking to Shadow Milk about hanging out with Pure Vanilla more because Shadow Milk hasn’t said anything about it yet so they think everything is perfectly fine (small confession here I hate the miscommunication trope so bad. Why was it in my dream, then? I don’t know. I love making myself suffer, I guess. ;◅;)

At some point, Y/N comes back from hanging out with PV, and Shadow Milk is just. Absolutely suffering. That’s the best way I can put it. Y/N wants to know what’s wrong, but before they can do anything, Shadow Milk decides to lash out at them and tell them that if he knew they would replace him with a worse version of himself the first chance they got, then he wishes he never met them at all. Y/N tries to explain themself so that Shadow Milk understands he’s not being replaced, but Shadow Milk wants them out of his spire completely, so they leave. 

Shadow Milk and Y/N don’t talk to each other for several days, and Shadow Milk is starting to regret saying what he did, because he misses Y/N’s company a lot. But he’ll never admit that at all, ‘cause man who likes having emotions amirite?? At least he doesn’t admit that until Pure Vanilla eventually comes over to his spire and tells him that Y/N has been very, very upset about him not wanting them around anymore. But Shadow Milk acts like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, because why would Y/N care about him anymore? They’ve got Pure Vanilla now, and they obviously like him much more. But Pure Vanilla explains that that’s not true, because the reason they wanted to hang out with Pure Vanilla so much is because Y/N needed his help to make gifts for Shadow Milk to thank them for his hospitality toward them, but they couldn’t do it themselves because they’re much too small to make the gifts they wanted to. 

And while Shadow Milk is feeling even worse about what he said to Y/N because he realized that he essentially kicked out someone who genuinely cared about him, Pure Vanilla is giving him some of the gifts he and Y/N were making for him, which were a thank you letter and a plush of Y/N. Pure Vanilla then starts talking about a bouquet that he and Y/N didn’t get to finish because Shadow Milk kicked them out, but as he’s talking about it, Y/N is behind him, dragging the bouquet across the floor (because like the other gifts, it’s huge and they’re really, really small) PV sees this and picks them up along with the bouquet, and hands them to Shadow Milk, who is now deeply apologizing for everything he said. Y/N accepts the apology and gives him a lil smooch on the hand. I don’t remember much else after that but I remember Shadow Milk saying something like “you’re so tiny, how am I going to give you a kiss too?” and Y/N was blushing quite a lot because he was apparently looking at their lips.

ANYWAY I’m so sorry this was so long but I really hope you enjoyed this!! As I said before, I���ll definitely let you know if I have any more dreams regarding your au!

I just woke up and holy shit, woah even