#driving miss tina | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tropes-and-tales · 6 months ago

Text

Don't Gloat

(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)

CW: Richie being Richie, swearing, mild violence (a misunderstanding), smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 7289

AN: Requested by an anonymous person, place, or thing!

AN2: Drabble? I don't know her, apparently.

Your first real fight is over chicken.

You squabble, pretty much from day one. Carmy hires you to help in the kitchen, and Richie immediately takes an intense dislike to you. Adding you upsets the delicate ecosystem of The Beef. You are unnecessary. Richie makes it known on your first day.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns an hour into service. “Cousin doesn’t run things.”

“Seems like he does,” you shoot back.

“I’m the manager here.”

Here is where the dislike really starts. Richie is rude and sarcastic, but you’re a chameleon. You can shift and change your demeanor to match what someone is giving you, so when Richie is rude and sarcastic to you, you respond in kind.

You call him “Mister Manager” in a tone dripping with sarcasm, and by the end of that first shift, Richie completely hates you.

The feeling is mutual by the end of your second shift.

At first, you just squabble. You trade barbs and insults. When Richie throws a temper tantrum over Carmy’s organization of the spices, you pout and turn to Ibra and posit that Richie is grumpy because he needs a juice box and a nap. Which makes Ibra cock his head at you. He speaks English impeccably, but sometimes he misses the finer nuances of language like sarcasm.

“I do not think we have juice boxes here,” Ibra says, and Tina swats him as she walks past.

“She’s being sarcastic, you old bitch,” she tells him.

The allusion to Richie being a toddler isn’t far off. He acts childish all the time. He flings cookware around when he’s having a tantrum. He swears, he throws out middle fingers like an angry pre-teen.

He hides your expensive Henckles knives. He turns the heat up or down when your back is turned. Once, he parks you in behind The Beef, and when you go to leave, he’s nowhere to be found—you end up doing a thirty-six point turn, a fraction at a time, before you can properly pull out and drive away.

But your first real fight is over chicken.

The meat delivery is wrong one day. You’re short on beef, but there’s five whole chickens, and Carmy throws up his hands and tells you to come up with something.

So you do.

You roast them low and slow so they stay tender, and you’re putting the finishing touches on the sauce—an adobo-based barbeque that’s the perfect blend of tangy and smoky—when Richie strolls in. He’s in his stupid leather jacket and ridiculous blue track pants, and he announces himself with his usual grinning, “what’s up, you fucking lizards?”

Sweeps and Manny call out their hellos, but Richie ignores them. He’s already super-focused on you…and the sauce you’re stirring over a low heat.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks. He stands too close to you, dips his head close to the pot, and takes a loud sniff of it. Then rears back with a grimace, like you’re simmering a pot of shit and not a finely balanced sauce for your roasting chickens.

“It’s barbeque sauce. For the chicken.”

“What fucking chicken?”

“Meat delivery was fucked up,” Carmy calls across the kitchen.

Richie scoffs and turns to Carmy, and he gestures at you and your sauce. “No offence, Cousin, but the place is called ‘The Beef.’”

“No offence, Cousin, but fuck off,” Carmy replies.

“Heaven forbid we try something new,” you add. You snap the heat off and settle a lid over the pot to allow the flavors time to mellow together. Once the chicken is done, you’ll shred it and mix it in. You have a red cabbage slaw planned for it, and thin slices of sharp cheddar to round it out. You turn towards the refrigerator, but Richie blocks your path.

“Nothing Italian about whatever the fuck that is.” He glares down at you; he’s half a head taller than you, but he has a way of puffing out his chest like a bantam rooster spoiling for a fight.

Maybe other people are cowed by his posturing, but you’re unimpressed and not scared at all.

“It’s about as Italian as ‘Jerimovich.’”

His chest puffs out more, and he takes a half step closer to you. This close, you can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to him, the old man cologne he splashes on with a heavy hand, the subtler scent of laundry detergent.

“People come here every day and get the same thing,” he says. “Same order every fuckin’ day. No one is gonna order whatever fancy Noma bullshit you’re trying to pull out of your ass.”

You take a half step up to him and puff out your chest, and it makes Richie falter for a moment. He leans back, just a fraction, but you note the movement and smirk up at him. You reach out and poke him in the sternum with a forefinger, driving home each point.

“One, this isn’t Noma bullshit. It’s literally slow-roasted chicken. Two, it’s a pretty simple sauce. Maybe it seems fancy to you because it’s more challenging to your palate than chicken nuggets. Three, some customers might appreciate a change in their usual lunch order. Not everyone is so resistant to change, Cousin.”

Your use of the familiar nickname makes his nostrils flare and his eyes widen in anger. “I’m not your fucking Cousin.”

“Sure you are, Cousin.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll save you a sandwich, Cousin.” The thought occurs to you that you’re being childish now, that Richie has brought out some immature part of you, and you think it’s kinda fun, being a juvenile brat at work and leaning into the fight.

“Fucking stop it.”

“Stop what, Cousin?”

He turns away from you so quick, it makes you blink in surprise. “Fucking bitch,” he mutters to himself, but he’s striding across the kitchen towards the office, and he’s calling for Carmy, so you follow at his heels and call for Carmy too.

“Yo, Cousin, can you fucking fire her already? Jesus fucking Christ, I—” he starts, but you cut him off, mimic his growling voice and Chicago accent.

“Yo, Carmy, when are we gonna fire Richie already? I mean, the place is changing—”

It makes Richie go fully nuclear. The mention of change makes him apoplectic. He turns and crowds you against the door jamb, and he gets right in your face: so close that you can see his eyes aren’t completely blue—they are flecked with grey, like bits of mica in pavement. You’re startled for a moment, surprised to find that his eyes are beautiful, but you obviously don’t say anything because he’s snarling in your face.

“Fuck you!” he spits out, and he points a finger inches from your face. “Fuck you! Nothin’ is changin’ here! Nothin’ needs to change!”

And then he gives you his patented Richie double-chin flick, and he mutters some Italian insult you don’t know, and he’s marching through the kitchen to leave.

Not before he sweeps your mise en place off the counter, sending thin-sliced cabbage and vinegar flying.

Carmy stares at you with a look that is purely beleaguered. He sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands, and he runs them through his hair before he sighs again.

“Whatever you and Richie have going on? Squash that shit, Chef.”

You nod, embarrassed at rising—or sinking—to Richie’s childishness. “Yes, Chef,” you reply.

-----

“Squashing it” mostly means that you and Richie only fight when Carmy isn’t within earshot.

Your fighting still entails getting in each other’s faces. It still means you insult each other, albeit more quietly. You hiss insults at him, he grumbles them back. You part when Carmy shows up, and you each stew in your separate corners and wait for the next round.

You start to suss out where the limits are. You insult him as a father one single time, and the flash of hurt on his face makes you hold up your hands in a truce and apologize.

He insults you once as a woman with daddy issues, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You did grow up without a father—he died when you were six, and your only memories of him are full of pain from the stomach cancer that slowly killed him. But you must show the hurt on your face too because Richie takes a step backwards away from you, stammers out an apology too.

All told, once you know each other’s hard limits, you actually fight pretty nicely, and if anyone notices it, no one says anything.

-----

Sunday nights are a good time to come in to The Beef and set yourself up for the week. You work it out with Carmy because it gives him a break and gives you a few more hours. You enjoy the time there with the restaurant being closed—you blast your music, you sing along at the top of your lungs as you rotate stock, make detailed shopping lists for Carmy, and make sure everything is clean.

If one thing infuriates you, it’s the way certain national media outlets focus on Chicago as a cesspool of violence. But it is a large city, and violence does happen, so when you’re in the basement of The Beef and hear the beep of the alarm system as it is deactivated, you immediately feel ice cold all over. The alarm system, Ibra told you once, is easily overcome, and The Beef has been robbed before.

You glance around and see that you’re trapped, unless you want to rush up the steps (not advisable) or shimmy out a tiny window at street level (also not advisable). There’s nothing in the way of weapons in the basement either, so you arm yourself with a half-burnt cookie sheet and tremble as you listen to the heavy tread above you.

Maybe they’ll just trash the place and leave. There’s nothing worth stealing, unless they want to wheel out the massive, ancient Hobart. Maybe they’ll get into Marcus’s stash of good vanilla. Maybe they’ll—

Maybe they’ll make their way to the top of the stairs. Maybe they’ll pause there and start walking down to where you wait. You try not to breathe too loud, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your pulse is in your ears, and you’re flooded with adrenaline as the shoes of your would-be assailant come into view.

You don’t hear Richie’s voice when he calls out your name. You’re too panicked. You don’t hear him, and you don’t even register him when he rounds the corner—he’s in his usual track pants and leather jacket—because you’re fully in fight-or-flight mode…and independent of your will, your body chooses fight.

“Fuck you!” you scream, and you swing the cookie sheet directly at his head with all the force you can muster. Your assailant stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, and you drop the pan and try to scramble past him, but you trip over his foot in your panic and fall hard, cracking your shinbone against the lowest step.

If you ever idly wondered how you’d react in a real life-or-death scenario, here is your answer: you scream and scream, and you clutch one hand to your throbbing shin but flail your other hand at the person reaching for you, and it’s not until you smell him—the familiar cigarette/old man cologne smell—that your panic ebbs a little.

And then you see those blue eyes flecked with grey, and even if Richie is your enemy at work, he’s never really been an enemy in the true sense of the word. The relief that you aren’t about to be raped or murdered floods you so suddenly that you burst into tears.

And then you hug him, your arms so tight around his middle that he breathes out a sharp oof, but then he wraps one arm around your trembling form while the other clutches his bleeding nose in an attempt to staunch the blood.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks. His voice is thick and nasally, but there’s a hint of amusement to it.

“Thought you were an intruder.” You release him from your hold, and you will yourself to stop shaking.

“Carmy.” He shakes his head. “Guess Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole didn’t tell you I was coming by.”

“He did not.”

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled napkin. He presses it to his nose and winces, and your panic is replaced by shame. You’ll never live this down, you realize. Richie is going to tell everyone first thing tomorrow, and he’ll add his usual Richie flourishes to make your screams more shrill, your flailing more erratic in the retelling.

His nose stops bleeding, and he checks it tentatively. He prods at the swollen skin, red that is going to bruise by morning. He fixes you with a curious look.

“You hit harder than I would have thought.”

“I play softball.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park. At the North Avenue fields.”

He huffs at that. Clears his throat. “Yeah, my daughter has t-ball there.”

Your panic is gone now, and you feel more like yourself. Your leg throbs at where you banged it, and it will be bruised by morning like Richie’s face. You limp over to the big table and gather up your coat and purse.

“Don’t do that,” you tell Richie.

“Do what?”

“Don’t…whatever. Talk to me nice. Tell me about your daughter. Don’t do that.”

He snorts and says, “why the fuck not?”

“Because we’re not friends, and you scared the shit out of me, and now I’m all keyed up and just want to get home instead of having an impromptu bonding session with the one guy at The Beef who truly, honesty hates me.”

“Alright, fine. You’re a fucking head-case to freak out the way you did, and I think you broke my fucking nose. Better?”

It startles a laugh out of you, and your laughter makes Richie grin. It’s shy, and he ducks his head, but you catch it all the same.

He clears his throat again, then asks if you drove there. You tell him no—you had a premium parking spot on your street, so you took the L. He nods at that, and he seems to be thinking through something, so you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder and wait for him to say something.

“Let me drive you home, at least, “he finally offers. “You’re all sorts of fucked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. Someone looks at you wrong on the train, gonna catch an assault charge.”

“You’d love to see me in prison,” you reply. “Out of your way. No one left to defiantly make a delicious chicken sandwich special and destroy the system here.”

“Asshole.” He shakes his head, then gestures for you to take the stairs ahead of him. “I’m driving you home. Let’s go.”

You can’t admit that a ride sounds fantastic. You do feel keyed up, anxious and twitchy, and even if it’s Richie, you’re grateful for the offer.

Even so, as you limp upstairs, the pain in your leg makes it easier to admit to him. You turn as he resets the alarm, and you thank him, softly.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” He points at his car, then grumbles, “c’mon already.”

-----

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Sunday evenings become yours and Richie’s thing. The work should go twice as fast, but Richie doesn’t work so much as… not work. He leans in the doorway of the walk-in as you take inventory, he perches on the counter as you make giardiniera for the next day. He sits in the office as you write out the order list for Carmy, and he gripes about how long you’re taking, how he has better things to do.

If that were true, why does he spend every Sunday with you? You doubt Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole told him to, yet he shows up every week and complains the entire time. He complains the entire drive to your place, and when you thank him for the ride, he either flips you off or makes a jacking-off motion with his hand before he peels away from your curb.

“You almost done?” he asks now. “Got shit to do.”

“You don’t have shit to do.” You check the takings from last week, do a quick calculation in the margin of the print-out. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

“Why, you afraid I might introduce a dish that isn’t entirely Italian-American approved?”

He grumbles, “nothin’ needs to change. Menu’s fine the way it is.”

“You really don’t have to stay, Richie. I can handle myself.”

“Bullshit you can.” He leans forward, taps the side of his nose. “You handle yourself so well, you dislocated my fucking nose.”

“And it gave your face some character,” you retort.

“What’s wrong with my face?”

You glance at him, roll your eyes. “Aside from the fact it’s always in my face, glaring or stirring up shit? Nothing.”

He leans back in his chair again and sighs. “I don’t stir up shit.”

“You do.”

“Don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I fucking don’t.”

“You talk way too much, Richard.”

“Don’t call me fucking Richard. You sound like my asshole mother-in-law.” He pauses, then amends it to, “my former asshole mother-in-law.”

A long beat of silence passes. You calculate the meat order, the vegetables, the shelf stable stuff. You balance out the order against where there’s already overdue bills—Carmy is juggling the vendors as best he can, and you try to give him relief where you can—

“Done yet?”

“Nope.” You cross out the one line for the produce vendor, split it between two vendors. “What are you in such a hurry for?”

“Told you. I got stuff to do.”

You glance over at him. He does seem more keyed up. His leg bounces up and down, and he wrings his hands in his lap.

“What sort of stuff?” you ask.

He mumbles his answer, and you miss it at first. When you arch an eyebrow at him, he repeats it. An embarrassed, “got a date.”

You pause in your writing and turn to face him. Fak told you once about Richie’s imploded marriage, and he had heavily implied that Richie was still pining for his ex-wife. “A date?”

He shrugs. “Kind of a date.”

“What’s kind of a date?”

Another shrug, and he fixes his gaze to the dirty tile floor. “We went out last week, and we talked about grabbing a drink tonight. I was gonna text her after I drop you off.”

“Sounds like a regular date to me.”

He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lets them fall again. “I dunno. Wasn’t really feeling it, you know?”

You turn completely to face him, your list forgotten. “Then why agree to a second date?”

Another shrug, a sheepish lift and fall of his shoulders. The two of you are toeing the line of near-friendship, your usual squabbling turning into an honest-to-god friendly chat, but maybe Richie doesn’t have any confidants in his life, because he sighs, then mutters about how she seemed cold, how she wasn’t charmed by his Bill Murray voicemail greeting story, but how he thought he should try anyway—

“Richie, I’m not your gal pal in a rom-com, but if you aren’t feeling it, don’t do it. Jesus, that’s just common sense.”

He fixes you with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a goddamned relationship expert.”

“It’s common sense.”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

You bristle at the question. Your love life is about as dead as The Beef’s commercial credit, but Richie doesn’t need to know that. But you hesitate long enough that he can guess, and he laughs at you, and you bristle more.

“I knew it!” He points at you, and you swat at his hand until he lowers it. “You give off this whole ‘hasn’t been laid in a long time’ vibe.”

You turn away from him and bend your head back to your ordering list. “Shut up,” you mumble.

“All those prissy little dishes you add to the menu. You’re all wound up. It makes sense.”

“My culinary excellence has nothing to do with my love life or lack thereof.” You hope your tone is even and nonchalant, but you fear it comes out as defensive. Which it must, because Richie holds up his hands again.

“No judgement. It’s tough out there. I get it.”

You groan and turn away from him, twisting yourself to get his smirking face out of your peripheral. “You should leave. Go get ready for your kind-of date.”

“Nah.”

“Seriously, you can go.”

“Nah.” You hear his deep breath, then a beat later, he continues.

“If you ever want to blow off some steam, we could…” He trails off, but his intent is clear, and you feel a prickly heat break out across your skin.

“…shut up, Richie.”

You turn a little and he reappears in your peripherals. He presses his hands together in a prayer position, then presses his fingertips near his mouth in an expression of thoughtfulness.

“Shut up, Richie isn’t no, Richie.”

“It’s most certainly no, Richie.”

“Look at me.”

“I gotta finish this list and send it to Carmy—”

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You can’t. You stare at your handwriting—the 50 pounds of cake flour Marcus needs—and you feel yourself heating up at the sudden image of you and Richie—no, you shove the mental image away, shake your head to clear it, and the man notices all of it.

“Why can’t you look at me?” he asks, and his voice is soft, low. A graveled rumble, roughened by the cigarettes he chain-smokes when he’s not inside, and you don’t know if it really has been that long, but it’s a step-progression of reactions in your body. The prickle of heat along your skin, the way your skin feels too tight. The way your mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.

The strong, traitorous pulse of desire between your legs. Fuck.

“Wouldn’t have to mean anything,” he continues with that low voice. “No one would have to know.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Still not hearing a no, sweetheart.”

You breathe in deeply through your nose, then turn to face him squarely. You look him right in his eyes—those bright blue eyes, flecked with grey, beautiful—and say, “No, Richie.”

He stares back at you, and a smile slowly unfurls across his face. A real smile, not his usual shit-eating grin or smarmy smirk. A real smile that, paired with his gorgeous eyes, makes his face transform into something beautiful. It’s like he’s lifted his mask for a moment and is showing you who he really is.

“You’re tempted.” He sounds in awe of the revelation, and he leans back against the wall. “Holy shit, you’re really tempted by it.”

“No, I’m—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off. “You are.” His smile stays fixed on his face, and he shakes his head. “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

You grumble out the weakest rebuttal, but he only laughs and shakes his head again, and the last half hour is passed in uncomfortable silence: you as you email the shopping list to Carmy with hands you will into steadiness, and Richie as he grins at you and chuckles to himself.

Of course he drives you home, just as he always does.

And of course he parks his car and comes up to your apartment when you invite him up, which is a first.

*****

A therapist would have a lifetime of secure business if Richie ever decided to pursue therapy for himself. Not that he would—feelings are bullshit, and life is tough all over—but if he did…there’d be a lot of deep shit to mine.

At the core of him, Richie is desperately insecure. He had a dicey childhood, and he glommed on the Berzatto family to make up for his own family’s shortcomings. He had Tiff, for a glorious while, then lost her. He has his daughter, but only part-time. He lost Mikey, the nearest thing to a brother, and now he’s slowly losing The Beef as it becomes something more than a sandwich shop.

No wonder he feels lost all the time. No wonder he lashes out and hurts those closest to him.

No wonder he’s been riding your ass for months, trying to get you to quit even as his initial dislike has mellowed out to acceptance and then to…something else he won’t name.

He can’t lie to himself: that night in the basement shifted things. Maybe you concussed him along with the dislocated nose. Maybe he has slight brain damage. He can’t account for it any other way, how seeing you so terrified caused a sea-change in him. How feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.

He won’t name it. He won’t even think it. The most he’ll admit is, “maybe I don’t completely hate her.”

Which somehow turns into this moment. The two of you awkwardly standing in your entryway, unsure if the other is bluffing, unsure if the other is serious. There’s too much bad blood in your shared past, and you each are expecting the other to say “sike!,” to turn it into a humiliating story to share in the morning with the crew.

You’re both wrong.

“So, uh, nice place.” He looks around your apartment and rubs the back of his neck. “You got a lot of books.”

“I like to read.”

“Yeah. Nice.” He takes a few steps deeper into your place, and he studies the titles on the nearest bookshelf. “Stephen King. Clive Barker. You like the spooky shit, huh?”

“Nothing as scary as being ambushed in the basement at night by you.”

He snorts, shakes his head. As he’s softened towards you, your teasing has gotten gentler too. You’ve always rose to meet his energy, and now that he’s not actively despising you (he won’t name it, he will not), you aren’t actively despising him.

“Nothing as scary as seeing a giant fucking sheet pan flying at your face—”

You cut him off. “Okay, Richie. Enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Enough words. More action.” You face him and lift your eyebrows challengingly. “Unless this was all a ruse.”

He shakes his head.

“Unless this is just a prank to embarrass me later.”

He shakes his head again, and he flexes his hands along his sides. He’s itching to reach out and touch you—he remembers the feel of you in his arms, the way you tucked so perfectly against him when you were scared. You had been relieved to see it had been him; you had felt safe enough to reach for him, and he’s been chasing that high ever since. A therapist would make short work of this moment, but Richie wants to feel important to you again. He wants to feel like you need him to protect you, to shelter you. He wants to feel like a man, needed, necessary—

You’re talking but he doesn’t register the words. Instead, he reaches for you, pulls you to him, and when you look up at him in surprise, he dips his head and kisses you.

It’s brutal at first. He’s out of practice. He’s certainly never kissed someone like you—someone so infuriatingly challenging—and he mashes his lips too hard against yours, can feel your wince as you struggle to kiss him back. So he breaks the kiss and tries again, much more carefully, and it’s so much better: the softness of your lips, the quiet moan you give as you kiss him back.

Maybe you need it bad, but he needs it just as bad, and when he considers why he does, he pushes the thought away completely. Because if he thinks on it too much in this moment, if he thinks on how good it feels, the way you tug at his clothes—eager but shy, your hands steady but your eyes unable to meet his—he’d have to face an uncomfortable truth.

Still, he needs to see you. Needs to look you in the eye. He grasps your chin and tilts your face until you’re looking at him.

“You okay with this?” He says it softly. He says it as kindly as he can.

“Yeah.” You nod, then add, “no one needs to know, right?”

“Right.”

“No one needs to know.”

“Exactly.”

You offer him a smile, and it’s genuine. It’s not your normal smart-ass smirk, the way one corner of your mouth lifts higher than the other. It’s a real smile, and he has to push that uncomfortable truth away again because if you’re cute when you smirk, you’re beautiful when you smile, and Richie can’t dwell on the fact.

“C’mon then, Richard. Bedroom’s this way.”

“Asshole,” he huffs out, but you push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, and you tug him down your hallway.

You alternate and he lets you strip him and yourself—a piece of his clothing, a piece of yours. You leave a trail so that you’re both nearly naked once you’re in the bedroom. He stands in front of you, his boxers tented, and he takes in the sight of you. In standard, everyday lingerie—dark grey bra and panties—but the everyday shit makes his mouth run dry. Elaborate lingerie is not really his thing, but seeing a woman in her everyday shit, the comfortable cotton shit…that feels more special, somehow. Like you woke up that morning and put on the functional stuff, but now here you are, nearly naked for him.

You always rise to meet his energy. He’s openly ogling you now, and you gaze back at him, openly staring back. He has a moment of doubt—maybe he should lift more, cut back on beers after work—but your eyes are blown dark with desire, and it makes his cock twitch to see it.

You seem to want him as much as he wants you.

“C’mere, you fucking pain in the ass,” he growls, and you roll your eyes but bridge the distance between you. You press the length of your near-naked body against his, and the sudden touch makes him bite back a groan. He puts his hands on your waist, and you lay your palms against his chest, and you kiss again.

The kiss grows and grows. He bullies his way into your mouth, sweeps his tongue and licks against your mouth, and you answer in kind. You kiss him back, and your hands stroke his chest, his shoulders, his arms. One snakes lower and grasps him through his boxers, and he swears against your lips at the feel of your palm stoking him.

He pushes you backwards towards the bed. He pushes you until you hit the bed, and then he pushes you down, but you reach out and grasp him golden chain and tug him down to join you.

You always rise to meet him. He takes charge and slots himself between your legs, but you move eagerly. When he lowers himself onto you, still partially dressed, you lift yourself up and press against him. Your clothed breasts against his chest, and he dips his head and tugs the cups of your bra down until you’re exposed to him. He lowers his head and kisses you, works his mouth against you. He sucks a mark on each curve of your breast, right where your bra will cover. He wants you to see them and think of him, a pair of mementos to this moment.

“Fuck, Richie.” You breathe it out, and your hand cups the back of his head. You hold him against you, and he’s too happy to stay here for a while: sucking against your nipples, biting lightly until you squirm. Laving your tender buds with the flat of his tongue, pinching and tugging until you shove him away with a groan.

“Too much,” you whine, but you tangle in his chain again and tug his mouth to yours. He kisses you, relishes how flushed your skin feels under his lips as he kisses his way across your face, down your neck, across your bare shoulders. He pauses long enough to undo your bra in earnest, tosses it aside. Then he kisses his way down your chest again, traces his tongue further down to your soft belly until his chin is perched right on the waistband of your panties.

“Can I?” he asks. He traces a finger under the lace edging, and he watches your face. You gaze back at him, your eyes still dark and pupils blown. Your lips are swollen, and your chest rises and falls with how hard you’re breathing.

You nod. ��You can take them off.”

“Is that it? Nothing else?”

You laugh, breathless. “Some other time. Really want you to fuck me instead.”

Some other time. The thought makes Richie’s dick twitch at the idea of doing this another time.

You feel him twitch against you. You laugh again to feel it, and you lift a leg to hook it clumsily along the waistband of his boxers. You try to push them down, and then you’re chanting “come on, come on, come on” as he scrambles to shuck off the rest of his clothing, scrambles to hook his fingers under your panties as he draws them down your legs.

“Condoms in the bedside stand,” you tell him, and he opens the drawer, snags one. He notes the bright pink vibrator there but doesn’t remark on it. He’ll tuck the image away and revisit it days later in the shower: a rich bit of fantasy where he pictures you masturbating to the thought of him.

He tears the foil with his teeth, and he watches you as he rolls the condom on himself. You’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, better than he ever imagined, and a galling little voice in the back of his head asks, “so you’ve been imagining her, huh, asshole?”

He ignores the voice and what it might say next. He stands over you and asks instead, “how do you want me, sweetheart?”

Another smile. A genuine one. “However you want it.”

“Anal, then.”

It startles a laugh out of you, and Richie thinks he might love that—the way he surprises you into laughing. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him. You kick out a bare foot and press your toes low against his belly, centimeters away from touching the tip of his cock where it stands at attention.

“Not that,” you chide. “That requires prep.”

“Not a no, sweetheart.”

“It’s a no for this moment.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” He grips your ankle and circles it with his hand, and he bends your leg. Pushes it away from him, pushes it closer to you, and it reveals your gorgeous pussy to him: the neat-trimmed curls, the slick arousal, the swollen bud of your clit.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he groans to see you. “Gotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.”

“Missionary works for me,” you reply. “Old reliable.”

So he climbs onto you. He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide. You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.

“Good?” he asks.

“You haven’t done much,” you point out.

“Smart-ass.” He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and he drags the tip of himself through your folds. He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance. He looks down and pushes just the tip in, and the sight of it—barely inside you, the promise of burying himself inside you—makes his vision go fuzzy around the edges.

“Richie.” You reach up with one hand to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes. “Fuck me, please.”

Your other hand finds the small of his back. You can’t quite reach his ass, so you lay your palm against the small of his back and urge him forward, and he pushes into you. He goes slow but steady, and he hears your small gasp as your tight cunt makes room for him. He feels the stretch of it, the smooth muscles twitching at him, and he studies your face for any pain but finds none.

“Pussy’s gripping at me,” he grits out once he’s seated in you. “Guess you needed it bad after all.”

“Don’t gloat.” You bear down on him, squeeze him like a fist, and it makes him choke out a curse. “You needed it bad too, I think.”

“Not complaining here, sweetheart.”

You take his chain in your hand and tug him down to you again. You kiss him, then mumble against his mouth, “so fuck me then, Richard. Move.”

He does as you ask. You’re a pain in the ass, and you’re a representative of all the change occurring in his life without his permission, but he wants to make it good for you. He remembers the way you clung to him that night in the basement, and he wants to capture that feeling again…even as he shoves the memory aside and begins to fuck you in earnest.

He doesn’t thrust in and out so much as up and down; he learned this move a long time ago and knows it feels better for his partner. His thrusts hit every part—each reseating brushes the tip of him against the end of you, and it makes you whine each time. The slide in and out, at this angle, draws along the firm bud of your clit. And each time he pushes himself home, the base of him grinds along your clit too, and it makes him feel like a million bucks when you gasp out his name, warn him that you’re close—

“Fuck, fuck. God, Richie, I’m c-close. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—"

And then it tears out of you: the hard snap of your hips as you lift them to meet his most punishing thrust, the way you tremble under him, your legs shaking, your eyes rolled back in your head. The way your cunt grips him, ripples against him until it feels like he’s being pulled into your body, and the thought takes hold of him. He wants to crawl inside you, wants to fill you with himself, wants to merge with you, and the thoughts are so rapid-fire he feels insane for a moment before he settles.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, surprised. “Holy shit.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t gloat.” You lift your head and kiss the side of his neck, and he adjusts himself and keeps fucking you.

He’s hit his rhythm now; he deals you hard thrusts and you take them. You beg for more. His arms burn as he arches over you. His calves burn as he drives his cock into you, and sweat beads along his hairline. He’s covered in a sheen of it, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks you hard, and his gold necklace swings in time to his thrusts. It hits you in your face until you hook it with a finger and put the fucking thing in your mouth, and he doesn’t know why it's so hot—maybe it makes him think of your mouth on parts of him instead of just his necklace.

He makes you come a second time, and it breaks around you again, leaves you trembling and incoherent, but after you recover, you push him over. It’s easy for you to do—he’s winded as fuck from all his smoking—and Richie finds himself underneath you as you ride him.

He’s happy for the break, but he’s happy to see this side of you. Any shyness from earlier is long gone. You sit astride him and bounce on his cock, and it makes your tits bounce too, and he can look down at where he disappears into your tight, wet pussy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he tells you so.

“S’fine,” you pant out. “Want you to come too, Richie.”

Then you reach down and take his hands in yours, you place his hands on your tits, and he sort of loves how you take charge at the end. You push your chest into his hands and ride him, and once he’s touching you there—pinching at your nipples until you arch your back—you reach down and touch yourself. He watches, transfixed, as you rub a tight circle against your clit, and he can feel you getting close now. Two orgasms down, he can feel the warning signs.

“Try to come with me,” you order him. “Want to feel it.”

He’s close. He’s been close for a while, has been forestalling his own pleasure by listing out White Sox statistics in his head. But now he wants to come with you as you’ve asked (he wants to do everything for you, anything you ask, he wants all of it, and he struggles to push the thoughts away this time). He breathes in time with your riding, and he feels his balls tighten as his orgasm approaches.

“I’m close,” he warns. “Fuck, sweetheart, are you close?”

“Y-y-yes.” You close your eyes and drop your head, focusing on whatever you’re feeling.

“Gonna come with me?”

“Mmm-hmm.” You take a sharp breath, then moan as you come a third time, and if he doesn’t quite come with you at exactly the same time, it’s close enough: the way your pussy grasps at him, draws him in deeper is enough to push him over the edge, and he shifts his hands to your waist. He pulls you down onto him and stills, feels the pulse of his orgasm as he spills in the condom.

It takes him a long while to recover. He feels weightless. Boneless. He feels like he’s melting into the covers of your bed. Like he could sleep for a hundred years. Like he could give up cigarettes and Xanax if he could just stay here and fuck you whenever his anxiety or insomnia are too much….

You dismount on shaky legs, and you disappear. When you return, you’re in an oversized t-shirt that skims the top of your thighs, and you hand him a warm washcloth.

“You can take your time,” you tell him. “No rush.”

Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off. He ties it off and looks around until he sees a waste bin. He tosses it, then flops back down on your bed.

“Just need a minute,” he says, but his voice is already thick with sleep, and he doesn’t remember anything else until morning when he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

He doesn’t remember you standing over him, bemused as you watch him snore. He doesn’t remember you lying down beside him, covering both of you with a blanket.

And he certainly doesn’t remember reaching for you in his sleep. He doesn’t remember how you wrap your arms around him, just like that night in the basement of The Beef, and how he sighs at the feeling of you tucked against him again.

#richie jerimovich #richie the bear #richie jerimovich x you #richie jerimovich imagine #richie jerimovich x reader #the bear #tropes and tales

1K notes · View notes

thehorrorgirlstyles · 4 months ago

Text

Opposites attract

Part 2

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Find P1, P3 here!

Warnings: 18+ smut, male masturbation, degradation!kink, pet names, cussing, squirting, little bit of praise!kink, derogatory words, harassment, bullying, public sex, some breeding kink, dry humping

(Note warnings are for the SERIES not the specific chapter)!!!

Minors don’t interact!

Summary: Eddie notices Jason behavior towards you and decides to do something about it

Recap: You go to hellfire to apologize to Eddie for missing class. As you go to leave, your met with a not so pleased boyfriend.

——————————————————————————

You stop in your tracks, how did he know where to find you? Your hands start to clam up as you sweat with nerves. You debate turning around and going back into the club, but you know that would just piss him off more. He looks at you silently waiting for you to approach him where he stands, so you do.

When you reach the front doors and Jason, all you can do is look at the floor, like your some child in trouble, waiting for your punishment. All though you didn’t do anything guilty, you starting to regret it. I should’ve just listened to Jason you think because now he’s pissed.

Silence, crickets, that’s all you hear, so you look up to him and he’s already looking at you. You realized you never seen him this angry. You thought you did when he first caught you, but damn were you wrong. He doesn’t speak, instead opting to just stare you down. After a few minutes pass he grabs your hand and leads you outside to where his car is parked. Without saying a word he opens the door for you and you get in. I guess he calmed down you thought.

The drive back to your place was quiet, no music playing on the radio, no comment on what happened, just silence. When you arrived to your house Jason stopped the car and turned to you.

“Babe, don’t forget that there’s a party tomorrow at Tina’s, I’ll be over to pick you up at 8” he looks at you. You look back in shock was he really letting this slide, “o-ok” you stutter out. He gives you a small smile in return and leans in to kiss you on the lips, which you reciprocate. You open the car door and walk up the front steps. You get inside and he drives away.

Tomorrow rolls around and your still not over how weird Jason was acting. He looked pissed but didn’t say anything and then totally didn’t mention it, but instead the party. You brush it off and get ready, Jason would be there at 8 to pick you up.

_____________________________________________

Jason comes by at 8 and greets you like normal. You guys arrive to the party and everything seems fine. He hasn’t left your side since you got there, you guys are attached at the hip. You forget about what happen yesterday as you party with your friends and have some of the jungle juice. After having that many glasses you go upstairs to pee.

“Jason, I’ll be back I need to go to the bathroom” he smiles at you and nods, while letting go of your waist. You go upstairs to the bathroom. You finish and freshen up your makeup. You open the door to be met with no other than Eddie Munson. You gasp, he just looks at you. What was he doing here you thought, this wasn’t his crowd.

“Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to scare you” he grins at you, “I was just looking for Chance, he wanted some” he shows you his lunch box that he carries weed in. “It’s ok I think Chance is in one of the bedrooms with Chrissy, so you’ll probably have to wait” you explain to him and he just laughs saying “alright”.

You turn you head and see Jason heading up the stairs, probably looking for you. Your eyes widen and you start to grow frantic. Eddie notices this, “Hey you ok” his eyes look worried for you. You don’t reply, instead grabbing his arm and pulling him into the bathroom while locking the door. He drops his lunch box and you tell him to be quiet.

Jason knocks on the door, “Hey baby you alright, you’ve been in there for awhile” he tries the knob. “Yeah I’m fine Jason, just freshening up, I’ll be out in a minute” he mutters something and you hear him walk away, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You turn around and see Eddie looking at you, waiting for you to explain. “I’m sorry I pulled you in here, it’s just Jason doesn’t like you that much” you explain, “If he saw us talking or that you were anywhere near me, I don’t know what he would do” he looks at you, “Y/n” you didn’t realize it, but you started to cry, “Y/n hey it’s ok, he’s not gonna know… he didn’t even see or hear me” he pulls you into a hug and your thankful for him.

After he calms you down you’d agreed to go out first then he would go. You open the door and peep outside, Jason is staring at you from the other corner of the room, why was he still watching. You silently tell Eddie to wait about 2 minutes before leaving and he nods giving you a small smile. You walk out and over to Jason.

“Hey what took so long” he slings his arm around you. “I didn’t like the way my makeup looked so I had to keep redoing it” you lied. “I think it looks perfect” he smiles at you and kisses the top of your head. Jason starts to redirect his attention towards the bathroom and you panic. Eddie hasn’t come out yet if Jason saw him come out that could only mean he was in there with you. You grip onto his shirt and turn his head to you, kissing him. He sighs deeply into the kiss and you pray Eddie will hurry. Just as you back away, Eddie comes out. He looks at you and gives you a thumbs up, you didn’t mean to smile but you did and it directed Jason’s attention to the culprit. Fuck.

Eddie smile falters as he looks at Jason and so does yours. You turn to Jason but he’s already heading up the stairs. You run after him. By the time you get up, Jason’s already gripping Eddie’s shirt in his fist.

“Jason stop!” you tell him, but he’s already punching him. Eddie fights back and knocks Jason into the room behind him. You look up and see Chance and Chrissy looking confused as hell. Jason gets back up and heads for Eddie. “STOP PLEASE!” you scream. You put a hand on Jason’s chest. He looks down at you. “You’re a fucking slut Y/n” he spits at you. “You think I don’t know what you were doing in that bathroom, why the fuck was that freak in there with you, for that fucking long” you stare at him as he grips your arm, anger seeping from his eyes. “HUH BITCH ANSWER ME!” he yells at you and pushes you to the floor. You sit there in shock, he said he didn’t want you to get hurt, but he’s the one that's hurting you. “IM FUCKING TALKING TO YOU!” he pulls you up and you stare at him. “WOAH hey let go of her” Eddie speaks up rising his voice slightly. “DONT FUCKING TALKING TO ME FREAK!” Jason continues to look at you waiting for an answer. “Eddie was just selling drugs and I knew Chance was with Chrissy so I told him I would give it to him, so that he didn’t have to stick around and wait” you lie. Jason looks at you wondering if what you say is true but then he speaks, “It doesn’t take that long, you were in there for more than 40 minutes” you can’t comprehend what happens next, but Jason hits you and you fall to the floor, you look up in shock. “Fucking slut” he walks away from you and out the room. Eddie helps you off the floor debating if he should go and give Jason a piece of his mind, but he doesn’t for your sake. “H-he j-just h-h-hi-t-” Eddie just holds you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear trying to get you to calm down.

Eddie takes you back to his place, since you told him you didn’t wanna go home, knowing Jason would probably show up there. He says you can have the bed and he’ll take the couch, but you don’t wanna be alone right now, so he gets in bed with you and wraps his arm around you. You thank Eddie for everything. You feel safe in his arms. You think back to how Jason said he didn’t want you to get hurt but he was the one to hurt you, he was the one that was dangerous. Was he speaking about himself when he told you that night? You’d think about it in the morning, but one thing is for sure, you are never ever getting back together.

I swear there will be smut in the next part girlies!!!!!

Note: I don't know how many parts of this I will do, but I have at least 5 in mind, since these are pretty short and I want to include SMUT and a good place to end....Thank you for reading!

Tagslist: @itzkawaiix, @lotrefcp, @morganlolitta, @angelluv111, @dreamerjj, @littlemissnightmare, @biijancaposts, @josephquinnsfreckles, @skyesthebomb

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #Jason #jason x reader #stranger things #stranger things smut #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #joseph quinn #eddie munson x you

259 notes · View notes

poorlittlegreenie13 · 3 months ago

Text

Deleted scene from 'Rules For (fake) Dating an Italian' to keep you busy while AO3 is down:

(Sydney & Carmy babysit for Richie, set in between chapters four & five — I wrote it & then decided to scrap it, I don't even know why lol it just wasn't working. & I didn't edit it, so it might have mistakes. But anyway, you guys can have it as a treat.)

Richie runs out the front door, pulling his jacket on.

“Carmen,” he says, walking up to Carmy and, much to Sydney’s surprise, taking Carmy’s face in both hands and pressing a firm kiss to the top of Carmy’s head. “Thank you so much. I owe you, brother.”

“It’s fine,” Carmy mutters.

“Sydney,” Richie says, pulling away from Carmy to look at her.

“I don’t need a kiss,” Sydney says quickly, “just a verbal thank you is more than enough.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Richie says. “Carmy explained the situation, right?”

“I told her what you told me,” Carmy says.

“Because I never miss a weekend with her,” Richie says, “I mean, I have literally never missed a single minute of a weekend with her before, but if I don’t go to the DMV today, it’s like six months till I can get another appointment, and I really need to get my license renewed.”

“It’s fine,” Sydney says, not dwelling too much on the thought of how much Richie has been driving her around with an expired license so far. “We’re happy to look after her.”

“I’ll be back in two hours,” Richie says. “She has her iPod, and all her Barbies. There are Uncrustables in the fridge, or you can cook with whatever’s in there, and she likes watching Unicorn Academy, she can put it on herself.”

“We’ll be fine, cousin. Don’t be late to your appointment,” Carmy says, with a somber expression that looks less like someone taking on babysitting duties, and more like a soldier awaiting command.

Carmy called Syd that morning, saying Richie was freaking out about needing a babysitter. Granted, Carmy was also freaking out about being a babysitter.

"Nat’s busy, Tina’s busy, everyone’s fucking busy, can you please come with me? I’m not good with kids."

Sydney isn’t particularly good with kids either, but she didn’t tell him that.

She would’ve taken any excuse to see Carmy. Because she’s a masochist. And because the fact that he asked her to come not because it would help trick Richie, but because he wanted her help, made her feel kind of hot in the face.

When he picked her up, she slid into his passenger’s seat with an almost-practiced ease, and he just sat there looking at her for a minute.

“Your hair,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, touching the end of one freshly-done braid, “yeah, microbraids, like I told you.”

“They look nice,” he said, and she blushed, despite the stiffness of the complement.

He always seems to rehearse his words to her in his head before he says them; they come out practiced and overly formal, and it frustrates her, how measured they seem, though it shouldn’t.

She’s pretty sure that’s just Carmy’s way. He’s careful with everything, not just compliments. She’s learning that about him.

She’s been learning other things about him, too.

Like the fact that he seems to go quiet in crowds, and gravitate toward walls. He flinches if anybody moves toward him too suddenly. Sometimes, not often, but enough to notice, he stutters when he speaks.

She wants to know everything about him. She wishes his life story was a book she could read, so she could just catch up to where he is now, and understand everything about him. She wants to know the right things to say, to do, how to put him at ease. She wants to know what he’s thinking when he looks at her.

Now, she watches Carmy walk into Richie’s house, stooping to pet Zanzibar as the puppy runs excitedly up to them, letting out high-pitched barks and tapping his little claws against the tiles of Richie’s entrance foyer.

In the doorframe of the kitchen across from them, a tiny girl with blonde hair and Richie’s facial features peeks out at them.

“Hi,” Sydney says, giving her a little wave.

“Uncle Carmy?” the girl asks.

Carmy looks up at her, unmistakable anxiety crossing his face.

“Uh, hi,” he says. “Richie’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

“She doesn’t call her dad Richie, does she?” Sydney whispers.

“She knows who I mean,” Carmy whispers back.

Eva looks between the two of them.

“Dad said you would make me lunch,” she says.

Sydney smiles. “We will,” she says, looking at Carmy expectantly.

He nods seriously, walking ahead into the kitchen and beginning to look through Richie’s cabinets. Sydney follows Eva into the room, watching the little girl take a seat at one of the kitchen chairs, pulling her knees up into her chest and looking at Sydney with huge eyes she hasn’t totally grown into yet.

“Are you Uncle Carmy’s girlfriend?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Sydney says, glancing over at Carm.

He’s holding a box of Mac & Cheese, and holds it up for Eva to see, raising an eyebrow.

“This good?” he asks.

“That’s good,” Eva says, crossing her arms and deepening her voice slightly to mock Carmy as she says it. He cracks a smile, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

Michelin starred chef cooking boxed Mac & Cheese in a tee shirt three feet away from Sydney. Her life is a joke.

“Why are you his girlfriend?” Eva asks.

Sydney laughs softly, considering this.

“Well, uh,” she says, with a little shake of her head. Carmy has his back to her, facing the stove, but he’s standing still, like he’s listening. “He’s great at cooking,” Sydney says. “And I really like spending time with him. He’s good company.”

“My dad said Carmy’s never looked this happy before,” Eva says.

Carmy clears his throat. “I am happy,” he says, though there’s an ironic flatness to it.

“Because of her?” Eva asks.

Sydney bites the inside of her cheek.

But Carmy turns around and looks at Sydney, brow furrowing slightly, eyes soft.

“Yeah. Because of her,” he says.

He says it like it’s true.

Michelin star mac and cheese is about as good as it sounds. Carmy is leaning against Richie’s counter, watching Sydney and Eva eat. Eva’s iPod is set on the table in front of her, playing some Taylor Swift deepcut that Sydney doesn’t recognize. As Sydney swallows her third or fourth spoonful of food, she stands up, turning to Carmy. The heat of the stove has put a slight flush in the tops of his cheeks, and there’s a towel slung over one of his shoulders.

“You’re not eating?” she asks him.

The question seems to take him off guard. His eyes flicker to the pot of food, then back to her.

“No, I made it for you two,” he says.

“There’s plenty, Carm,” Sydney says, grabbing a bowl from Richie’s cabinet and filling it for him from the pot still warming on the stove. When she hands it to him, he just looks at it for a second, before taking a small spoonful and putting it in his mouth, chewing like it’s his first time eating a meal.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Sydney asks him, picking her own bowl back up.

“It’s alright,” he says, taking another, bigger spoonful. He does that sometimes; it’s one of the things she’s noticed. He eats like he’s starving, or he doesn’t eat at all. It gives her this weird urge to take care of him. To text him in the mornings, and at night, and ask him if he ate that day. To show up at his apartment unannounced with bags of groceries and make him sit down for twenty minutes while she meal preps for him.

“It’s good, Carm, it’s better than alright,” she says again, tone light, even though she’s willing him to believe her as hard as she can. Trying to get him to take a compliment is like trying to throw a ball through a brick wall.

He averts his eyes, nodding again. “A little flat, but I guess that’s what you get with boxed mix,” he says, pushing the noodles around with his spoon.

“Ever make it from scratch?” Sydney asks. “Or is that too pedestrian for a fancy New York Chef?”

“I'm gonna pretend I know what pedestrian means in that context,” he says, meeting her eyes with an amused smile. “I made it from scratch one Thanksgiving, years ago. Had no idea what I was doing. My mother passed out at like 3:00pm, and we were all scrambling in the kitchen trying to get dinner together for her so she’d, you know, see it and be happy with us when she woke up. But Sugar burned the turkey, so Mikey had to spend hours trying to calm her down; she got these crazy panic attacks when she made mistakes. And I made mac and cheese.”

“How old were you?” Sydney asks.

He seems surprised at the question, and shrugs. “Twelve, I think? Mikey would’ve been seventeen, Sugar would’ve just turned fourteen.”

“You’re the youngest?”

He nods.

“That figures,” Sydney says.

He scoffs. “Why does that figure?”

“I don’t know, just does.”

His bowl is almost empty. Wordlessly, she takes it from his hands, refilling it.

“So, did your mom like the mac and cheese?” she asks.

Something in his face darkens. He gives a quick shake of his head.

“No, she couldn’t get past Nat burning the turkey. We just, uh, took all the food into Mikey’s room and watched The Peanuts until she stopped yelling and fell asleep.”

“Uncle Carmy,” Eva interrupts, getting up from her chair and walking over to where Carmy is standing, looking up at him expectantly.“Daddy said you would play Barbies with me.”

“I will play Barbies with you,” Carmy says, and then, looking over at Sydney: “Syd, would you like to play Barbies?”

There’s a fond, almost relieved smile on his face, like another minute of talking about his family might’ve pushed him off some cliff’s edge that he wasn’t prepared to crawl back over.

“Obviously I want to play Barbies,” Sydney says, letting Eva lead them into the other room.

"You're such a liar," Sydney murmurs, as they walk behind Eva.

"I am?" Carmy asks lightly.

"Yeah," Sydney says, "you told me you weren't good with kids."

He smiles, shaking his head ruefully.

"I'm not," he says.

Sydney rolls her eyes.

And they play Barbies, for an hour. Carmy kneeling on carpet, listening attentively as Eva explains which Barbie is which (she has a Taylor Swift box set, it seems, and a Barbie dream home that looks like it cost more than Sydney’s last paycheck). Sydney sits cross legged across from them, watching Carmy delicately hold a Barbie doll in one tattooed hand as Eva brushes out its hair.

Watching him be a good uncle shouldn't be as fucking attractive as it is. It shouldn't be conjuring up vivid images of Carmy holding sleeping babies and cooking family dinners.

God, Sydney is so fucked.

“Speak Now Taylor Barbie is marrying Jacob from Twilight Barbie,” Eva says. “‘Cept I forgot Jacob at Mommy’s house.”

“I see,” Carmy says. Sydney bites back a smile.

“Are you ever gonna get married?” Eva asks, looking up at Carmy.

Sydney’s smile quickly fades.

Carmy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Me?” he says.

“You and Sydney,” Eva says, looking over at Sydney expectantly.

“Uh, maybe,” Carmy says. He’s looking at Sydney too; an expression she can’t read. “I don’t know. Depends on… lots of things.”

“Like what?” Eva asks.

Carmy clears his throat. “Like… whether Sydney puts up with me for long enough for me to ask her?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sydney says, smiling exasperatedly, shaking her head at him. “He’s kidding, Eva.”

“So you are getting married?”

“No,” Sydney says, “no, not right now.”

“When?”

She looks at them with expectant, innocent eyes. Sydney can’t help but laugh.

“Not for a long time,” Carmy says.

"How long?"

Carmy looks away from Sydney, shaking his head like he doesn't know how to answer.

"I don't know," Sydney says, drawing Eva's attention over to her. "Whenever we decide we want to."

"Don't you want to marry him now?" Eva asks sincerely.

Sydney laughs uncomfortably. When she looks over at Carmy, he's looked back up at her. His brow is furrowed slightly. He should be smiling and laughing. This is funny. Objectively. He's taking it way too seriously.

"Yeah," Sydney says, staring at Carmy, raising a taunting eyebrow at him. "Sure I do. But marriage is really complicated so I think we're probably going to wait and see. Right, Carm?"

"Right," Carmy says, with a stiffness to the word like he's in pain. "Yeah, let's not talk about getting married anymore."

Eva frowns.

"It makes him nervous," Sydney stage-whispers to her.

Eva cheers up at that, smiling and nodding knowingly.

"People get nervous when they love each other," Eva says. "Mommy told me."

Sydney scoffs softly, but when she looks at Carmy he isn't smiling. He's just staring back at her, doing that weird, hyper-focused thing where he gets, like, fixated on her face.

It makes her face feel hot.

It makes her nervous.

Fuck.

#the bear #rules for (fake) dating an italian #sydcarmy

148 notes · View notes

afewproblems · 1 year ago

Text

Season 2 Halloween AU Part Four

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

A very big thank you to @strangersteddierthings for chatting with me today and being such a great sounding board for the next update!

Synopsis: What if Eddie had been at Tina's Halloween Party in Season Two? Featuring Steve!Whump, Stancy Breakup, and Eddie just trying to keep up with all these new revelations about who King-Steve actually is...

***

"So…I have to ask," Eddie blurts out, cutting through the awkward silence that has fallen between them, "how were you gonna pick up your car before you ran into me?"

"I don't think it counts as running into you, if you were waiting for me Munson," Steve side steps the question expertly, flashing him a strange smirk that seems out of place. It falls after a second and twists into something pained.

"I was hoping Nance would take me," Steve says eventually, his voice soft, "which was pretty stupid in hindsight, 'specially cuz she was counting on me to drive her this morning, which--"

Steve cuts himself, snapping his mouth shut with a harsh click of teeth, he shakes his head and lifts his hand to run roughly through his hair.

"Doesn't matter anymore".

Eddie holds his breath, feeling the conversation begin to shift. It's as though he's stepped onto a tightrope and any wrong move could potentially send him over the edge.

He settles for nodding once, turning the key in the ignition.

Steve sighs and lets himself fall back into his seat, "I know you know already, the whole fucking school does, Billy saw to that," Steve gestures to his face, "say what you really want to ask".

Eddie's fingers tighten around the wheel as he turns them out of the parking lot, fighting the immediate urge to say, 'why did Miss Priss throw it all away?'

"You think I believe the rumours that come out of that shithole?" Eddie lies, keeping his eyes on the road this time.

He can feel Steve's unimpressed stare as they continue down mainstreet.

"Right, so you had no clue I was in detention?"

Eddie chews the inside of his cheek to fight the sly grin that begins to creep over his face, "Alright smart ass".

He hazards another glance at Steve as they begin to hit the residential area, he looks so different from the night before.

His limbs are loose, tension free, if it weren't for the heavy bags under Steve's eyes and the nervous tap of his fingers on the passenger door, Eddie would think he was finally relaxed.

"I knew a fight definitely happened, it's Hargrove," Eddie says slowly, carefully weighing his words, "but I typically prefer to hear the whole sordid story from the source before I pass any judgements, ya know?"

Steve doesn't say anything as they continue driving through residential the houses getting progressively bigger as they go.

"Did you," Steve pauses and breathes out slowly before shaking his head and lifting his face to meet Eddie's gaze, "is that offer for something stronger still open?"

Eddie smiles, "I think that can be arranged".

***

Eddie pulls over beside Tina Cline's house, wincing as the right front tire rolls over the curb and bounces the van as it lands on the street once more, startling a snort out of Steve.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up Harrington," Eddie huffs as Steve shoots him a grin.

"Didn't say a word," Steve hums, unbuckling himself from the seat. Eddie watches as he opens the door and hops out. For a moment Eddie worries Steve will pull the same disappearing act from last night but he simply stops beside his car door and motions for Eddie to roll down his window.

Eddie cracks his door open instead, "window's broken, what?"

Steve rolls his eyes, "whatever Munson, you know the way? It's north on 5th and--"

"Then two more rights, yeah man," Eddie says with a laugh in his voice, "I dropped you off remember?"

"Fuck off," Steve huffs out, he's grinning though.

Steve swings the Beemer’s door open and slides in. He turns on the ignition and flinches at the loud burst of music from the stereo, the volume obviously set from the mood of the previous night.

'I want to know what love is, I want you to show me--'

Steve slams his hand against the console, cutting off the song with a harsh crack.

The van is parked just behind the Beemer so Eddie can't see Steve's face, but his head drops down onto the wheel for just the briefest moment before he slowly lifts it, turns on his signal and pulls away from the curb.

***

Steve beats him to the house.

He's getting out of the car, which is parked on the long driveway as Eddie pulls up to the street.

Eddie hops out of the van, hiking his backpack higher up on his shoulders, not bothering to lock it. Who would even want his shitty van among the BMWs and Mercedes parked down this street --hell, Eddie could have sworn he saw a Jag three houses down.

Eddie stops short of the lawn. The Harrington house is so different in the light of day, the strange emptiness that seemed to ooze out of the dark windows the night before has disappeared, leaving an ordinary house in its wake.

"Well?" Steve calls out as he pulls a pair of keys from his back pocket and spins them once on his finger, "you coming or what Munson?"

Eddie rolls his eyes and jogs to catch up to Steve who turns on his heel to stride up the walk. He stuffs the key into the deadbolt and swings one of the double doors inwards before shucking off his sneakers.

No shoes? Fucking rich people man.

Steve must notice Eddie's expression because he blushes and shrugs, "I know, I know, but my parents will be home for Thanksgiving this year so…may as well…"

He gestures around the sterile foyer with a tight smile, as though it explains everything.

If anything, Eddie has more questions.

Steve cuts off the thought by clearing his throat, "we should smoke outside, last thing I need is for you to burn a hole in the couch or something".

Eddie steps over the threshold and has to stop himself from whistling, were the ceilings always this high in this place?

He lifts his foot to unlace his left chuck, snorting at the strange little table in the middle of the foyer. A giant vase sits atop it filled with a mixture of what have to be silk flowers --no way they were real. He pulls the shoe off and tosses it to the side before lifting his right foot.

Eddie never had the greatest balance so he hops back and forth with his right foot in the air before hopping as close as he can to the wall of the foyer and leaning back against it.

He finally gets the knot in his laces undone and throws the sneaker to the floor, dropping his right foot to the hardwood.

Eddie looks up to find Steve staring with a bemused expression on his face, he ignores the wide hazel eyes and removes the backpack from his shoulders -which can't have been helping the balance issue.

Eddie unzips the top and yanks out the trusty metal lunchbox, sliding a wicked grin into place.

"You said something about outside?"

***

By the time they've settled, facing one another on a couple of pool loungers, the sun has begun to dip low, painting the patio and empty pool a warm glowing copper. It catches Steve's hair, which shines like gold in the dying sunlight, like some Autumnal Fae King--

Eddie wants to slap himself, suddenly thankful for the November wind that cuts through the backyard, forcing him to chillout.

He picks up the grinder from his lunchbox, unscrewing the cap to open it.

"You good with a joint this evening my good King?"

He pours a handful of a new strain Rick let him try the other day into the grinder and starts twisting. It's not something he would typically share with anyone other than Jeff, but Steve seemed like he could use something a little more special tonight.

Eddie looks up after a beat of silence, "yo, Major Tom, you with me?"

Steve's face is pinched, tilted towards the empty pool, "please don't call me that," he says quietly.

"Major Tom?"

Steve raises his eyes to meet Eddie's gaze, his mouth cuts a hard line across his face, the typical easy grin it usually houses is gone.

"King-Steve," he runs a hand through his hair, letting the fingers linger to grip and pull, "I just, that's not who I am anymore, I don't--"

Steve swallows harshly, "that's all anyone could talk about this morning".

He drops his voice and octave, "oh, King Steve is so pussy whipped he let his girl fuck Jonathan Byers before she dumped him".

"Is that what Hargrove said?" Eddie asks quietly as he pours out a portion of weed onto a paper.

Steve shakes his head, "that was Tommy, but that wasn't why I hit him".

Eddie nods, and lifts the joint to his mouth to run his tongue along the edge of the paper. Steve watches him from the lounger, his eyes follow the movement before he blinks and continues.

"Tommy and I had been best friends since we were five, he uh, he knows a lot about me," Steve lifts his hand to his mouth and chews the nail of his thumb briefly before dropping it back into his lap.

"Stuff I don't tell anyone, stuff he knows will hurt".

Eddie nods, twisting the joint closed, he can kind of understand that, although the only person in his life that knew him like that was Wayne.

And Wayne would never hurt him.

Did Steve really not have anyone else like that in his life, someone he could tell anything to that wouldn't look at him weird or judge him. Someone safe.

"Anyway, Hargrove started in on me after that, but he's been fucking with me for awhile so," Steve shrugs again, "he saw his big opportunity here".

"Hargrove's been messing with you?" Eddie asks sharply as he pours more weed onto another paper. He lifts it and runs his tongue along the edge of the paper before twisting it into shape. When he looks up, Steve's ears have gone slightly pink and he's sitting strangely, slightly hunched and twisted.

"Yeah," Steve says after a moment, he clears his throat and straightens his back, "yeah, it's just been at practice so far, and I thought it was just because he wanted to one up me for my spot but," he shakes his head, "it's getting worse".

"You know, I have a bit of a reputation around school," Eddie says slowly, carefully, watching as Steve freezes and looks at Eddie with wide eyes.

"The Hellfire club is more than just the game we're playing, it's also kind of a sanctuary for kids that don't have anyone to lean on, we look after each other," Eddie continues, ignoring the way Steve relaxes slightly, "you wouldn't need to play or anything but if you need somewhere to sit at lunch now…"

Steve looks at Eddie for a long time, his expression blank, guarded, "really? Just like that?"

"Yeah man, besides I get to use my 'Mean and Scary Guy' persona on these fuckers so it's a win-win for me".

Steve grins, raising one skeptical eyebrow, "mean and scary?"

Eddie bristles a little bit at the questioning tone in Steve's voice and can't quite swallow the urge to snarl, "yeah I mean you looked plenty scared of the town freak yesterday".

Steve winces and immediately starts to shake his head, inching forward in his seat so he's even closer to Eddie, their knees are almost touching.

"That's not, I wasn't," he stops and takes a deep breath, "I was upset about Nancy and it was so dark outside, the trees--"

"You afraid of the dark Harrington?" Eddie cuts him off, the lingering irritation still simmers in his voice as he coos.

Steve just looks at him, there's something strange about the haunted expression on his face that makes the hair on the back of Eddie's arms stand on end.

"Things happen in the dark, in the woods," Steve says softly, his eyes drift to the empty pool again.

Eddie opens his mouth to ask Steve what the hell he means by that, when a voice shouts across the yard.

"Steve? STEVE?!"

The sound of someone running through the grass has them both of their feet, the joints forgotten on the pool loungers.

"Dustin?"

A kid, he can't be more than twelve or thirteen, skids into the porchlight that has replaced the last copper rays of evening light, the sun fully set by now. The kid's blue eyes are wide underneath a mop of curly hair and hat, he's breathing hard.

"I need your help".

Tag List: @eriquin @luvinthefreaks @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @goodolefashionedloverboi @ellietheasexylibrarian @bambibiest @sadboislovebeans @howincrediblysapphicofyou @coleys-a-nerd @whycantiuseunderscore @airconditioning123 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @corrodedbisexual @starman-jpg @ilovecupcakesandtea @yoriposts @clumsiluni @pelinelin @phantomcat94 @lololol-1234 @anaibis @airconditioning123 @steveshairspray @hellfireone @sunswathe @eddielives1986 @tentativeghost @robin-not-batman @estrellami-1 @manda-panda-monium @tinyplanet95 @perseus-notjackson

Part Five

and for some peeps that I think may be interested! @steddierthings @steddie-there @steves-strapcollection @outpastthebrakers @henderdads @stevesbipanic

530 notes · View notes

perfectly-m1saligned · 2 months ago

Text

K!nktober day 6

Following @dreamlandcreations prompt list. Day 6: reunion sex. You can find all the stories on my Wattpad as well. Toodles!

(NSFW: MDNI!! Reader's discretion is advised)

Simon Riley x reader

(Boyfriend!Simon) (Jealous!Simon)

cw: oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampied

word count: 2680

a/n: later post than usual, spent the day with my boyfriend so I didn't have much time to write

68 days, 9 hours and 23 minutes, that’s how long Simon had been away for. Not the first deployment he’d been on since you started dating, but definitely the longest. Days seemed never ending, your nerves wrecked by your concern for him, restless nights spent in your shared bed, holding one of his t-shirts to your chest, in vain hopes that his scent would soothe you enough to allow Morpheus to take you in his arms. Sure, you still went on about your days, keeping yourself busier than usual, staying overtime at work, dreading coming to an empty home; it just didn't feel the same

The first week was fine: you had your space, more privacy - Simon was surprisingly very similar to a velcro dog whenever he was home - and you spent that time pampering yourself. The second week was a little lonelier, you started to miss Simon more, not hearing from him, and having no one to talk about your day to when you came back from work. By the end of the first month, you had less energy, not as motivated to go on about your day, always under the weather. Your friends forced you to go out with them, take your mind off him, but it wasn’t easy to not be worried when you knew your boyfriend was in bumfuck nowhere, on the other side of the world, and you weren’t able to receive any updates about his condition.

You didn’t know when he was coming back, every detail about this operation of his being highly classified. You understood why many people in his field decided to never have families, and you had so much respect for those army wives, so devoted to their hero husbands, who somehow managed to not have a psychotic meltdown every time they left. Either way, the joy of having them back was unmatched.

It was a rainy night, the kind of night that makes you want to cocoon yourself in blankets with some warm tea and do nothing. Something on Netflix played on the TV, the heat from your mug of tea making the warmth seep through your skin and soothe your muscles. Suddenly, the screen of your phone lit up, an unknown number appearing on the screen. You hesitated, but ultimately decided to slide your thumb over the screen, bringing it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, lovie,” a familiar voice greeted from the other side. “I know this isn’t exactly the most romantic way to announce that I’m back, but it’s raining bloody cats and dogs ‘ere, so the buses home were cancelled. I ever had some flowers for you, those blue ones you like, but they got drenched, the bloody things.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, chuckling at his words as you suppressed a sob. He was back, and the joy you felt was unmatched. “Damn storm, eh?” You tried to jest, blinking away the tears. “Don’t worry, Si. I’m on my w- why are you calling me from a public phone?” You asked, getting up from the couch to fetch your shoes. “Er…I might have gotten a little…agitated, when they announced that all buses were going to be cancelled. But a very sweet lady- Marjorie, yeah?” You heard him ask the most likely 80-something years old next to him. “Yes, so, Marjorie here gave me her phone so I could call my very beautiful girlfriend.” You snorted a laugh, shaking your head. “Does Marjorie need a lift?” You asked, grabbing the car keys and your purse. “Oh no, her son-” A pause. “Benjamin is coming to get her. Drive safe, baby, it’s not like I can go anywhere.”

The drive was surprisingly short, since no one in their right mind was trying to drive in the storm, especially not this late at night. Once you got to the bus station, you saw a, very tall, familiar head of dirty blonde hair, and that damned scarred smile you had fallen in love with. The moment Simon had climbed inside the car and threw his duffle bag in the backseat, you just couldn’t hold back tears anymore. “Hey ba- woah, woah, easy there, girl.” Simon chuckled, encircling your waist with one strong arm when you basically threw yourself over the central console to hug him. Sobs wrecked through your ribcage, your tears quickly soaking up the collar of his t-shirt. “I missed you so much!” You cried out, your broken voice muffled by the skin of his neck, your face buried in its crook. “I was so worried, I didn’t hear a thing from you, I was always nauseous, I-”

His warm and soft lips soothed your nervous rambling, his large hand cradling your face, rugged skin holding you with unexpected tenderness. You immediately relaxed into the kiss, finally feeling his familiar taste after so much time. His thumb stroked your cheek, keeping the kiss going for another few seconds before he pulled back and left a chaste peck on the crown of your head. “Hey,” he whispered, voice smooth like honey. “I’m back, okay? All in one piece. And I missed you so fucking much, y/n.” He kissed you again, and the sweet moan that rose in your throat made him groan. “And I really, really need you to drive us home as fast as you can so I can properly show you how much I’ve missed you.”

When you crossed the threshold to the lobby, Jackson, a new guy that had moved into your apartment complex just a month ago, raised his hand to say hello as he was grabbing his mail. “Hey, y/n-” His face fell the moment your 6’4”, 250+lbs, totally not jealous boyfriend appeared behind you, a steely glare in his deep brown eyes. “Jackson!” You greeted back, a wide smile on your face. “This is Simon, you know I’ve told you about him. I just picked him up from the bus station, he just came back from his deployment.” Jackson looked pale, and like he was very much going to pee his pants. “H-Hi…”

“Good evening.” The saccharine grin on Simon’s face betrayed the death threat in his voice, and Jackson quickly scurried away up the stairs. “Do I need to ask who the fuck is that?” Simon asked with a raised eyebrow, peering down at you. “Nobody, really,” you scoffed dismissively, punching the button up for the lift. “Jackson moved in a month ago, he lives in Mrs. Robinson’s old apartment. He helped me unload the groceries a couple times, he’s alright.” Nothing but a low rumble came out of Simon, as the two of you stepped into the elevator.

“Another man was in my house?” Simon asked, a menacing hint in his voice as he leaned forward, closing the height difference between you and him. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to utter a single word. “Another man touched what’s mine?” He asked again. “N-No, Simon, I-” He clicked his tongue, his lips now a breath above yours. “Looks like I was away for too long, and you need to be reminded of who you belong to.” The moment the doors opened, a squeak left your lips when he picked you up effortlessly, hoisting you up on his shoulder like a caveman and carrying the two of you down the corridor.

He retrieved the keys to your flat from the back pocket of your jeans, the lock clicking open. Simon tossed his bag on the ground, still holding you, then made a beeline for the bedroom. “S-Simon, I can explain,” you kept repeating, your voice nervous and high-pitched, knowing what was about to come. You groaned, the air being kicked out of your lungs when your back hit the mattress, Simon’s body immediately following after, the bed dipping under his weight as he snaked between your thighs. “Oh, darling, I think this reunion is going to be the perfect opportunity for you to remember who’s boss here.” He purred, planting his palms flat on the bedsheets on either side of your head, claiming your lips in a searing kiss, definitely more aggressive than the sweet one you’d shared in the car.

His fingers made quick work of the button and zipper of your jeans, hastily sliding them down your smooth legs, smiling against your lips when you released a shaky whimper. “Calm down, pretty girl,” he whispered, a hand creeping under your t-shirt, cupping your breast through your bra. “Just make sure to scream my name extra loud tonight, yeah? I think Jackson needs to know who’s the only one that can fuck you.” His fingers pulled down your bra cup, warm thumb sliding over your sensitive nipple. “And I fuck you pretty fucking good.”

You were pretty much sure that you were drenched by now, the sight of Simon being jealous doing something to you that you couldn’t quite explain to yourself. “I missed my jealous bastard.” You quipped, lifting your head up a couple inches away from the pillow to steal a quick kiss. “Not jealous,” he corrected sternly. “It’s called being territorial, because you’re fucking mine.” You smiled, cupping his face with both hands. “Just yours, Simon,” you murmured reassuringly. “And I wasn’t the only one who missed you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a moan leaving your lips when he collected your panties on one side, sliding a finger between your slick folds. “Mhm,” he hummed. “I can tell. Don’t worry baby, we’re gonna take very good care of her too.” Simon climbed off the bed to undress, and you quickly stripped out of your t-shirt and undergarments. When he crawled back onto the bed, he hoisted your thighs on his broad shoulders, letting your legs hang off his back. “It’s so good to be back.” He purred before he dove in, his flat tongue lapping up at your weeping hole, drinking you like a man finding an oasis in the desert. The sweetest sounds of pleasure fell from your lips, while Simon produced the most obscene ones from between your thighs, stretching your weeping hole with two long digits, pumping his fingers in your needy cunt as he sucked on your engorged clit.

You were tugging at his hair, a squirming mess wiggling about on the bed as you pulled him down on you one second, then tried to push him away the other, the stimulation making you go crazy, reducing you to a babbling, pathetic little thing. His strong hands were secured on the back of your thighs, firmly keeping you in place and restricting you from any unwanted movements. You were rotating between “Simon”, “oh fuck”, and “right there” every other second, and Simon drank in your needy moans like he did the juices leaking from your sweet, soft pussy. He only stopped when you unravelled around him, an orgasm wrecking through you and leaving you breathless.

He raised his hand, sporting a victorious grin, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, looking prouder than ever. “Such a good girl.” He purred, giving you one last kiss before propping himself up on his elbows and pushing himself off the bed, only to position himself back between your legs. You saw him spit down on his hand, before he started to slowly stroke his length, his fat cock ready to ruin you, already oozing with precum and twitching in anticipation. “What-” you tried to say. “What?” Simon cooed. “Just because you already came once doesn’t mean we aren’t finished, love. Plus-” he teased your entrance with his tip. “We’re just getting started.”

Inch after inch, his heavy cock stretched your soaked hole, collecting your recent release onto his length, a growl rumbling deep in Simon’s chest as your walls clenched around him, adjusting back to his size after months of distance. “Oh, Simon…fuuuuck…” you cried out, slim fingers fisting the pristine bed sheets as he buried himself deep inside you, now kissing shy of your cervix, balls tickling your ass. “That’s it,” he moaned. “That’s the good girl I’ve missed, y/n. You still take me so fucking good.” He slid a hand under your head, cradling it as he captured your lips in a feverish kiss, tongue delving deep into your mouth, exploring its familiar warmth.

You clawed at his back the moment he started to pump his hips, leaving red crescents on his already scarred skin, legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels pressing down on the back of his thighs, keeping him deep within your gummy walls.

“I…f-fuck, I’ve missed you.” You cried out against his lips, chest heaving with ragged breaths as he thrust with purpose, soft, guttural moans arising from his throat. “What about that Jackson guy?” He growled, his teeth catching your hoop earring and gently tugging at it. “I’m sure he would’ve loved to ease your concerns, hm?” In a different circumstance, you would’ve rolled your eyes at his words, but his cock punishing your cervix was making it kinda hard to be annoyed at him right now. “N- I would’ve never-”

“I know you would never, baby,” he reassured you, although his deep strokes said otherwise. “But I think he needs to understand that you-” A hard thrust. “Are.” Another. “Mine.” And another. His words were punctuated by his harsh thrusts and your screams, and you were pretty sure you had drawn blood, nails digging into his back, making him hiss. “S-Simon, please…” You pleaded, hot tears lining your eyes, heat quickly coiling back up in your stomach from the overstimulation.

Simon pulled out, a sigh of relief leaving your lips before he grabbed you by your waist, manhandling you as he flipped you on your stomach, lifting your hips up to put you in doggy before he lined himself back, pushing into your weeping, sensitive hole once again, stripping another cry out of you. A big hand splayed onto your lower back kept you pinned to the bed, the bed sheets grazing your nipples, the friction adding up to the stimulation, making you roll your eyes back into your skull. You buried your face in the pillow, biting down on it to muffle your screams. Simon pressed his chest to your back, reaching under you to circle your swollen clit with his forefinger, making your screams raise in volume. “Hush, Hush, baby…” he whispered, his breathing laboured. “Come on…I know you can do it, just one more for me, yeah? I know you can take it, pretty girl. Cum on my cock, y/n, be a good girl and cum on my cock.”

His goading words were your undoing, your squirt coating his lower abdomen as you came one more time, screaming out Simon’s name like a prayer, hot tears lining your cheeks as the overwhelming orgasm crashed through you like a merciless, powerful wave. Your walls squeezed him so tight Simon met his release as well, hot cum spurting out of him in thick ropes as he unloaded himself inside of you. His hips stuttered from the sheer force of it, and he gulped, breathing heavily as you both rode out your high.

You were completely wrecked, flat on your stomach, feeling your mixed juices leak out of your hole once Simon had unsheathed himself. He quickly ran to the bathroom, dampening a towel under some lukewarm water, coming right back to the bedroom to clean you up, his touch surprisingly tender after the rough session. When you were all nice and clean, he climbed back onto the bed, putting a strong arm over your limp, and spent body to pull you into his side. He gently manoeuvred you so he was spooning you, nuzzling his nose into your hair, pressing it to the nape of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent, mixed with sweat and after sex pheromones.

You cuddled up to his chest, a tired hum leaving your lips, your eyelids feeling impossibly heavy. “That was…that was some reunion.” You said, your voice weak and feeble. Simon chuckled, kissing your warm skin. “Told you I had to properly show you how much I had missed you, baby,” he said. “And I’m on leave for the next three weeks. I’m not done with you yet.”

•This is an original work of fiction, please do not translate or share on this or any other platforms without credit•

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod #call of duty smut #ghost x reader smut #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #18+ mdni #mdni #i need him #omg this man #halloween #perfectly-m1saligned

132 notes · View notes

pyrosomatic-metamorphosis · 10 months ago

Text

fuckg fuck fuckg but “[bad]’s one of my favourite people, too. he gives me stuff” “is that all he is to you?” drives me insane because NO. HES NOT. he’s also a reflection of all the worst things tina doesnt want to be. a demon a monster. at home in purgatory. missing that home. he torments her for fun. he teases her and plays. he is probably like her, even more than mouse- fallen angels. made demonic. evil.

“Bad is one of my favourite people. He gives me stuff.” what sort of demon just gives things away. what sort of demon makes bad deals they know wont see full fruition. im obsessed with that, with her focusing in on one of his most helpful traits, and THAT one specifically. she sees the parts of herself that she hates in him. he loves her. he’s a resource for her. she loves him. he reflects the worst parts of herself. look at where she draws the line, where she compartmentalizes. they are the same and he’s her favourite despite that. because he gives her stuff.

#RRRUAGAHAG #no idea if ik coherent once again so just Think About Them !!#qsmp tinakitten #qsmp badboyhalo #WAISLS #the fucking. Objectification of qbad as a Resource #because resources can be loved and demons cant be #or they shoudltn be #because theyre evil

209 notes · View notes

puppietooth · 10 months ago

Text

let me preface this by saying i will love and adore and cherish s3 no matter happens. however, i will say — the one thing i want to see is carmy going out of his way to get back on sydney’s good side.

i’m talking begging for forgiveness, grovelling at her feet, bending over backwards for her.

imagine:

carmy gets out of that walk-in, sees the queasy look on her face, and is already drafting that notes app apology in his head. he tells her he’s sorry and that he fucked up and she tells him they managed to pull everything off without him but she cannot with his bullshit right now.

that hits him like a punch to the gut and, well, he gets it cause it’s definitely deserved.

but as the weeks go on, carmy tries to talk to her she only responds in shrugs, nods, and yes chefs. sydney goes home straight after service, after she helps with clean up, does not linger and talk in the office with him like they did before. carmy tries joking with her and she rolls her eyes more often than not. he asks her if she wants to work on the menu with him and she says no and he gets the feeling that she doesn’t even want to be alone with him anymore.

and that’s when he realizes — fuck. she’s so mad at him.

my girl is mad at me i want to die.

so? what else is carmy supposed to do but the most?

sydney comes in one morning and tells tina she was running late so she couldn’t stop by her favourite spot to get her morning latte. carmy overhears this and takes it upon himself to run to that spot, ten blocks over, to get her that latte. and when he gets back, sweetly and breathless, he gives it to her only to find out it’s the completely wrong order. but syd smiles, just a little, says a small thanks.

during family, he casually hints at the fact that he’s seeing a therapist now — says sorry chef i have therapy saturday afternoon when marcus asks if anyone would be down to go to the farmers market with him. because he needs her to know that he’s trying to get better. for himself, yes, but also for her.

his notifications are on and his phone is never on silent anymore — carmy vows to never miss a text or a call from her ever again.

carmy starts checking in with her about everything. when the walls need to be painted again he tells her, asks sydney if she’s okay with changing the floral arrangements but the bar, lets her know he’s ordering new aprons for the line cooks, runs tweets by her before posting them to the bear’s twitter account. and it gets to the point where syd has to tell him to chill — that she appreciates him not wanting to keep her in the dark, but some things just don’t need her approval. pats him on the shoulder and tells him it’s his restaurant, too.

it might come off as a bit showy but he tells her great work today, chef sydney after every service — because she is doing great work.

when sydney’s finally moving out of her dad’s place carmy is there, bright and early, moving her boxes into his car, trying to avoid the subtle stink eye her dad is giving him. again, deserved. he drives her out to her new place, helps her set everything up and lingers when she asks him if he wants coffee.

carmy shows up for her, everytime. he sets his own priorities aside, swaps them out for hers. sydney says jump and he asks how high?

it all comes to head on her birthday. before service he goes up to her and gives her a present — a scarf, fabric pink and decorated with prints of various different flowers. it’s soft and silky and he saw it on a mannequin in a window front while he was downtown a couple of weeks ago, immediately thought of her. she tells him it’s lovely and beautiful and she’ll wear it all the time but that he really didn’t have to — that he doesn’t have to keep trying to win her over, that she isn’t mad at him anymore, that she hasn’t been mad for a few weeks now, that she can see he’s trying.

then, sydney hugs him, strong and gentle at the same time, tells him — i see you, carmy.

whatever is supposed to happen after that does not happen because fak starts yelling about an exploding toilet from the room over so sydney scoffs and says she’ll go take care of it.

and it’s at that exact moment that carmy becomes aware of what he hasn’t been aware of but that has been there, right in front of him this whole time.

holy shit.

he likes sydney.

he likes her a lot.

#ahhhhhhh so excited for s3 #my girl is mad at me i hope i die!!!!#sydcarmy #sydney adamu #the bear #carmy berzatto

184 notes · View notes

meangirls-imagines · 9 months ago

Text

On Wednesdays, We Wear Pink

Description: Reneè is off filming Mean Girls and misses her gf. The cast gets together for the cutest surprise.

WARNINGS: tooth-rotting fluff, reneè being babygirl

y/n was currently being snuck onto the Mean Girls set by her friend chris. he had arranged y/n to come and see her girlfriend reneè. the blonde had been feeling a little in the dumps lately because of the distance and the cast was beginning to notice.

y/n wasn't able to come at first because of work, but luckily for her, her boss was her best friend and when he noticed how sad she was, he sent her off, telling her to take her time coming back. and with that, she was on the first flight to new jersey.

chris picked her up from the airport, already clearing it with tina and the producers. as they drove back to the set, chris told her the plan.

she was going to get dressed as an extra and get put in the revenge party scene. then when it was time for cady and aaron to kiss, it would be reneè and y/n. y/n giggled at the idea, ready to execute it.

after arriving back to set and being introduced to everyone, y/n was quickly put into hair and makeup. after a quick session there, she was rushed to costuming, getting put in a brightly colored outfit. she was snuck back onto set, hiding off to the side. chris let tina know y/n was ready as the woman gave him a subtle thumbs up.

the number went smoothly and reneè got moved into position. the blonde looked confused, as she looked at angourie and chris, who just smiled back at her. she turned and gasped, seeing y/n stand there with a goofy smile on her face.

reneè rushed forward, wrapping her arms around y/n's neck and kissing her deeply. the cast cheered as the two embraced, tina yelling cut. reneè pulled away smiling at her girlfriend.

"what? how are you here?" y/n smirked and looked towards the cast. "some birdies told me you've been sad, so i got on a plane and flew here to make you smile again." reneè melted. the blonde buried her head in y/n's neck, mumbling a thank you. y/n kissed reneè's temple. "you're welcome baby. now how about we get out of here?"

after getting the okay from everyone, reneè and y/n got out of their outfits and headed to reneè's car, y/n opening the door for her passenger princess of course. reneè took a picture of y/n driving and posted it on her instagram story with a heart emoji. y/n drove reneè back to the house she was staying in, the two venturing in and crashing on the couch.

reneè sighed contently as she laid her head on y/n's chest. y/n began running her fingers through reneè's hair. "what do you want for dinner nae?" reneè sighed. "i'm feeling pizza." y/n nodded, gently laying reneè down to grab her phone to order their food. after about 25 minutes, the food arrived. reneè grabbed the pizza as y/n went to grab them dinks. she came back with two glasses of champagne that reneè had in the fridge as the blonde smiled at her.

reneè decided to take a picture of the moment, posting it on instagram.

reneerapp: the love of my life surprised me on set. life is good.

#reneè rapp x reader #reneè rapp imagine #reneè rapp

152 notes · View notes

smoshyourheadin · 8 months ago

Text

Sunshine and Soda Cans

Part 2 - Bubbles

"hey, spencer!" angela jogs up to spencer as you walk into the office. you wander to the kitchen to grab a soda, and put your stuff down.

"(y/n) said shes struggling with editing the new try not to laugh episode, and i don't think she's going to ask for help because she's too stubborn, so can you just check on her and give her a hand?". spencer looks over at you, and back to angela

"yeah sure! i'll catch up with her later" angela gives him a big grin, and then walks over to you, striking up a conversation.

later on, you're sat at your desk, editing away. you've been stuck re-trimming the same clip for like twenty minutes, and you're becoming increasingly frustrated.

"hey, (y/n)!"

his voice catches your attention, making you look up, but not away from the screen.

"hi spence, uh- what's up?" you say, eyes still glued to your screen.

"oh nothing, just checking how you're getting on with the try not to laugh edit. everything going good?"

"no actually' you, look up at him and you chuckle "ive, i've been trying to edit the same clip for like ever, and it won't save properly. im losing my mind!"

he smiles at you honesty, and pulls up a chair to help you out. after about an hour, you two get a bit bored and decide to go live on the games channel, streaming some sims

"alrighty then guys, hello! welcome to the games channel, today me and spencer are going to be playing some sims 4!" you smile into the camera, adjusting your hair, and you relax into your chair.

"guys, can we hate on (y/n) in chat for drowning my sims last time" spencer says sarcastically, glaring at you sassily.

"hey!" you elbow him, playfully "you made fun of my sims' fashion choices!"

he laughs at your anger, and you talk with the chat for a little while as the game loads

"okay, my plan is to make a love triangle in my mansion. i want to see if they can handle the drama.." you say, tapping your fingertips together

"woah, okay dr. evil!" he says, laughing with you

you guys start making some characters that, suspiciously, resemble each other. as you begin to play, your sims keep chatting to eachother

"hey, (y/n), why does your sim keep flirting with mine? got a crush or something?" spencer says with a smirk

"oh, please! my sim is just being friendly! unlike yours, who keeps stealing my sim's food!!! didn't realise your name was tina.." you giggle at your own joke, napoleon dynamite is one of the first things you two bonded over, so you both have a good laugh.

you guys play for about two hours, and then decide to wrap up, finishing the stream

before getting up to leave, you guys share a lingering gaze, and you see the colours in his eyes. you give him a ride back to his apartment, and you turn of your radiohead "in rainbows' cd. weird fishes/arpeggi comes on, as you pull up infront of his apartment. you look over at him with a sweet smile.

"well, see you tomorrow spence"

"yeah. looking forward to it"

you two lock eyes, and then he gently pulls you into a sweet kiss, his hand lingering on your jaw as you melt into his touch. he tastes like mt dew, and you smile against his lips. as you break away, you already miss his lips on yours.

"see ya, (y/n)" he says with a smile and a new twinkle in his eye, exiting the car and walking into his apartment block.

you sit in your car for at least another five minutes; eyes glassy, chest heavy, and palms sweating. you pick up your phone, and open up the phone app, ringing the only person you can think of to call.

"hey jelly, do we have any icecream? i need to tell you what's just happened"

you hear angela open the freezer over the phone, and she says

"yeah, we have some vanilla and i think there's some strawberries in the fridge. everything okay?"

"yeah," you breathing staggers, fully realising what just happened "me and spencer kissed"

"I'M SORRY WHAT"

you hang up, and start driving back to your apartment.

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

a/n— hey!! thank you all so much for the love on part one omg love y’all for that ahhh 😚 my requests are open btw!! so feel free to request anything, not just smosh stuff!! i’ll write for anything (even if im not in the fandom 😚)! okay yeah hope you all enjoy pt2!! love y'all 💛

#smosh #spencer agnew #angela giarratana #amanda lehan canto #courtney miller #shayne topp #arasha lalani #x reader #spencer agnew x reader #first fic #smoshyourheadin

126 notes · View notes

lovelytsunoda · 2 years ago

Text

can't stand the rain // george russell

summary: the nights are always long and lonely when she misses her lover. but dating a formula one driver isn't easy, and she knew that when she started dating the most wonderful and exciting man that she had ever met.

pairing: george russell x female reader

warnings: longing and pining! the harsh reality that which would be dating someone like george russell, but there is a happy ending! allusions to sex, but not written out.

I can't stand the rain, against my window cause he ain't here with me//hey window pane tell me, do you remember how sweet it used to be? when we were together everything was so grand//now that we parted there's just one sound that I just can't stand

it was on nights like these that she missed george the most.

rain drops crashing down against the window panes, a steady haze of fog rolling across the english country side.

she hated that sound when he wasn't here to share it with.

y/n was sitting on the couch by the window, a scented bath and body works candle on the coffee table, burning and filling the main floor of the house with that simple, summer scent as she wrapped herself in a blanket, powerpoint presentations reflecting off the blue light lenses as she typed.

dating someone as magnetic and larger than life as george russell was no easy feat. the days and nights were long, the timezones too much to bear as his schedule demanded he jet off to some faraway country every weekend.

sometimes, it felt like her george wasn't actually her george, but the world's george.

she slammed her laptop shut, rubbing her eyes under her glasses before she turned on the tv, dialing in to sky sports as the warm up for the evenings race began.

if george were here, they would be watching some stupid movie on netflix (last rainstorm it was bait, a movie about tsunamis and twelve foot long sharks), with the plush calvin klein blanket pulled tightly around their bodies until one of them got tired of the film and started getting handsy.

something about the rain always got george russell going. those afternoons usually ended up with y/n on her back, georges gentle kisses against her skin as he made love to her, the pitter patter of the rain in the background.

she missed him.

the race ended, and she sent him a congratulations text, knowing that he did the best that he could in a car that wasn’t where either mercedes driver had expected it to be.

she blew out the candle, phone in the back pocket of her jeans as she moved to the kitchen of a house that felt too large for just her alone as she warmed up the kettle.

her phone rang, and she slipped the small device out of her pocket, beaming as she swiped up to talk to the most important man in her life.

“hey, beautiful.” george russell beamed from the other end of the line, and the other side of the world. “how are you feeling?”

“tired.” y/n laughed. “uni is relentless. remind me why I decided to go to law school?”

“because I wanted a strong, powerful girlfriend?”

“hilarious. it’s killing me slowly.” she grimaced, placing a bag of peppermint tea in her indigo mug. “you had a good race today, honey. I know the car is shite this year, but you’re driving the hell out of that thing.”

“you know what, I think I’m finally getting the hang of the car.”

“that’s really good, georgie. I’m proud of you.”

george smiled sadly, wishing that he could reach through the phone and hold his lover in his arms. every part of his skin, his body aches for her touch, for the feeling of cradling her in his arms again.

“I miss you. I’ll be home before you know it, yeah? you’ll wake up in a few mornings and I will be there and you’ll get to wrap your arms around me and we’ll make the most of the time we have before I have to go to the next race.”

“I wish it were easier. I wish I could come with you.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

two days passed since that phone call, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. a few times the downpour has lightened to a manageable drizzle, but it was still as if the clouds in the sky were reading her emotions.

reading how much she longed for georges presence.

how she missed watching him play backgammon with his mates at the table by the french doors, sunlight refracting on his face.

how she missed his touch, even when it was the touch of his cold, cold feet in bed.

how she missed his cooking, even when he burned the simplest of dishes and ended up ordering takeaway (and swallowing his pride).

the weather outside reflected how she felt, but that fact did nothing to make her feel better. george was stuck in team meetings, despite the promise of a two week break before the next double header began.

she was debating the merits of going to visit her parents in the city, reconnecting with the world and getting away from her feelings and her term papers. it seemed like all she had done since george left was drink peppermint tea and pore over old court documents.

until the morning all was right again.

the sunlight was orange as it filtered through her curtains, the sun just beginning to rise over the hilly countryside. she heard footsteps, and the sound of the creaky bedroom door swinging open.

she’s have to to tell george to fix that.

george.

she didn’t believe her eyes. there he was, kneeling in front of the bed to kiss her forehead. she grumbled his name, trying to peel her groggy eyes open.

“I’m right here, darling. caught an earlier flight. there’s an iced coffee in the fridge for you.”

she smiled, reaching for his hand. “I missed you.”

“I know, love. can I join you?”

“you may.” she hummed, pulling the blankets back up over her shoulders. normally she would have loved to watch her boyfriend undress, but this morning she was far too sleepy to care about the sound of georges heavy hilfiger belt hitting the hardwood floor.

eyes still closed, she felt the mattress dip next to her as george slipped underneath the covers, taking her into his arms. she sighed contentedly, resting her head on his bare chest as the driver ran his large hand up and down her back.

“I love you, y/n.”

“I love you too, george william russell.”