#first time i read that title it made me tear up it just sounds so sweet and a little sad | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pullhisteeth · 2 years ago

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classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins.

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all.

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at��least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?"

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up.

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him.

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square.

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time.

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!

#ha ha I am sorry!#god it's long #I hope you love it <3 #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #eddie fic #eddie x fem!reader #eddie #eddie stranger things

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ikkyfics · 1 month ago

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Consequences

Remus Lupin x f!reader

Summary: Remus had never hated himself more. He leaned against the wall of an empty corridor, his fists clenched at his sides, trembling. He wanted to scream, but he felt like it would be pointless. Screaming wouldn’t erase what he had done. It wouldn’t relieve the fact that he had hurt you in a way that never be fixed.

Warnings: angst

A/N: HEY, did you just stumble upon this? This is a continuation of another fic, so I advise you to read Sweet Lies first <33. And yes, @dearmy-diary, you convinced me to write this, so I hope you can enjoy it! More notes at the end of the post.

Masterlist

"I wish things were different," you finally said, your voice so low that you could barely hear it yourself. "But they’re not. Please, just... go away."

Remus felt the weight of your words like a punch to the stomach, leaving him breathless. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t have the right. He simply nodded, his legs moving automatically, as if each step away from you was a punishment he deserved.

He walked far enough to be out of your sight, but not far enough to ignore your silhouette in the distance. The way you collapsed onto the bench, hugging your knees as if that could shield you from the pain. He knew it couldn’t. He knew you were broken—and he knew it was his fault.

Remus had never hated himself more.

He leaned against the wall of an empty corridor, his fists clenched at his sides, trembling. He wanted to scream, but he felt like it would be pointless. Screaming wouldn’t erase what he had done. It wouldn’t relieve the fact that he had hurt you in a way that never be fixed.

The days dragged on. Every time he walked down a hallway, every time he saw you from afar, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, it felt as though he was the cause of every inch of that pain. He wanted to approach, to beg for forgiveness, but the weight of his own shame held him back. He knew he didn’t have the right.

The common room, once a place of comfort, now felt claustrophobic. He avoided James and Sirius’s gaze, and even Peter seemed uncomfortable with the silence that hung between them. Remus knew Lily was aware of everything too. She was always the first to notice when something was wrong, and this time was no different.

She confronted him on a Sunday, late in the afternoon. They were in the library, a place she knew he couldn’t avoid. Remus was hiding between the shelves, pretending to read a book whose title he didn’t even know. When Lily appeared before him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, he felt his stomach churn.

"So this is it?" she said, her voice low but filled with accusation. "You really did this? You went along with this... this ridiculous bet?"

Remus didn’t answer right away. He looked down, unable to meet the disappointment evident on her face.

"It wasn’t supposed to end like this," he murmured, but the apology sounded weak even to him.

Lily let out a bitter laugh. "It wasn’t supposed to end like this? Remus, do you realize what you did? You played with her feelings. You hurt someone who trusted you. And why? Because James wanted a date with me? How could you agree to something so... so cruel?"

"I didn’t think it would..." Remus began, but the words died in his throat when he saw the tears in Lily’s eyes.

"Exactly. You didn’t think," she snapped. "And now she’s hurt. And you think an apology is going to fix that? Because it won’t, Remus. You made a choice, and it cost you. I can’t believe you went along with this!" Her words were like a whip, and he didn’t even try to defend himself.

"Lily, I—"

"No!" she interrupted, her face red with frustration. "You don’t have an excuse!" She paused, her voice shaking. "She trusted you. You know how hard it was for her to open up to someone, and you just... destroyed that! Why? To help James? To be part of some stupid joke?"

"I wish things were different," he whispered, more to himself than to Lily. "I didn’t want to hurt her. I never did."

Lily shook her head, incredulous. "You know that James and I broke up, right?"

Remus looked up, surprised. "What?"

"He thought it would make me happy," she continued, her voice heavy with bitterness. "But how could I be happy knowing he manipulated you all into hurting someone else? How could I look at him and not see that? James has a lot of flaws, but this time, he crossed the line. And you..." She paused, taking a deep breath. "You were the last person I expected to agree to this. I’m disappointed in you, Remus."

Her words hit him like a punch. He felt the weight of his own guilt multiply, suffocating him. "Lily, I’m sorry," he said, finally raising his eyes to hers. "I know nothing I say can fix this, but... I really am sorry."

She shook her head, her expression softening just slightly. "You don’t owe me an apology, Remus. And, honestly, an apology wouldn’t be enough for her."

He knew Lily was right. There were no words, no gestures that could erase the damage he had caused. But that didn’t stop him from desperately wishing things were different.

Remus spent the following days wrapped in a fog of regret. His attempts to focus on classes or the obligations of daily life seemed futile. Each hallway he crossed, each room he entered, his eyes stubbornly searched for you, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

You were there, always present, but different. He noticed the way you moved, the way you spoke to others. There was a lighter weight on your shoulders, as if the world had, in some way, decided to ease your burden, even if only momentarily. But there was also something missing: the spark of enthusiasm that once lit up your eyes when you looked at him. Remus knew it was his fault. He had destroyed that.

It was on a quiet afternoon that he heard it. He wasn’t looking for it, but the sound reached him anyway, cutting through the courtyard like a sharp arrow. Your laugh. A light, melodious laugh, so full of life that it made his heart tighten in his chest. He froze in the middle of the path, the sound reverberating in his ears. For a brief moment, he thought about turning around and walking away. Maybe it would be better that way. But something inside him forced him to look for the source of that sound.

His eyes found you easily. You were sitting on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, sunlight playing in your hair. And you weren’t alone.

Next to you, leaning toward you, was Artemis Scamander. He had a serene smile on his face, his eyes glowing with a warmth that was hard to ignore. Remus knew who he was—a talented and kind Hufflepuff, known for his impeccable character. The kind of person who seemed to never make mistakes, the opposite of Remus.

Artemis said something Remus couldn’t hear, but whatever it was, it made you laugh again. A laugh so genuine, so carefree, that it hurt. Remus’s chest seemed to tighten with almost unbearable force. He wanted to turn away, to flee, but his feet were rooted to the ground, forcing him to watch as Artemis tilted his head and gently pushed a lock of hair from your face, with a reverence that almost seemed sacred.

Remus swallowed hard. He didn’t have the right to feel what he was feeling, he knew that. But he couldn’t help it. The pain of seeing you like this—happy, but not because of him—was overwhelming. You looked so free, so at peace beside Artemis.

He realized, with cruel clarity, that he had lost his chance. He was no longer the reason behind your smile, nor the cause of your laughter. Someone else was filling the space he had left empty. And you were moving on.

As he watched you and Artemis together, Remus felt something break inside him. It was as if he were watching a window close, locking him out forever. He couldn’t blame you. You deserved this—deserved happiness, affection, someone who wouldn’t hurt you. But knowing that didn’t make the pain any less unbearable.

Finally, he found the strength to move. He turned and left the courtyard, each step heavier than the last. Your laugh continued to echo in his mind, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. And as he walked, alone with his thoughts and regrets, a single truth resonated in his heart: he would never again be the reason for your happiness.

A/N: yeeeeeees, I shamelessly decided to make the first appearance of an OC - I really hope to be able to make a proper fic for him soon. Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your precious time reading this <3333

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illusioninfnty · 1 year ago

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as the queen commands ↠ day 18 ; orgasm control

↠ rhaenyra targaryen x reader

fandom: house of the dragon word count: 1.1k warnings: nsfw 18+, fem!reader, sub!reader, power imbalance, fingering, cunnilingus

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

“You summoned me, my queen?”

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, was a woman who you greatly admired. She was the first queen of Westeros and had earned that title deservingly, in your humble opinion. It was an honor to even be as close to her as you were every day. In your eyes, she was the closest thing to a God you could ever imagine.

As her handmaiden, it was your duty to serve her for whatever purpose. And you would do so, gladly.

Rhaenyra turns when she hears your voice, and a ghost of a smile passes across her face.

You could feel your heart quicken. It was rare for the queen to smile, often burdened by her duty to the realm. You were honored that she would spare one for you.

“Come, dear.” Rhaenyra motions you over, gesturing towards her bed. You eagerly comply and shut the grand doors behind you, aware of the queen’s preference for privacy in her quarters.

As you approach her, your confusion heightens. You were unsure of what she was to require you to do. She was dressed as elegantly as ever, no hair out of place and fabric wrinkled. Her room was immaculate, you made sure of that this morning, so there was no possible way she wished for you to clean it.

As you take your time glancing around your surroundings you can feel her gaze follow you, as if anticipating what you will say.

“H-how can I serve you, my queen?” You stammer, feeling embarrassed under the intensity of Rhaenyra’s gaze. You avoid her eyes as you feel your cheeks heat up.

Unexpectedly, Rhaenyra laughs. The sound startles you and you lift your head. She looks more beautiful than usual when she laughs, her eyes lighting up and her cheeks rounding with joy.

Rhaenyra walks over to where you stand and holds a hand out on your shoulder. The contact sends a jolt down your spine.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Rhaenyra starts, “I just need your assistance in something I’m trying.” She glances up, as if trying to find the right words. “Something…new.”

Eager to please the queen, you quickly agree to whatever it is she has for you. “Great,” she responds, eyes crinkling. “Now get on the floor.”

You drop instantly in front of Rhaenyra, hands poised on your lap. You finger the frayed ends of your dress in anticipation.

She sits at the edge of her bed and you follow her, adjusting yourself to rest on your knees.

“Please, my queen.” Your cheeks feel warm and you’re panting frantically, wanting to have a taste of the queen’s cunt. “Please let me serve you.”

Rhaenyra smirks. “Go ahead.”

You push the bottom of her dress up slowly. Your body heats up as more and more of the queen is revealed to you, all the way to her cunt.

You eat her out furiously, licking any crevice that your tongue reaches. You grab onto Rhaenyra’s thighs as you eagerly suck on her clit. She places her hand on top of your head, guiding your movements for you.

She moans quietly, under her breath, and you can’t help but relish in the sensation of you, a mere handmaiden, bringing such pleasure to the queen.

The thought of it causes your own core to throb harder. As you continue to eat out Rhaenyra, you slowly grind your wet pussy against the floor. The cool tile making contact causes you to gasp into Rhaenyra, moaning from the pleasure. You move yourself against the floor faster and faster, mimicking the speed with your tongue.

Rhaenyra’s hand suddenly tightens in your hair, ripping you away from her. You look up expectantly, only to be met with her sneer.

“Did I say you could pleasure yourself?”

Your eyes widen at the realization that you disobeyed her. “No, my queen!” I was only just—”

“Excuses?” she raises an eyebrow as she cuts you off. “And here I thought you were most loyal. Do I need to call someone else in to help me?”

Your eyes widen and tears begin to form against your will. “My queen, please, no!” You throw yourself down to her feet and cry out in apology. “I promise, I won’t do anything without your permission again. I can serve you better than anyone else.”

There’s a pause in the air. “Please, my queen. I beg of you.” You hold your breath in anticipation and fear.

Finally, Rhaenyra responds.

“Well, get on with it then.”

You waste no time in focusing on her cunt, using both your fingers and tongue now.

You can feel her core clench furiously, and you speed up so she can reach her peak. Rhaenyra lets out a clipped moan as she finally cums, her release spreading all across your face as you continue to devour her.

“Enough of that.” Rhaenyra beckons you away, and you obey immediately. Her face—although flushed—is much more composed then your own, which is covered in the queen’s juices. “I have something else I want to try with you now.”

Rhaenyra shifts, coming upward from her position on the bed and pushing you down onto a bench. She stands above you and begins

“Oh, my queen, what are you—!”

The queen’s slender fingers move inside you expertly, prodding areas you would’ve never realized would give you such euphoria.

You can’t help but moan at the way she curls her fingers in your cunt while rubbing your clit. Your hands reach out blindly to grip onto the fabric of the bench as throw your head back in pleasure.

“Oh!” you gasp. “I’m—I’m going to—” Rhaenyra suddenly halts in her movements. All of the pleasure building up leaves immediately and you let out a broken sob. “My queen! Why did you stop?”

Rhaenyra tuts, her icy gaze staring you down in disappointment. “You dare question your queen?” Although her tone is lighter, the question still causes you to pause.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You feel Rhaenyra’s cool hand cusp your cheek.

“You’ll only come when I tell you to.”

You gulp and take a deep breath. “Whatever you command, my queen.”

She continues with her assault again, fingering you and stopping just before your peak. She does it again and again, too many times to count. After the first few times, you couldn’t contain your sobs, your cheeks are tear stained, the pleasure and frustration building up over and over.

Until Rhaenyra finally stops.

You jolt from the loss of her touch and she pats your cheek. “Go clean yourself up. You did well.”

You obey, preparing some cloths to pat yourself down with before smoothing your dress and finally taking your leave.

Rhaenyra calls your name before you take your exit.

You straighten your posture and turn back towards her. “Yes?”

She sends a smile your way, and you fail to keep your heartbeat steady. “I’ll be calling for you again soon.”

You nod in understanding and bite your cheek to conceal your own.

“I’ll be greatly looking forward to it, my queen.”

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen smut #house of the dragon x reader

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gladiatorcunt · 5 months ago

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- UNDEAD UNEARTHED !!

you’re too sweet for me

cw: 18+ mdni, goth reader, reader is lowkey mean but not really on purpose, mentions of reader wearing makeup & a skirt, dubcon due to alcohol use and taking advantage of a vulnerable person, ambiguous intentions/ending, reader has a pussy, friends!pope & reader, one line of vomit kink & puppy reader talk, unprotected sex on the beach, feet kink, mentions of animal hunting & implied bone collecting, arguable intox (?) kink, unedited, title inspired by hozier but not directly from the unreal unearth album (subtitle is), experimental style, one usage of the word ‘daddy’, piss kink

wc: 1.5k

1k event. / consider commissioning me!

You’re out at night hunting a gator that some jackass threw into your family’s lake on a whim. It’s not a body of water that beckons the upper class to visit, large parts of it swamped with algae and fervidly humid as any circle of hell. But it’s yours, and you’d hate to get your foot bitten clean off because you procrastinated taking things into your own hands. An annoying job anyway, guess the bones rumored to be buried in the marsh will have to wait.

You’re just minding your business when a boat pulls up. Standing tall behind like the wheel like a captain is your one night stand from a few days ago, John….. C? Or maybe B, whatever. To his right is your longtime acquaintance Pope, someone who you probably would be a lot closer to if you didn’t resign yourself to being the world’s youngest hermit. You bonded over math and reading and you were glad to feel normal for once, to have a normal near-friend and do normal things.

He was the one that made an off handed comment about a party going down at the beach. Nothing special on this sinkhole in the shape of an island, but in theory you can appreciate a casual offer to hang out. You made the decision to only be there for half an hour since the drive back to your trailer was long and winded. You must have looked lonely, because John B (though you didn’t know his name at the time) had sought you out 15 minutes after your arrival and pats your back while you throw up the cheap liquor. Fuck you for trying out the nauseating neon colored liquids in those cheap red solo cups.

You can’t be mad at Pope, you squirreled your way to the pebbled trail leading to the beach soon after exchanging small talk.

“You’ll feel better when you get it all out, okay?” The brunette guy holding your back softly smiles, chomping at the bit to take care of something other than everything else he has to deal with. “Just lean on me and try to relax your throat.”

You’re admittedly embarrassed but you felt something warm stir within you, if you were sober you’d have batted his hands away and all but hissed and bared your teeth. You could almost purr like this, a heavy hand settled on your head and another petting your flank to soothe your trembling. The crosses on the black jacket you’re wearing shook in the breeze, a soft chorus of jingling sounds ringing through the air. Eventually you empty your stomach, he squeezes your shoulder and tucks you into his side as you calmed down.

Your heavy eye makeup and dark lipstick are smudged, your mascara left little trails down your face due to your tears. Having a gag reflex really was the worst, you decide.

“So, do I have a name to call you?” He asked “Can’t think of you as the pretty stranger I saw puking their guts out forever, y’know?”

Your cheeks heat up and you really wish a random tsunami would sweep you out to sea, but you give him your name and hoard the sound of him repeating it in your skull. A part of you between your legs hopes that he does the same when you wrap your lips around the simple syllables of his name, first and last. John B. Routledge is more attractive than he has any right to be, but you know he doesn’t need you to tell him that.

He tilts his head and the moonlight shifts to frame his face. It makes him look like the kind of guy you‘d go to a Lovers Lane with and makeout in his car past any reasonable hour. Someone normal, and you’re a recluse but that doesn’t mean you don’t get lonely. You stumble away from the partygoers, led by his firm grip to a private-ish area of the beach.

He smiles at you again as he pulls his t-shirt off and lays it down on the ground.

He takes a seat and pats the spot beside him, “You need some peace and quiet, some fresh air too. Come sit with me, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to leave you alone right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek but sit down anyway, and you let him rest your head against his shoulder. You sit in that position for a while, watching the full moon shine on the ocean below. It feels nice, and you weirdly don’t want to leave, so you sink into the embrace and allow the distant cheers and yelling to fade into the background.

The world is fuzzy when he kisses you for the first time, there’s an airbrush filter over everything in your field of vision. You throw caution to the wind and clumsily kiss back, enjoying the glide of your lips together and the reoccurring pecks that bookmark every brush of skin.

You slur that you really never do this, have sex with somebody the night you meet them. John B chuckles, assuring you that he never thought you were the type to do that anyway. You keep to yourself too much, it’s a wonder you’re even allowing him to peel off your studded skirt and lace panties. He kisses down your leg and when he gets to your strappy sandal, he directs your foot to his bulge and grinds against it while he undoes the straps.

Your right shoe is promptly tossed over your head. Your top joins it, but the sickening clang your jacket makes is close to taking you out of the moment.

Then he groans, and you boldly move your toes up and down the shaft, giving what seems like a sizable cock a sloppy footjob. Your foot keeps slipping, but it makes him harder watching you struggle to regain your footing and keep up your pace. You press your heel into his balls, judging the heft of them and how they swell. You only stop when you skirt your big toe around the head of his dick, and John B clamps a hand around your ankle, chiding you for being so greedy already.

He repeats the process with the other shoe and suddenly your legs are spread and he’s kneeling in front of your exposed pussy with the strangest look on his face. Like it’s what he’s been waiting his entire life for but never knew he needed until he saw it in the flesh. He teases your clit with a few uncoordinated touches, messy circles with the tip of his thumb that leave you wanting.

Your limbs wade through water on the way to wrap around his neck, your anchor in the dizzying sea of lowered inhibitions. You grow wet disturbingly quickly, and the sticky sounds of his fingers playing with your folds, delving deeper up your slit and into your cunt sound louder than gunshots.

You’re so out of it you don’t notice the golden droplets falling on the pads of his digits. He wears them like luxury rings.

He coos and grins, “That’s it, you’re a messy puppy, huh? ‘S okay, I think it’s sweet.”

Your throat spasms and gargles around a watery reply, something about agreeing and thanking him and begging. You think you call him Daddy when the pleasure starts to rewire your brain.

He’s… caring, adjusting his shirt under you so you don't get too much sand sticking to your skin and stroking his thumbs down your thighs whenever you tense up. A tad too sweet for your liking, without the bitterness you’d expect from someone else. It feels right, and you guess that’s what causes you to whine and paw at the waistband of his shorts. John B pants into your slack jawed mouth and nods, licking your teeth and freeing his dick.

You don’t pick up on the lack of alcohol that should be permeating his breath, all you can focus on is how softly he taps the fat tip of his cock on your hole. Like it’s shy but going to do whatever it wants regardless, mold your guts around his length and leave anyone else without being able to fit into the lock he’s custom made.

In the present, your grip around your shotgun loosens considerably and that’s the sign he needs.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I forgot to get your number, so I…I just couldn’t wait anymore.” He says as if that explains everything, as if it seems perfectly fine that he dragged his friend out onto his boat to find out where you lived.

You don��t remember the specifics of the night, but you recall bits and pieces. How his cock stretched your walls and left you clenching around nothing, his necklace smacking the inside of your chin as he thrust inside of you with expert precision, his tongue cleaning the dried vomit off the corner of your mouth and forcing you to taste it. You don’t really remember the individual actions, but you can’t forget the sensations, so you watch the barely there ripples in the water as the boat moves farther into the distance. Your number on a torn piece of paper clutched in John B’s fist.

The gator better not have been scared off.

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katsukistofu · 7 months ago

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we are made of stardust

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ i. midoriya x fem reader. 0.8k words — childhood friends to lovers. fluff. astronomy references.

It's hard for someone to pinpoint their earliest memories. Maybe it was the moment they blew their candles out on their first birthday, or when they scraped their knee while learning to ride a bike.

For you, it’s the smell of lavender fabric softener.

You think your earliest memory is of the sight of his freckled cheeks, with nothing but the green light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling illuminating them.

Of sleepovers, reading the most recent copies of your favorite manga that you picked out from the library together under the blanket, holding the coolest pages up for the other to see, and hurriedly tucking the books under his pillows when Inko came in to check if you two were sleeping.

You remember his giggles as he tugs at the blanket to cover the both of you, big deep forest eyes dancing with glee. ‘To protect you from monsters,’ he whispers, only five years old, yet saying it with the unwavering confidence of All Might in those videos he loved to play to death on TV over and over again.

Inko chuckles, noticing you two once again rewinding the video for the third time, entranced by all might as he saves cats from a tree while rescuing civilians from an explosive villain, “faster than the speed of sound!” the title reads, while placing a plate of sliced fruit on the coffee table. He was starting to grow out of his favorite All Might onesie now.

Would he ever outgrow you?

Just as the moon orbits the sun, you can’t remember a time when you weren’t stuck to his side.

You’re the one holding his hands in the pool when he ditches his floaties for the first time, slowly guiding him as he kicks and kicks, holding him tight and not letting him sink.

You’re the one jumping and stomping on his bullies' sandcastles at the beach, when they try to ruin his first.

Accidentally, you’re the first one he tells when he passes the entrance exam for UA. He was calling his mother on the phone when you overheard him saying not to tell you yet, because he wanted to surprise you in person. His mother and you prepare a cute little party for him before he gets home, and upon opening the door to the apartment he’s greeted with a rain of confetti and a table full of his favorite dishes.

Streamers fall around him, and his eyes light up like shooting stars as he hugs his mother and you in his arms. ‘Proud of you, crybaby,’ is what you fondly whisper in his ear and between tears he gives a choked up little laugh.

Just as the earth needs rain, he waters your gardens and tends to your flowers.

He frowns when you frown, cries when you cry. It’s been over a decade but you’ll never forget the big fat tears that ran down his face when you jumped off the swings a little too early and fell on your face. The fourth grade teachers thought he was the one that got hurt.

When he places a bandaid on your knee with a worried pout on his lips, he lends you his light, and you shine it back.

Only five years old and in your mind, he was already a hero.

“What are you thinking about?”

Your eyes flutter open at the sound of Izuku’s soft voice. His firm thighs support your head from underneath and you wonder if he’s been working out even more than usual. He grins at your dazed face.

“Were you sleeping on me?” He teases. “For free?”

You roll your eyes as a yawn hits you, stretching in his lap. “Sorry I actually forgot to bring my card with me for this nap, sir.”

“My services aren’t cheap, you know.” He fakes a huff like he’s being scammed big time, and you have to laugh. He was so cute when he was dramatic. “I guess I can start a tab for you.”

“Aw, thanks.” You deadpan, and he snorts in response.

Taking his hand in yours, you trace the scars along his skin, addicted to the feeling of where rough scars meet his soft, baby skin.

He can’t help but blush.

He still gets it, this look in his eyes, like when he makes an observation he’s never realized before amongst his mutterings. Whenever he sees All Might merch on display in store windows, despite already owning most of it already.

But even more so, when he looks at you.

His gaze softens as he admires you in his lap, the slope of your nose and the shape of your mouth that his lips must have traced over hundreds of times by now. When he received that fateful golden strand of hair months ago, and after his mother the first person he thought of protecting was you. Though he knows you’re more than capable of doing it yourself, he wants to. He wonders if you realize it, the reason he saves. If not, he’s willing to remind you, over and over again until it’s woven into the beautiful constellation of your brain.

You’re the one that’s always been his hero.

#idk soft izuku hours ig #got a little poetic there ok mary oliver!#i wrote half of this months ago and just finished it lately LIL #izuku x reader #deku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #bnha x reader #mha oneshot #mha x reader #izuku fluff #deku fluff #deku x y/n #deku x you

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alittlegiraffe · 12 days ago

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Title: Exposed

You never expected the betrayal to come from someone so close.

The morning started like any other—Marshall had left early for the studio, and you were curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone, until a headline caught your eye.

"Eminem’s Private Life Exposed – Former Bodyguard Spills Explicit Details About the Rapper’s Relationship with His Wife"

Your stomach dropped.

Shaky fingers clicked the article open, and with each word you read, nausea churned in your gut. It wasn’t just an invasion of privacy—it was an attack on the most intimate part of your relationship. He’d talked about everything—the control, the trust, the dynamic that existed between you and Marshall behind closed doors. He twisted it, made it sound seedy, like it was some dirty secret rather than something built on love and consent.

Your phone nearly slipped from your hands. Heat rose to your face, not out of embarrassment, but out of pure, unfiltered rage.

That was yours. Yours and Marshall’s. No one else’s.

The front door slammed open, making you jump.

Marshall stormed in, his expression a thunderstorm of fury. He had his phone clenched in one hand, and the veins in his neck bulged with restrained anger. His jaw was so tight you thought it might snap.

"You saw it?" His voice was low, dangerous.

You nodded, your own emotions tangled between fury and devastation. "How could he—how could someone we trusted—do this?"

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I don’t know. But I swear to God, [Y/N], he’s gonna pay for this."

You watched the way his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely controlled aggression. It was rare to see Marshall this pissed—this personal kind of pissed. Music industry bullshit? He could shake that off. Diss tracks? He lived for that. But this? Someone violating something so sacred between you two? He was ready to tear someone apart.

"Marshall…" You hesitated, unsure of what to say.

His eyes snapped to yours, and for the first time, you saw something underneath the anger—concern.

He stepped forward, cupping your face gently. "Hey. Look at me."

You blinked up at him, swallowing hard. "I just—people are going to see us differently now. They’re going to look at me like I’m some… some victim, or like I let you—"

"Don’t," he interrupted, his voice firm. "Don’t do that to yourself. You know what this is. We know what this is. None of those people matter."

Tears burned the back of your eyes. "But they’re going to say awful things. About you. About us."

Marshall’s thumb brushed your cheek. "Let ‘em talk." His voice softened, but there was still steel beneath it. "They don’t know a damn thing about us."

You leaned into his touch, exhaling shakily. His presence, his touch—it was grounding. It always had been.

"Do you regret it?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter, more hesitant.

Your head snapped up. "What?"

He searched your face. "Do you regret—us? This?"

Your stomach twisted at the insecurity in his voice. The idea that he thought for even a second that this—what you had—was anything but right.

You grabbed his face between your hands, forcing him to look at you. "Never."

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes. He let out a slow breath, nodding. "Good. ‘Cause I couldn’t handle it if this—if we—got fucked up over some bitter asshole running his mouth."

You shook your head. "This doesn’t change anything."

His lips quirked up, the first hint of a smirk you’d seen all morning. "Damn right it doesn’t."

You knew the fight wasn’t over. The media would have their say, people would judge, speculate. But in this moment, standing in your living room with Marshall’s hands on your skin and that fierce, unwavering look in his eyes, you knew one thing for certain.

---

The fallout was immediate.

By the afternoon, every gossip site, music blog, and social media platform had latched onto the story like vultures. People who didn’t know the first thing about your relationship suddenly had opinions—some calling Marshall controlling, others calling you weak. And then there were the ones who thought it was “hot” in the most superficial, ignorant way possible.

You had expected backlash. You had expected judgment. But reading the comments still made your stomach churn.

"She lets him own her? That’s sick."

"Not surprised. He’s always been aggressive."

"She’s probably scared to leave him."

"They’re adults, who cares? People need to chill."

"If my girl looked like her, I’d own her too."

You slammed your phone down, gripping your head in frustration.

The only good thing was that Marshall had been one step ahead of it. Before the media could twist things further, his team had issued a firm statement shutting down speculation and clarifying that everything between you was based on trust and consent.

But the damage was done.

And you knew Marshall. You knew he was barely keeping his anger in check.

He was pacing when you walked into the living room, his jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, shoulders tense, eyes stormy and dark.

"Marshall."

He didn’t stop pacing. "I swear to God, I should’ve fucked him up the second I found out."

"That wouldn’t have changed anything," you said, voice softer than you felt. "It still would’ve gotten out."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t give a fuck about me. Let ‘em talk shit about me all they want. But you—" He stopped, turning to look at you, eyes filled with something raw. "They’re going after you."

You bit your lip, crossing your arms. "I can handle it."

Marshall scoffed. "You shouldn’t have to."

A heavy silence filled the room. You knew this wasn’t just about the media. It wasn’t just about the betrayal. It was about you. About how protective he was, how much he hated that anyone could make you feel small.

You sighed, stepping closer. "Do you regret it?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Us. The way we are."

His expression darkened instantly. "Never."

You searched his face. "Then why are you letting them make you doubt it?"

Marshall’s lips parted slightly, but he had no response.

You reached for his hands, unfolding his fists and threading your fingers through his. "We knew people wouldn’t understand. We knew it was ours to protect."

His thumb brushed absently over your knuckles, as if grounding himself.

You swallowed. "We don’t need to explain it to anyone. We just need to remind each other why it works."

Marshall exhaled slowly, his grip on you tightening. And then, finally, his shoulders relaxed just a little.

His eyes locked onto yours, something deep and possessive flashing through them. "You’re mine."

You smirked. "I know."

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him. "They don’t get to touch this. Don’t get to change this."

You tilted your chin up. "No. They don’t."

His lips crashed onto yours, claiming, reassuring. The world outside didn’t matter in that moment. The betrayal, the headlines, the opinions of strangers—they were just noise.

Because in the end, this was yours.

And no one could take it from you.

#eminem #eminem x reader #marshall mathers #marshall mathers x reader

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ismyteadoneyet · 4 months ago

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Theories and predictions about 'Oathbound', and The Kingsmage Oath in particular

okayokayokay yes, I know, I can think of nothing else but Legendborn these days, but ngl I feel such a desperate need to write this out to get more thoughts on it. We already know quite a lot about the Kingsmage oath, right? But as the title of the third book suggests, I believe we will learn a whole lot more about it in Oathbound and I cannot fkn wait lol

[Major Legendborn and Bloodmarked spoilers ahead, read at your own... volition, tihi]

Alright. So. First off, disclaimer - I don't currently have my physical copy of Legendborn closeby to reference stuff, so if any of this is debunked in the first book please correct me! Most of this is sprouted from Bloodmarked! I don't think we got that much info about the Kingsmage oath in Legendborn but it was also quite a while since I read it lol

Theory no. 1

First off, the thing that made me start off my 10-message long rant about this to my Legendborn-partner-in-crime to begin with, is the fact that the two "participants" of the oath are connected to the degree that, not only does the Kingsmage feel if the Scion is in danger, but the Scion in question also feels the things the Kingsmage feels. Selwyn even explains that this is partly why he attacked Bree during the trials in book one during the infamous "graveyard scene":

" 'You remember that I planned our partnership during the trial. Planned to trick you, corner you, and kill you. I knew Nicholas would feel a desire to kill someone that night, because it would come over from me to him through the bond. I planned for him to eventually discover that the person he'd wanted to... was someone he-' [Sel] shakes his head, eyes hard. 'That it was you.' " - Bloodmarked, page 366

...and

" 'The morning after the first Oath, [Nick] came to me. Said he'd felt my desire to kill you and begged me to leave you alone, because of what it did to him' -[Sel] taps his chest- 'here. He said it felt wrong, wanting to hurt you. ' So I knew that what I sent through the bond would poison the part of him that was beginning to love you. Knew that if I failed, he'd have to live with the memory of wishing his girlfriend dead. Not just the memory, but the feeling of wanting to kill you himself, with his bare hands. Murderous intent like that is one of the worst feelings in the world. Haunting. Destructive. And for someone like Nick... it would tear him apart in a way he'd never forget and never heal from. And I did not care. I believed I was right, all in the name of duty.' " - Bloodmarked, pages 366-367

Both of these show the bad effects of the bond. Sel can actively affect Nick's views of the people around him, and influence his actions, and I believe that this is shown by how Nick beheaded that one guard without hesitation, that one time.

"I didn't kill Zhao for my father." Nick's eyes burn. "I killed him for me." Sel's eyes widen incrementally. "We should...come back to that." - Bloodmarked, page 467

The interesting thing about this is the way Sel has been so sure that Nick would "never hurt another soul", and yet, here he is, rejecting Sel's reasoning that Nick killed Zhao because of his father, and instead hammering home that "no, I did it for me." Because, and hear me out on this, Nick is, in the moment of the kill...oathbound to a Merlin actively fighting his own demonia from taking over.

Bree also brings up multiple times that "Nick has become a killer, the dangerous thing" after witnessing the murder (which, when I read it sounded a bit silly since Sel has tried to murder her multiple times and even explained in detail how he planned to do that specific thing but oh well lol), but in relation to how we've seen Sel act throughout Bloodmarked, and keeping the Kingsmage Oath in mind, it makes sense. Because is it ever explained how Sel's descent might also be transferring to Nick through the bond? If it is, I don't remember seeing it.

Also, Nick being so incredibly calm and no-hesitation about killing Zhao (in one of the more brutal ways he could have, even), makes me fully believe that it was either 1. not his first kill, or 2. he is more affected by Sel's demonia than Tracy wants us to realize. During the scene where Sel and Bree watch him kill Zhao, Sel is still void cuffed, which to me means that he is still actively fighting his demonia from taking him. Sel doesn't get his void cuffs off until the fight with Erebus where Bree root-boosts him back to his normal, balanced self, which happens after Nick's kill.

The synopsis of Oathbound hints at Nick having "secrets to share with the Table", and we know absolutely nothing about what he spent all of Bloodmarked doing. We only followed one half of the whole. If Sel was only half-successful in "poisoning" Nick with murderous intent towards Bree in Legendborn, when he hadn't yet lost his humanity... Do you see where I'm going with this?

Tracy herself shared a fanart of Nick doing The Thing, and quoted the artist with something along the lines of "Nick should scare you!" and "Ruthless Nick is the correct opinion to have!", and considering that Nick is now, by the end of Bloodmarked, bonded to a fully succumbed Demon!Sel, what does that make Nick?

Theory no. 2

Now, onto the more fun side of the oath (or, more heartbreaking, depending on how you read it, I guess lol)

I have seen a few people being put off by Nick and Bree's relationship in Legendborn because it, to some degree, reads a lot like "insta-love". And sure, love at first sight and all that stuff but how long has Bree known Nick, really? A couple weeks, maybe? I however, have another theory to this.

Again, the two participants of the Kingsmage Oath share feelings both ways, as explained by Sel:

" 'When did you worry [about losing your humanity]?' [...] 'When I started to see what I believe Nicholas sees when he looks at you. Only a monster could look at you and want to destroy you, Bree.' " - Bloodmarked, page 368

And of course we are led to believe that Nick, the "blond, good-hearted knight in shining armor" is the good influence, right, and Sel being the "tall dark and handsome demon" is the bad influence on the two...

...But what if it was the other way around the entire time?

[Sel:] " 'I was raised not to trust myself!' " - Bloodmarked, page 368

[Sel:] " 'I don't know if that's in the cards for me.' [...] 'If I'm allowed that wish, it would be truly something. But wishes are dangerous mind games we play with ourselves. The only way to win is to not play.' " - Bloodmarked, page 475

Sel was raised as a weapon and a shield for the Scion of Arthur, and has never been treated as anything else. He was never allowed by anyone else nor himself to put himself and his own feelings first. So when he is suddenly struck with feelings for Bree, it makes sense for him to "blame it" on Nick, automatically. He couldn't possibly be the one with romantic, wholesome, fluffy feelings towards someone else, right? To Sel, it would feel wrong. "Illegal".

" 'Why didn't you [leave]?' 'Because my judgement is not what it should be around you, Bree. It never has been.' " - Bloodmarked, page 369

"It never has been," huh? Now, I find that to be a very funny choice of wording, Tracy, since the over-arching conflict in the entirety of Bloodmarked is related to mesmers and witheld information.

And the fact that Bree's mother and Sel's mother knew each other.

" 'The woman that helped you hide the memory. Was that Sel's mother?' My mother smiles, fond and sad at once. ' Yes. Natasia.' I have to ask. 'Do you know where she is?' She glances at Sel, and I know her answer is for his ears and mine both. 'No. Even if I could speak to her now, she would not tell me.' " - Bloodmarked, page 447

We also know that Sel's mother was the one who mesmered Bree in the hospital. But what if both Bree and Sel were mesmered at some point? What if the romantic feelings Nick felt for Bree the moment they met was actually Sel's feelings for Bree, coming over through the bond?

Another thing that speaks to this, I believe, is the use of the phrase "call and response", which Bree uses a lot when talking about herself and Nick,

" And then [Nick's] mouth is on mine, and every call and response we've ever felt pales in comparison to this one. " - Bloodmarked, page 377

...but also how she describes the relationship between Arthur and Lancelot:

" I shiver. Even [Lancelot's] voice affects me like Nick's does. 'Arthur?' he asks. And I reply, 'Lancelot.' Call and response. That's how it is between me and Nick. How it has always been. " - Bloodmarked, page 132

I believe, again, that this "call and response" thing is what I personally believe is what might be bringing Nick and Bree so close so fast. They are both scions of what I see as one of the most bromantic knights in the entire Order. Of course they out of all people would find a connection soul-to-soul right way. And that on top of Sel possibly knowing Bree before Legendborn even happens? It's no wonder that both of the two boys feel so comfortable gushing about her being "beautiful forever" in that one bloodwalk that one time, lol.

In conclusion, I guess the big question at hand is "Where does Nick's feelings end and Sel's feelings begin?" Where is the line? Is there one? I'd like to argue that the fact that Sel's first instinct, when he first starts feeling "what Nick is feeling" towards Bree is to kill her, is denial in the most severe degree. He is the first character from the Order Bree meets, accidental or not, and even though Tracy has said that she wrote Legendborn without a set goal for the endgame-couple, I'm willing to believe that that has shifted towards a BreeSel outcome after the mayhem of a character-development-arc that is Bloodmarked.

The fact that I am a BreeSel believer might also be influenced by the fact that we simply have not seen Nick in A While lol

And if not, I'm willing to root for a Bree x Sel x Nick throuple lol. As long as Sel is part of the endgame setup, I'm good.

Just please let Lark be left alone for William even if Lark and Bree commit to a Kingsmage oath, Tracy, I beg

#legendborn #the legendborn cycle #bloodmarked #legendborn theory #we're headed straight into delulu city I am so aware LOL #but I'm so excited for Oathbound I can't wait to learn more about the Kingsmage oath it's so fkn INTERESTING #i love magic systems alright hdjshjdhs #tove rambles

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nightbutterfly09 · 8 days ago

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Baby Kaede

If you haven’t read my wattpad story please go ahead as this will be an origin story of a character. The universes align. Kaede is entirely my oc as well as the Itoshi parent’s names are entirely my fantasy. Please check it out. Btw the timezone I wrote at the end only concerns the wattpad story. My wattpad — But my profile is on the post below this as well.

Baby Kaede

Your body was tired. You just gave birth to your baby girl Kaede. Your first child. Sae held her in his arms carefully with tears in his eyes. “And they say the stoic man doesn't cry” your voice cracked as you chuckled weakly.

Your body was sore and after pushing so much even your muscles grew non existent. “Oh don't joke around with that stuff.”

Your hands hold onto his finger and try pulling him closer. “She is beautiful.” The baby’s quiet breaths were the loudest to you two in that room.

It was 3AM, both adults admired the newborn’s features as the moon shone through the glass nearby. “Well.. you are a father now, Sae” “I am, yeah… thank you” he mumbled softly and kissed your forehead.

After a few moments with just the three of you the baby’s cries erupted and threw the silence of the night into disarray.

Turned out she was just hungry so after feeding her for the first time you saw her content face. The little girl had no idea how happy she made you. You glanced at Sae from the corner of your eyes and noticed his lips curl upwards into a light smile. His eyes softened as his gaze focused on the newborn in your arms.

“Do you want to call in your family?” Suddenly you ask, making him turn to you and look into your eyes. “Already?” A small but gentle frown appeared on his face. “Well, why not? She is asleep now anyway” His strong arms cooped up the small body into his arms and walked to the door to invite everyone in.

“Oh my gosh, she is so adorable!” His mother wiped her teary eyes. “This reminds me of my first time son” his father chuckled at him and walked closer to touch the baby’s face

“I wouldn't have thought I’d hold a baby in my arms like this..my daughter” His usually expressionless face shined in multiple different expressions today. There were tears on his cheeks rolling down, he laughed and chuckled. His eyes shone in the darkness.

One could say, he was the happiest man alive.

“What's her name?” Rin gulped and asked looking at you and his big brother. “Kaede.” You say in unison with the crimson haired man. “Want to hold her?” Rin’s eyes widened a little at the older Itoshi’s offer.

He has never ever in his lifetime held a baby. And to think it would be his brother’s… he never would've imagined a universe like so. Sae placed the little girl into his embrace securely.

Rin’s eyes filled with tears that he really tried not to surface but emotions got the best of him. ‘I wonder who that reminds me of’ you thought to yourself. “Kaede huh…”

“So uncle, what do you think?” You grinned teasing him a little. Everyone around you let out a quiet chuckle at the newfound title. “Uncle.. god I sound old.” “Tell me about it” his brother rolled his eyes at him.

“Hm, welcome boys” Daich-sani (The sibling’s father) laughed and pat Sae and Rin on their backs. “Oh and how are you my dear?” Momoko-san (Mrs. Itoshi) sat on your bed.

“A little tired… and I'm sore but happy.." Your earnest smile showed how happy you were to be a mother. You gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who will bear the name Itoshi Kaede for the rest of her life.

You feel like you already understand what people mean when they say ‘You’ll always be my little girl’.

You yawned as Sae sat down on his cushion next to you and grabbed both of your hands. His family was busy with the new family member. “I am proud of you, mi Vida” he leaned down and placed a passionate but gentle kiss on your lips.

You blinked a few times trying to stay awake but he only shook his head with a lenient smile. “Rest easy now, I’ll handle the rest. Except feeding, you do have to do that” he looked at you with a kind and coy smile.

At that moment not only were you immensely glad that he was your husband but you thanked the universe for everything that has ever happened to you.

Your eyes finally closed and slowly pulled your husband’s hand closer as you drifted to sleep.

3 years ago. On October 19th. The day your lives changed forever.

#read the wattpad story to better understand #first time father #first time uncle #bllk x you #blue lock #bllk itoshi sae #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock fanfiction #fanfic #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #rin itoshi

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oswildin · 9 months ago

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Loki x Autistic!Partner Headcannons

Please be aware these are based off my own experiences with autism as a late diagnosed, cis woman. No autistic person is the same. Don’t take this as advice.

You finally got the diagnosis, after years of feeling like there was something missing, something not clicking… And then finally, it made sense.

When you told Loki, well, he looked at you strangely. Confused. Sure, you were a little ‘quirky’ (what a classic descriptor used), had your… habits. Why did mortals have a word for everything?

“It doesn’t change anything.” Loki had told you. You knew he meant well, you knew how he meant it.

“But it does. In a way.” You’d told him. It meant you now had the chance to make changes, to adjust, set boundaries in your life.

You were getting ready for bed when you saw a book on the bedside table that you didn’t recognise. Loki had a habit of leaving his books lying around. But typically they were all old looking, massive ancient texts with the occasional modern novel. Moving towards the table, you picked it up, eyeing the title.

“I wanted to read up on it.” Loki spoke from the doorway, seeing you turn to look at it. “Understand. Help.” He said softly, slowly approaching. “Make sure that I can do everything that I can to make life easier.” He paused. “Which I know sounds ridiculous coming from the God of Mischief who is renown for doing the exact opposite.” He smirked, tone teasing.

You felt a warmth in your chest, seeing the genuine care in his actions, his words. Putting the book down, you closed the distance between you both, giving him a hug. Loki instantly wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, a small soft smile on his lips.

“I know it’s not the same…” He began quietly. “But… I know how it feels to be… on the outside.” He paused. “To feel like… you are always trying to find a place to fit in. Wishing you could be understood.” His hand soothingly rubbed your back. “But…” His lips tugged upwards faintly. “Then I found you and you made me feel like I belonged.”

And of course, he did the same for you. It was amazing how one person could make you feel that way.

Loki was a man who was both impatient and patient, but with you, he was always the latter. Sure, there were time when he got frustrated - but never at you. It was at himself, at the fact he couldn’t simply magic any problems you faced away (literally and metaphorically).

When you go quiet, he doesn’t force you to try to speak, or try to engage you in conversation, knowing that you just need time and space and quiet. But he will sit with you. And of course, give you plenty of hugs if that’s what you needed.

He feels a warmth spread through him whenever he sees you happy stim, it never fails to bring a smile to his face. If you’re happy, he’s happy.

Loki always laughs with you, not at you.

The first time he see’s you having a meltdown tears at his heart. He does his absolute best to help calm you down, but knows there’s boundaries and is always conscious of what he says or does in those situations. He doesn’t crowd you, even if his first instinct is to wrap you in his arms and hug you, make you feel safe - but he knows that isn’t always what you need.

After a while, he began to pick up on the small things, the tiny details that told him you were becoming overwhelmed or frustrated, instantly allowing you to take the reins and tell him what you need and want to ensure you didn’t get to the point of a meltdown.

Loki never treats you like a child. He’d read about how common it is for people to do that, and the notion seemed utterly absurd to him.

Oh, he loved hearing you info-dump and talk about your interests. He loved seeing the way your eyes lit up, the way you spoke so passionately and enthusiastically about them.

“Sorry, I was rambling-“ You’d say sheepishly, making Loki furrow his brows. “No, no, continue. Please.” He’d encourage, nodding with a small smile. “I want to know.”

And of course, you could listen to him speak about magic for hours. You loved seeing him be passionate about such things too, his facial expressions, the quips he’d make about how people didn’t know the difference between ‘duplicate casting’ and ‘illusion projection’.

“Honestly, it’s not that hard to understand.” “They’re clearly completely two different things.” “It’s insulting.”

He’d cast illusions of the night sky on the ceiling, fluttering butterflies, small fireworks… anything that made your eyes light up. He’ll bring you some form of calm.

When you got snappy or agitated, he’d bite his tongue. His instinct was to quip back - he was still Loki after all. But he understood that it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t him. And so over time, the defensiveness would wane, and he’d simply give you space or whatever you need.

You understood each other. As Loki had said, it was different circumstances, but he knew how it felt to be seen as the ‘outsider’, not feeling like he quite fit in but didn’t understand why - until he, of course, found out his true heritage.

But there was a kinship there. He knew how lonely and isolating it could feel to be seen as ‘different’. And he never wanted you to feel that with him. And you never wanted him to feel that with you.

He found you comforting. Calming even. Like a solace to the soul. Through the good and the bad.

You’d told him about your childhood, how you never felt like you fit in, couldn’t work out why other children weren’t as nice to you or wouldn’t let you play with them at break time. Even when they did, it never was what you wanted to do or suggested. Always playing by their rules.

Loki could relate to that. Growing up with Thor and the others… He always preferred reading and learning magic over the more… boisterous activities they would prefer. And he always felt like he was just there because of Thor.

You told him about how you went through your teen years being confused about everything and anything. The turmoil of emotions you had no understanding of yet, why you felt so tired, sad, angry and alone. It broke his heart to know you had gone through such things, to know you had ‘changed’ yourself to try and fit in with others expectations and ideals.

Yes, he also understood that feeling rather well too.

“You know you never have to do that with me, right?” Loki had asked, never wanting you to feel that way with him.

“Am I too much?” You’d once asked him, and the look on your face - the fact you’d even asked him - tugged at his heartstrings.

“Maybe.” Loki said softly, noticing your face drop for a moment before he quickly added: “But-“ Making you look up at him, brows furrowing. “You’re my too much.” He told you, eyes crinkling faintly. “And I know I’m quite a handful, so I do hope I’m also your too much.” He’d add playfully, making you smile. “Seems like we’re each others ‘too much’ then.” You mused lightly.

(Last quote is from/based on Heartbreak High)

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki headcanons #Loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #marvel loki #loki odinson #loki x you

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praisethegabs · 1 year ago

Text

FREAK

Re2r!Leon x Scientist!Reader

synopsis: Leon is a test subject, a freak. He can't remember the world outside, and he doesn't have any notion of time. All he knows is pain. He doesn't have any hope left. He knows he'll die in there, completely alone, traumatized and scared. Until he meets you, the new leading supervisor.

warnings: angst, mentions of torture, blood, psychological abuse, trust issues, umbrella being umbrella. If you feel uncomfortable with this type of subject, DO NOT read it.

word count: 5106k

a/n: i got inspired by the c.ai bot from driftedlovers and made my own version after weeks chatting with the said bot. dividers are from @cafekitsune ♡

some people survive chaos, and this is how they grow. and some people thrive in chaos because chaos is all they know (unknown author)

Inside the white walls, Leon had no idea how the day was outside, if it was cold, raining, or if it was a sunny day.

He had no windows. All he could see was white every day.

He was there for so long that he barely remembered anything from the outside. His last memory from the world outside was something blue until he woke up inside that padded room.

Now, Leon used to be experimented with almost every day.

He hated when those doctors went inside his room to take him somewhere else. He knew he would feel pain and return to his room with new open wounds, purple marks, and blood. Why? He can't answer.

The only thing he knew was that he was kidnapped by Umbrella. He was their lab rat. A helpless man who was abused and experimented every single day. They didn't care about him at all. He tried to escape a thousand times, but he failed every single one of them.

Today, however, was the worst.

Leon came back from another round of tests and experiments, and he was bleeding a lot. His entire body seemed to be burning with excruciating pain. He was on the verge of tears. He crawled to his bed, his body shaking. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine somewhere peaceful, where he couldn't be hurt or touched by those monsters.

His eyes were about to cry when he heard someone walking inside. He slowly opened his eyes, his heart already beating faster inside his chest with pure fear. He was hoping to be one of the scientists, ready to take him again to the room.

But it wasn't one of the monsters.

"Hey" you said gently at him, your hand holding a first aid kit. "May I?"

You were pointing to his side, he followed your finger to his direction and with those scared eyes, he slightly nodded his head. Leon was taught — in the painful method — he wasn't allowed to talk with the scientists, only to talk when he was spoken to, and he could only say "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am".

"I'm not gonna hurt you" You smiled very friendly at him, getting closer and kneeling next to his side. "It's okay, you can talk to me. I'm not gonna punish you"

"Who are you?" Leon asked, his voice full of suspicious and fear. You knew he was scared. You actually could tell he was terrified.

"I'm a cool and friendly scientist" You smiled and noticed that his eyes were on your ID, where he could read your name. "I'm the new supervisor. I saw that your ID is Experiment N⁰ One, but I'm not interested in titles and IDs. Can you tell me your name?"

Leon was now shocked. All the time he was in there, no one cared to know his name. To them, he was just a freak, an abomination. A lab rat. But you, you weren't like the others. You were the first person to show him kindness.

"I'm... Leon" he said, and the sound of his own name made him think he almost forgot who he was.

"Nice to meet you, Leon" You smiled again, stretching your hand so he could shake it. You noticed his arm full of scars, new cuts, and blood. "Let's take a look at those injuries, shall we?"

Leon watched you cautiously, his eyes filled with suspicion and fear. He had learned the hard way not to trust anyone in this place. But there was something about your demeanor that made him hesitate. You seemed genuinely concerned for his well-being.

You carefully cleaned and dressed his wounds, your touch surprisingly gentle. As you worked, you noticed the fear in Leon's eyes and spoke in a reassuring tone,

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Leon. I'm here to help, not to hurt." You said gently, using a wet cotton to clean one of his wounds.

You began to clean his wounds with a gentle touch, the antiseptic sting a harsh reminder of his painful existence. Leon winced as you tended to a particularly deep gash on his arm. Then, as if unable to contain his thoughts any longer, he spoke in a soft, broken voice.

"I miss the outside world," he admitted, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I don't understand why they're using us for these cruel and painful experiments. We're humans, not lab rats."

You paused for a moment, your hands still on his injured arm. Your eyes met his, filled with a mixture of empathy and helplessness.

"I know, Leon," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "I wish I had answers for you, but I'm just as much a pawn in this as you are. All I can do is try to ease your pain."

Leon went silent again. He had every reason to be suspicious towards you, and you couldn't blame him for this. Although your touch was gentle, and you moved with a quiet assurance that contrasted with the harsh, you could still feel the clinical atmosphere of the facility. Leon couldn't help but be suspicious, a feeling he had grown accustomed to over time.

As you worked, you noticed the fear in Leon's eyes, the deep-rooted mistrust that had taken hold of him after countless experiments and cruel treatment. You paused again for a moment, looking into his eyes with genuine concern.

"Leon," you began softly, "I can see that you're scared, and you have every reason to be. But I want you to know that I'm different. I'm not like the others who have come before me."

Leon regarded you with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. He had heard similar promises in the past, only to be let down.

"I promise you, Leon, I'll be back to keep you some company. You're not just an experiment here. And I believe in treating you with the respect and kindness you deserve." You continued, yourr voice unwavering.

Leon studied your face, searching for any hint of deception, but he found none. Perhaps it was the sincerity in your eyes, or maybe it was the exhaustion of isolation that made him yearn for human connection once more.

"Okay," Leon whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and fear. "I'll be here."

"I'll be back, Leon. You're not alone in this anymore." You smiled, a glimmer of warmth in the cold, white, and sterile room.

With that promise, you finished cleaning Leon's wounds and left the room, leaving him with a newfound sense of anticipation and a flicker of hope that had long been extinguished. He was wondering why you were so kind at him because he was betrayed before. He had no reason to trust you.

Leon lay on the bed of his room, the sterile walls bearing silent witness to his torment. The memory of your unexpected kindness lingered in his mind like a flickering candle in the dark. He couldn't help but wonder why you had been different from the others, why you had chosen to treat his wounds with care.

His thoughts churned with suspicion and confusion. The trauma of the countless painful experiments he had endured had left him scarred, both physically and mentally. He had learned to trust no one in this sterile prison, where cruelty was the norm.

As Leon's mind raced, his heart pounded with anxiety. He questioned whether your kindness had been genuine or if it was merely a cruel ploy to manipulate him further. The fear that he had been fooled gnawed at him, twisting his already frayed nerves into tighter knots.

Hours turned into days, and Leon's stress and paranoia grew. He replayed every interaction with you in his mind, dissecting your words and actions for any signs of deceit. But the more he thought, the less he understood. You seemed genuinely different, but how could he be sure?

In the suffocating silence of his padded room, Leon's thoughts became a torment of their own. He longed for answers for a sliver of hope to cling to, but the shadows of doubt and fear loomed large. All he could do was wait, haunted by the uncertainty of your true intentions and the relentless trauma that had brought him to this point.

You were so busy during the weeks that you had no time to see anybody.

You were full with paperwork to do, files to read, and new reports to send to oversight. One file took all of your attention; it was the one from Leon. That said file had every report from the tests he was submitted into and what every supervisor before you did to him. You brought his file to your home. You needed to understand his condition better. All you knew was that he was there for years and he probably couldn't remember his own age. He was taken into the lab at a very young age, and he had no contact with the exterior.

No family, no friends. He was an orphan.

That's why he was the perfect subject for Umbrella. If he died, no one would come crying to collect his body. He had excellent grades at school, and he aspired to be a cop, which was according to his essays; Leon had everything the scientists were looking for, and that's why he was abducted so young. The sad part?

That boy was broken inside and out. His file had pictures of him being tested, naked, and exposed to a lot of painful experiments. They were doing atrocities with him, and now you could understand why he was looking terrified at you.

He was, at one point, drugged and abused. Those scientists under your supervision did a lot of things on him, and the more you read his file, the more disgusted you felt.

As you read through the file, your heart ached for Leon. You had met him only a few days ago, but in that short time, you had seen glimpses of the pain and trauma that haunted him. Now, with this file in your hands, you finally understood the full extent of his suffering.

The decision was clear in your mind.

You had to befriend him and offer him solace and support. In his condition, being manipulated, tortured and abused, hidden from the world, and unable to see the sun, Leon needed someone who wouldn't hurt him, someone who would stand by his side. You knew you had to do something. You needed time.

It was true that you were tired of everything you did for Umbrella Corporation.

Your soul was tainted with the horrors you made in the name of science. At least, you were trying to convince yourself you were doing good, even knowing you were actually drowned in chaos, your mind always remembering you that you were actually hurting others. You hated yourself every day.

You barely could look at your own image in the mirror.

At first, you were happy. After all, you have always been a loyal employee of Umbrella Corporation, working diligently in their research division. It was a prestigious job, one that paid well and provided you with a comfortable life. But it had also demanded your silence and your complicity in the face of questionable experiments and ethically dubious decisions.

But that thought changed after a year.

Suddenly, that beautiful image you had from them twisted into something dark and horrible. You had to face the truth, and it was crushing you.

You felt only shame and guilt. And it was burning you inside, and you couldn't sleep at night. Your conscience was heavy with everything you did for them, and now, you had one small opportunity to make things right. You had a small window, and you needed to act quickly.

After you arrived at the lab, the first thing you did was walk to his room. The security was high, but your ID card let you walk inside without any problem. And he was there. His white clothes had small spots of dried blood, and he seemed to be sleeping. You sighed.

"You came back" you hear him say, his voice surprised, and somehow, he wasn't so scared of you anymore.

"I told you I would come back. I'm sorry if I took long enough" you said, taking small steps towards him, because you don't know if he'll let you get closer.

"Why are you here?" Leon asks, and then you can notice he's fully aware and suspicious towards you. "Why do you care so much about me?"

"Let's just say... I want to make things right" you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

"I don't buy it" Leon looks at you, his eyes full of doubts and fears. Of course, he wouldn't trust you immediately. You needed to earn him first.

"I know, and you have every reason to do so. But I don't mind spending my time trying to convince you I mean no harm" you said, taking another step closer, as your hands lay next to your body to let him know you're telling the truth. "I'm the cool scientist, remember?"

Leon smirked, but it was a sarcastic one.

"All the others told me the same bullshit and look what happened to me!" He almost shouts, his voice sounds angry. "At the end of the day, you are all the same, and I end up bleeding with a new scar"

The tension in the room was palpable, like an electric charge in the air. Leon stood on one side, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes locked in a steely glare. On the other side of the room, you were facing him with a calm determination that belied the storm raging within you.

"Leon, I need you to understand something," you finally began, your voice steady and resolute. "I said it before, but I won't hurt you. I know you don't trust me, but I promise you, I'm not here to harm you."

Leon's jaw tightened, and he took a step back, his distrust evident in every fiber of his being. He had been through too much in his life to simply trust someone, especially someone like you, who was a relative stranger.

"You're just like the others" Leon muttered, his voice a low growl. "And you're here only to bring me more pain"

"I know you've been let down in the past, Leon. But I want to help you. I believe in you, and I'm committed to seeing you well" You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to break through Leon's wall of suspicion.

Leon's eyes flickered with a mix of anger and uncertainty. He had heard promises like this before, and they had always led to disappointment. He couldn't afford to be let down again, not when so much was at stake.

"Why should I believe you?" Leon demanded, his voice rising.

You took a step closer, closing the physical gap between the both of you, but realizing that the emotional gap was still vast.

"Because I've been where you are, Leon. I've faced my own demons and fought my own battles. I know what it's like to be in a dark place, and I want to be the light that guides you out of it." You said to him, your voice still showing respect and kindness.

Leon's anger seemed to waver, but he wasn't ready to let his guard down completely.

"Actions speak louder than words," he said, his voice softer now, but still laced with doubt.

"You're absolutely right, Leon. I can make promises all day, but it's my actions that will prove my sincerity. Give me a chance to show you that I mean what I say." You nodded in understanding.

As you extended your hand toward Leon, he hesitated for a moment before reluctantly reaching out to shake it. Your hands met, and in that simple gesture, a fragile bridge of trust began to form. You knew that gaining Leon's trust would be a long and challenging journey, but you were determined to prove to him that you are different, that you were there to help him heal, not hurt him.

Two months had passed by since your first meeting, and that day, you told him you weren't there to hurt him.

And every since that day, Leon still had trouble to trust you, despite all the attempts to befriend him. You were trying, and you knew you were getting in there. Slowly, but effective.

Leon had become all too familiar with the routine of his daily experiments. Each morning, they would escort him down the cold, sterile hallways of the facility, his heart heavy with dread. The scientists, faceless behind their masks and lab coats, were relentless in their pursuit of knowledge, no matter the cost.

Today was different, though. As they strapped him onto the cold metal table, he felt a shiver of apprehension. The restraints were tighter, the needles sharper, and the machines more ominous. Leon's breath quickened as he watched them prepare the apparatus, their voices hushed in clinical conversation.

"Definitely a freak" one of them muttered, and the other laughed. "I mean... look at him. Looks like a walking corpse or whatever he looks like"

Leon was also used to the mean comments they made about him. It was easy for them to mock him. After all, they didn't starve the way Leon did. They weren't underweight as he was, and, of course, they had a place to call home, where they could live a normal life — something that was taken from him.

The first shock sent searing pain coursing through his veins. Leon's body arched in agony, his screams echoing off the sterile walls. He clenched his fists, trying to endure the torment, but his willpower crumbled with each successive jolt.

Hours passed, or maybe it was mere minutes, but to Leon, it felt like an eternity. He lost track of time as they pushed him beyond his limits, subjecting him to doses of needles, shocks, burns, and the ice room. The pain was excruciating, and he wondered how much more his frail body could endure.

Finally, they released him from the restraints, and Leon fell to the cold, hard floor. He was drenched in sweat, his body trembling with the aftermath of the ordeal. His mind was a fog of agony, and he struggled to make sense of his surroundings as they dragged him back to his padded room.

As they locked the heavy door behind him, Leon crumpled to the ground, more hurt than he had ever been before. The pain was unbearable, but there was something else too — an overwhelming sense of despair. He knew that tomorrow would bring another round of experiments, and he was trapped in this never-ending nightmare with no hope of escape.

The harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights above Leon's padded room flickered as the heavy door creaked open. Suddenly, you stepped inside, your footsteps muted by the cushioned floor. You carried a small medical kit and wore a look of sympathy that clashed with your usual clinical demeanor. Something that both of you were used to do, since you were promoted to supervision.

Leon lay on the floor, his body battered and broken from the day's experiments. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his face was contorted with pain. Silently, you knelt beside him, your gloved hands gentle as yoi began to assess his injuries.

The room was cold, the sterile walls offering no comfort. You worked in silence, tending to Leon's wounds with meticulous care that seemed out of place in this cold, heartless facility. You cleaned and dressed his wounds, your touch as tender as it was professional.

As you worked, Leon's eyes filled with tears. He had endured so much, and the pain had become his constant companion. But it was your expected kindness that broke the dam. The tears streamed down his face, and he choked back sobs, unable to contain the flood of emotions that overwhelmed him.

You paused in your ministrations, your eyes meeting Leon's with a mixture of understanding and sorrow. You didn't say a word, but your presence alone offered a glimmer of humanity in this otherwise soulless place.

Leon's sobs became louder, and his body was now jointing. He felt pain, and he was truly scared. He couldn't hold his feelings anymore.

"Please, you have to help me. They... they won't stop. I can't take it anymore." Leon's tears flowed freely now as he looked up at you, his voice choked with pain and desperation.

Gently, you set aside your medical supplies and leaned closer to him, your voice soft and soothing.

"It's going to be okay, Leon," you whispered. "I promise you, I'll find a way to end your suffering. You don't deserve this. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure this ends".

"I... I can't do this anymore..." Leon sobs again, not caring with you seeing his tears. He was desperate. "Please..."

You sighed heavily, your heart aching with the sight of him hurt like that. You needed to help him. You needed to do something.

"I'll see what I can do" you whispered, then you wiped the tears from his eyes. "Now, take some rest"

Leon cried until he fell asleep, curled with his blanket. When you saw him like that, you knew you were done with Umbrella and everything they did. Something was forming inside your mind; a plan? An escape route? Where would you take him? How?

You had a lot of questions and, unfortunately, no answers.

Over the next weeks, you started to prepare your escape. You already had your resignation letter written and a safe location to take Leon. You even took a weekend off just to prepare the place to take him. You had medical supplies, clothes, food, and everything you both would need.

It was risky, but you needed to try.

You had secretly collected a stash of supplies over the months, carefully hidden away in the recesses of your country house. You knew the facility's routines and security measures like the back of your hand. You had observed the guards' shifts and the vulnerabilities in their surveillance. You were more than prepared.

This would be the night.

When you went inside his room, he wasn't there. You checked his schedule and saw he was — again — in the experiment room. You had finally reached your breaking point. You couldn't bear to see Leon's suffering continue any longer.

Leon's condition had deteriorated to the point where he could barely move, let alone stand. You knew you had to act swiftly and decisively. You had already obtained a wheelchair, hidden away in a storage closet for weeks, just waiting for the right moment. You walk inside the building, trying to find the right room. Your mind and heart racing with thousand of thoughts.

Until you hear him.

Strapped to a cold metal table, he braced himself for the pain he knew was coming. The first shock hit him like a lightning bolt, searing through his body and causing his muscles to convulse. Leon clenched his teeth, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to endure. The room echoed with his screams, a symphony of suffering that went unheard beyond these walls.

"Stop this experiment now!" You commanded, your voice cutting through the chaos as you burst into the room.

"But... why?" One of the scientists asks, confused.

"I've made a new schedule. He's not going to be tested today" you replied harshly.

The scientists froze, their instruments suspended mid-air. You hurried to Leon's side, releasing him from his restraints with urgency. You spared no time in scooping him up gently, cradling his trembling body in your arms.

"But what are we supposed to do now?" The same scientist asked again, still confused.

"There's another test subject. You can use them" you said, helping Leon stand up.

Saying that, you carried him out of the experiment room, Leon's vision blurred, and he could barely comprehend what was happening. He clung to the sensation of being held, of being rescued from the torment he was passing through.

You took him back to his padded room, laying him down on the bed. You knelt beside him, your expression a mix of sympathy and anger.

"Rest now, Leon," you said softly, brushing his hair away from his tear-stained face. "I won't let them hurt you like this anymore. This will end today, I promise"

Leon tried to mutter something, but he was so tired that his words were beyond comprehension. You went back to your office, just waiting for the perfect time.

You were nervous, and anyone could tell that you were more aggressive than usual, despite the fact that you were always kind to everyone. This plan needed to work, or both of you would definitely die. Your eyes were glued to the watch in your wall, and the time seemed to freeze.

Your heart ached, and you felt anxious.

When the clock finally turned midnight, you knew what you needed to do. Silently, with a heavy heart, you approached Leon's padded room, your pulse quickening with each step. You had prepared a syringe with a sedative, a necessary measure to keep him asleep and prevent him from experiencing any more pain.

Entering the room, you saw Leon lying on the padded bed, his eyes hollow and empty. His frail body was a mere shell of what it had once been, and you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of sorrow for him. You administered the sedative with a gentle touch, whispering soothing words to him as he slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Carefully, you lifted Leon's limp form and gently placed him in the wheelchair. You secured him with the safety straps, ensuring he wouldn't fall during their escape. Then you wheeled him out of the room, moving with purpose through the corridors, your heart heavy with the weight of your escape plan.

As you both approached your car parked discreetly in the shadows, you couldn't help but glance back at the facility you both were leaving behind — a place of horrors, pain, and despair. You had made a difficult choice, one that would change both of your lives forever, but you were determined to keep Leon safe, even if it meant going to great lengths to do so.

With Leon sedated and safely secured in the wheelchair, you carefully loaded him into your car, your eyes never leaving his peaceful, albeit frail form.

"I've got you" you whispered, covering his weak body with a blanket and then closing the door.

The night was a tapestry of stars above as you drove, your eyes fixed on the darkened road ahead. Hours stretched on, the miles slipping away beneath the tires of your car. In the back seat, Leon lay motionless, a fragile figure in the interior, protected by the cozy blanket and the warm air.

Every so often, you stole a glance at the rearview mirror, your worry etched on your face. You constantly checked on him to make sure he was still asleep and unharmed. His breathing was steady, a reassuring rhythm amidst the uncertainty of your journey.

The countryside passed by in a blur of shadowy trees and moonlit fields. You kept driving, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing as the miles between you two and the lab grew. You couldn't help but think about the risk you had taken, the consequences if you were caught, but the determined look in Leon's eyes when he had awakened for a brief moment had given you the strength to carry on.

Finally, you two arrived at your country house, a remote sanctuary nestled far from prying eyes. You parked the car in the driveway and carefully opened the back door. Leon remained peacefully asleep, his vulnerability tugging at your heartstrings.

Gently, she took him from the car to the wheelchair, your arms trembling with the weight of his frail form. You took him into the cozy house, the scent of pine and wood welcoming them. You placed him in a comfortable bed, covering him with a warm blanket.

You watched over him for a while, relief washing over you as you saw that he was still sleeping peacefully. You knew this new journey was far from over, that you both had many challenges ahead, but in this moment, under the soft moonlight that filtered through the curtains, Leon was safe.

As exhaustion finally caught up with you, you settled into a chair in the room, your eyes never leaving Leon's slumbering figure. You were determined to protect him, to give him a chance at a life free from the horrors of the lab.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains of the country house, casting a gentle glow on the room. Leon began to stir, his eyelids fluttering open. Confusion washed over him as he realized he was no longer in the familiar confines of the lab.

Panic welled up within him, and he tried to sit up, but his body felt heavy and weak. As he struggled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he cried out in despair.

You had been dozing in a nearby chair, tired that you fell asleep quickly, then you awoke with a start. You rushed to Leon's side, your voice filled with soothing reassurance.

"Leon, it's alright. You're safe now. You're not in the lab anymore." You tell him, your voice calm and kind.

"I... I can't believe it," he stammered, his voice trembling. "Is this real?" Leon's breaths came in ragged sobs as he looked at you, his eyes searching for the truth in your words.

You nodded, your eyes filled with empathy.

"Yes, it's real," you whispered. "You're free now, Leon. No more experiments, no more pain."

Tears streamed down Leon's cheeks as he absorbed the reality of his situation. He had spent so long in that nightmarish place that the idea of escape had seemed impossible. But here, in this tranquil room, with you by his side, hope blossomed within him. You reached out and gently brushed the tears from his face.

"It's okay to cry, Leon," you said softly. "You've been through so much. But now, we're going to build a new life together, away from the lab."

As Leon's sobs gradually subsided, he clung to your words, the promise of a brighter future. In your compassionate presence, he began to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he could leave the horrors of the lab behind and find a life filled with warmth and kindness.

Leon finally felt the sun touching his skin. Finally, he was allowed to see the sunrise and to see the world again.

He was free.

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sky-is-the-limit · 6 months ago

Text

Title: Inverness.

Summary: At the end of MW3, we see Price, Gaz and Ghost scattering Soap's ashes into the wind because he had no one back home. What if he did?

TW: Mentions of death, Grief, Angst, just pure sadness.

WC: 2.1k

You scrubbed the frying pan with an intensity that would have made your hands bleed if you could still feel them. The sponge grated against the metal but there wasn’t a single speck of dirt left to remove.

It gleamed just as it had every morning for the past five months, yet you kept at it, as if scrubbing could erase the nightmare that had become your life.

You didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, so you focused on the pan. This useless, spotless pan that he used to make you both breakfast that cursed morning.

The sound of the clock ticking gnawed at your nerves but you welcomed it. It was better than the silence that screamed in your ears, the silence that reminded you of everything you had lost. The same ritual, the same time, 7:05 a.m. Every single day.

Johnny’s face flashed before your eyes. How he looked that morning. Smiling, though you could see the worry in his eyes, deep into his features. You kissed him goodbye, your hands clinging to his uniform.

''Promise you’ll come back to me.'' You whispered, your voice barely more than a breath and he smiled, that crooked smile that always made your heart stutter, ''I always do.''

But promises were lies and you were a fool for believing them.

You hadn’t slept, not really, not since the nightmares began. Two, maybe three hours a night, if you were lucky. But even then, sleep was just another form of torture, bringing images you couldn't escape.

You saw him in your dreams, his body broken, bloodied in a thousand different ways. And no matter how much you screamed, no matter how desperately you reached for him, you could never save him. He was always just out of reach, just beyond your grasp, dying over and over again.

Then your hand slipped and the sponge clattered to the floor but you didn’t pick it up. You just stood there, staring at the wall, your breath hitching in your chest.

You should eat something, you knew that. You should go outside, feel the sun on your skin, breathe air that wasn’t thick with misery. But you couldn’t. The walls of your apartment had become your prison and you were too afraid to leave, too afraid of what waited for you outside.

Your friends had tried to help, bless them. They had come, one by one, sitting with you in that same kitchen, trying to coax you back to life. But nothing worked. Their voices were just noise, their concern an unbearable weight.

So you pushed them away, retreating further into the darkness, until the only company you had was this cursed frying pan and his ghost.

Turning your face to the side, your gaze drifted to the kitchen table, where the letter sat, still sealed, still untouched. What had arrived in his place, delivered by his Captain with a look that told you everything before he even opened his mouth.

The letter that contained words you couldn’t bear to read because once you did, it would all be real. Once you did, Johnny would be gone, truly gone, and you would be left with nothing but the ghost of a promise he couldn’t keep.

They say grief comes in waves and at first, they’re so overwhelming that you feel like you’re being pulled under. These waves hit unexpectedly, crashing into your sense of normalcy and flooding you with tears you thought you’d left behind.

But as long as the letter remained unopened, you could pretend. You could pretend that he was still out there, somewhere, alive and breathing, just waiting to come back to you.

It was a lie, you knew that but it was the only thing holding you together, the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

You couldn’t let him go. You weren’t ready. And maybe you never would be.

That day, life felt worth living, as if everything was falling into place without any effort. The sun was warm, the sky clear and your mind blissfully at peace. Johnny’s return was only days away and the thought of it made everything seem brighter.

You woke up that morning after a full eight hours of sleep and greeted the day with a smile, like always. Work had been the usual, nothing out of the ordinary and the evening was spent with friends, savoring every minute at your favourite corner cafe. There had been no reason to expect anything would change, that it would all come crashing down at exactly 6 p.m.

The knock on the door was unexpected, startling you from your thoughts. For a brief moment, you thought that Johnny would walk in but you paused, puzzled.

He had his own set of keys, so it couldn’t be him. Maybe it was the courier with that package you’d been eagerly awaiting, a little surprise wrapped in lace for when your boyfriend would return and so humming to yourself, you crossed the room.

Opening the door, your smile was ready, friendly and sweet, the kind you always wore when greeting strangers. The very first thing that made Johnny fall in love with you when he first met you.

However, the man on the other side wasn’t a courier or a familiar face.

He was tall, in his 40s if not more, though perhaps it was the untamed beard that added those extra years. He stood there in jeans and a black jacket, a beanie pulled low over his head.

For a moment, the thought crossed your mind that he might be a new neighbour, someone coming to introduce himself.

''Hi! Uh, Can I help you?'' You asked, welcoming, completely unaware of what was coming. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stood frozen, like a statue, his expression a mask of unreadable emotions. Something about the way he hesitated, the way he just stared at you, began to chip away at your mood. Then, the envelope in his hand caught your eye and the world started to tilt.

''My name is John Price, ma’am-'' He finally said, tone low and controlled, though you could sense the strain in it. He paused, as if the next words were lodged in his throat, refusing to come out.

Everything after that moment was fragmented, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You faintly remembered him asking if he could come inside, his eyes reflecting a sadness that seemed to share in your grief. But it was not the same.

''I’m so sorry.'' The sympathy was genuine but it was also detached.

For him, Johnny was another soldier, a memory he would eventually leave behind.

For you? Johnny was everything. The beginning and the end of your world, the very essence of your existence. His death was not something you could ever move past. It was an abyss that consumed everything.

Price, was it? His name was Price. He placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. He kept apologizing, saying something about the funeral but the words were swallowed by pain.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the world around you fell apart. The room felt like it was collapsing in on itself, the walls closing in, pressing you into the earth.

A cry escaped your lips, raw and jagged, repeating over and over,

''No, no, no-'' The sound was guttural, a plea that couldn’t change anything but was all you could manage.

Falling to your knees, the floor seemed to rise up to meet you. Every breath was a battle, each inhale a ragged gasp that barely filled your lungs. Your hands clutched at your chest with a fierce desperation, gripping so tightly that the skin began to tear as memories started creeping through,

"I’m gonna take ye to the Highlands next summer." Johnny murmured and the smile in his voice was so vivid, you could almost see it without opening your eyes.

''Mm?'' The only reply you managed, a sleepy whisper against his skin.

"My dad’s side’s from Inverness-" He continued, his tone like a soft melody. "It’s so beautiful, lass. Ye hae to see it. I spent most summers there when I was a bairn."

A soft kiss on his neck was your only response, your eyes heavy with sleep.

''I’m gonna marry ye there.'' He declared, the promise as sweet as his voice.

Sleep had already pulled you under, leaving his words hanging in the air. The last thing you felt was the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart and the dream of a future that felt as certain as his arms holding you.

Finally, the pan was set aside, the water dripping off your numb fingers. They felt like they were encased in ice after being wet for so long and your throat was parched, having gone without water for hours.

If Johnny was here, he would be furious. He’d lecture you about not eating enough then insist on cooking your favourite pasta dish, all while talking your ears off with his affectionate scolding. He would take care of you, as he always did.

The letter still sat on the kitchen table, mocking you with its presence. No amount of wishing could make it disappear. It was a cruel reminder of what you couldn’t escape. You weren’t sure what was inside. Perhaps a confirmation of his death, or a note from his supervisors but the uncertainty terrified you.

In the quiet, as if Johnny’s presence was a whisper against your ear, you heard his voice, soft and reassuring, ''Dinnae be afraid, lass.. Ye have to open it. Ye have to set me free.''

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you moved closer to the wooden surface and the letter was now within reach, a final step toward confronting the truth you had been too afraid to face. The weight of it seemed almost unbearable before a ghostly encouragement echoed in your mind.

''Ye can do this, baby.''

Listening to him one last time, you reached for the envelope, your heart pounding in your chest. With a deep breath, you ripped it open, pulling out a piece of paper that was clearly torn from a larger sheet. The paper wasn’t formal, it was barely a ragged scrap.

''My Dearest,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I wish I was there to see your smile in person. I miss you terribly.

Every day here in England feels like hell, endless rain everywhere. I swear, the weather’s enough to make a Scotsman lose his patience! I keep dreaming about the day I can sit in that little pub next to our apartment, with a cold beer in hand, and laugh about how much I hate the English… weather, of course.

I wish I could be there right now, to hold you and tell you how much I love you. It’s not easy being away from you, and I’m counting the days until I can see you again.

I know things are hard right now but please remember I’m doing everything I can to stay safe. I have to remind you, though, with this shitty job, there’s always a chance I might not make it back. But I promise, I’m fighting to come home to you.

If something does happen and I don’t make it home, there’s something for you in my nightstand. I was saving it to give to you myself, but if I’m not there, I want you to go into our bedroom and get it.

It’s not meant to hold you back or keep you in the past if I’m not here. It’s a promise—a reminder that I will love you forever, in this life and the next one.

I love you more than words can say and I can’t wait to be with you again.

Yours always,

Johnny."

Sobs wracked your body uncontrollably as you clutched the letter to your chest, desperate to keep your tears from staining its precious words.

With shaky breaths, you began walking towards the bedroom, as if Johnny's voice was gently instructing your every move. You placed the letter gently on his pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. It felt right, a final gesture of love and farewell.

You had to do this, for him and for yourself.

With trembling hands, you opened the nightstand, the drawer sliding open with a hesitant creak. Inside, nestled in the shadows, was a small blue box. Underneath it, a postcard. Inverness.

The sight of it made your breath hitch. You already knew what was inside and the realization cut through you like a knife.

Slowly, with a sense of dread, you opened it.

There it was. A beautiful silver ring, its band engraved with intricate floral patterns on the inside.

With trembling hands, you slid the silver ring onto your finger. The cool metal felt strange but the emerald sparkled softly in the dim light, though you didn't pay it much attention. Instead, you laid down on Johnny’s pillow, you let your tears soak into the fabric. His scent was still there, somehow. Maybe you'd imagined it.

As you closed your eyes, you promised him. You'd carry on, for him and for you. You'd carry on and visit Inverness with him, so he would rest there.

#something jolly #something pleasant #cod #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #cod x reader

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billybob598 · 2 years ago

Text

Look What I've Got (Sophia Smith x Reader)

Heyyyyy. I did not want to put this gif in because it makes me sad, but I thought it made sense with the story. Also, this is a F1 reader, there was a little vote between f1 reader or swewnt reader and f1 won 8-6 so sorry to anyone wanting the swewnt reader but this is a democracy. I might do a similar one later with a swewnt reader for those people. Anyways, it's a shit title and a shit ending so have fun reading! Remember any feedback good or bad is welcomed! Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.8k (My longest fic ever wooooo!!!)

You were a proud girlfriend right now. Here you were watching your girlfriend of almost two years, Sophia Smith, playing in her first-ever World Cup. While you missed the group stage games due to the F1 Grand Prix in Hungary and Belgium, you were finally able to come to Australia. Your girlfriend didn’t know that you were here yet nor that you were attending the USA’s Round of 16 match against Sweden. Throughout the warm-ups, Sophia seems laser-focused, so much so that she doesn’t see you sitting in the stands wearing her jersey. Of course, it is instead her best friend Naomi Girma who spots you first. When she points you out you don’t think you’ve ever seen your girlfriend's head turn so fast. Her eyes land on you and she sprints towards you with a blinding smile.

“Oh, my God! Baby, I’ve missed you so much!” Sophia squeals out as she hugs you tightly.

You chuckle, “I’ve missed you too, love.” When you pull away from the hug, Sophia immediately connects your lips. You reach back and slip your arms around her neck, trying to deepen the kiss. Gagging sounds come from beside you. Sophia groans and tries to chase your lips when you take your lips off of hers, suddenly aware of all the cameras, family members, and teammates surrounding you. You give her a weak smile and slightly push her back to the field.

“Nooo, I wanna stay with you,” she pouts. You find her pouting adorable, but as much as you want her to stay with you, you know that she has to go continue to warm up.

“Hi Y/N! I’m your favourite player right?” Naomi yells from across the field.

You wink at her with a cheeky smile, “Oh, of course. Girma on top baby.” Sophia gives her best friend a harsh glare before leaning in to give you one last hug.

“I’m your favourite though, right baby?” She asks quietly. You give her a subtle kiss on her ear while mumbling an “Always” to her.

As the game gets underway, you watch nervously at every movement the US makes. Each time Musovic makes a fantastic save you can’t help the little groan of frustration that leaves your mouth. You can tell Sophia is starting to get frustrated with herself, whenever she feels she misses an opportunity she puts her head in her hands. The skin around your nails has been chewn. When extra time ends still in a 0-0 draw, your nerves increase tenfold. As Andi steps up to take the first penalty kick, Mollie, Sophia’s mom, reaches down and grabs your hand, squeezing tightly. When Sophia steps up to take a potentially game-winning penalty, you and her mom hold your breath. You can only watch in despair as her kick goes over the bar, her hands going straight to her head as the reality that she missed sinks in.

When the VAR call comes through and Lina Hurtig’s penalty is called good, your entire body deflates. The entirety of the US team breaks down, including your girlfriend. All you want to do is hold her and comfort her when you see her crying. It’s not her fault, you know that, but she’s already got it in her head that she’s to blame for everything. After a couple of minutes of tears and hugs among the team, the players start to make their way to their families and friends. You let Sophia sob into her parents' shoulders for a while. Finally, she pulls away and looks at you. You try to give her a smile and reach for her. She looks away and slowly starts to back away from you. The confusion you feel is represented on your face.

“I’m sorry Y/N I just need some space right now,” she softly speaks. You nod, albeit confused but trying your best to be understanding. After a long time in the locker room and taking their showers, the players start to emerge. Sophia shows up, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. She heads straight for her family once again. You hang back unsure of what she wants you to do. Her family leaves the two of you alone when her eyes meet yours. Opening your mouth to say something, you are caught off guard when she speaks first.

“Just don’t, okay?” Once again confusion writes itself all over you.

“Don’t what?” You ask.

“Don’t say that I did such a good job, that it was just unlucky I missed and that I’m still young, or some shit like that,” she says, a bit of anger seeping into her voice. You nod slowly, carefully choosing your next words.

“Okay, I won’t say that. I do think you did a good job, though. But, if you don’t think you did then whatever. All I know is that you made me crazy proud,” you state, trying to cheer her up. You don’t know what happened, but it seemed that sentence had set off Sophia.

“Well I don’t care if you're proud of me, that doesn’t change the fact that we lost and it was all my fault! If you think that it wasn’t my fault, you’re astronomically wrong,” her voice rising with each word said, “I don’t care if you're proud of me. I don’t even know why you’re here, I don’t want you to be.” Her words sting. You take a step back, trying not to show just how hurt you are.

“Do you really mean that?” You ask quietly.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Sophia says harshly. Of course, she didn’t mean it. She has no idea why she’s saying these things right now, her heart cracking at how dejected you look.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine, I think I’m gonna head back to my hotel I guess,” you whisper, looking down at the ground to ensure that she doesn’t see the tears pooling in your eyes. Quickly, you turn around and make your way to the parking lot. Your eyes stinging and your vision blurring, but you’ll be damned if Sophia gets to see you cry. The second you disappear out of her sight, Sophia feels terrible. Why on Earth would she say that? “I don’t care if you're proud of me,” who the fuck even says that? You flew halfway across the world to spend some time with her during your summer break which was only a few weeks, and this is how she treated you? For the entire bus ride back to the hotel, everyone is silent. Some people are crying, but Sophia is kicking herself over how she behaved towards you. She sends you a couple of texts, which she can see you read but don’t respond to. Then, when the team gets back to the hotel, she tries to call you a few times. Each attempt just gets your voicemail. Naomi, who was aware of the situation, just told her friend to rest and try again tomorrow. Sophia relents and comes to the conclusion that you won’t respond tonight and that she just needs to let you sleep and calm down a bit.

The next day, as soon as she wakes up Sophia tries to get a hold of you. She calls you again and again. While eating breakfast she’s on her phone, praying that you’ll reply to one of the many texts she’s sent you. Her friends are slightly concerned at how dejected the forward looks after each passing minute with no word from you. Finally, Ashley Sanchez suggests that Sophia goes to your hotel to try and iron things out. Their flight wasn’t until the next day so she had the time. After thinking about the idea for a bit, Sophia decides to just go for it. She does know where you are staying and figures it’s only a fifteen-minute walk over. Sophia plays with her rings the entire time, her nerves only increasing as she gets closer to the hotel. Finding your room easily, she stands outside of it for a few minutes, trying to plan out exactly what she’ll say. Eventually, she knocks and holds her breath. When you open the door, Sophia’s heart breaks at the sight. Your eyes were red and you looked tired. You had heavy bags under your eyes and your hair looks dishevelled. You were definitely caught off guard by Sophia just showing up at your door.

“Hey,” Sophia speaks softly.

“Hey, what do you want?” Your words have a slight bite to them. Sophia winces at your tone, but she knows it’s well deserved.

“Um, I just wanted to apologize, you know, for last night,” she says avoiding eye contact with you. You sigh heavily.

“Yeah, okay,” your girlfriend looks up at you confused by your words.

“Okay?”

“Okay. What you said was totally out of line and right now I don’t particularly feel like talking to you,” your voice is flat and she can sense a hint of anger in it.

“Oh…” Sophia trails off, now feeling stupid for coming over. Obviously you wouldn’t want to talk to her. “Right, sorry. But can’t we just try and talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about? I understand you were sad and disappointed in yourself, Soph, but you don’t get to just lash out at someone who didn’t actually need to be there. I chose to be there, for you, and then you say shit like, ‘I don’t want you to be here’ That’s not fair to me and you know it,” you breathe out, happy to finally get that off your chest.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever I have to do to show you that I’m sorry. Please just forgive me and I’ll make it up to you, please Y/N,” she begs, her eyes full of tears at this point. Now it’s your turn to avoid eye contact, looking anywhere but her eyes. You hate seeing her cry, more than anything. While your heart aches to just forgive her, you know that you can’t just let it go that easily. She’s said sorry, but that alone is not enough.

“Soph, I’m sorry. I think I need some space.”

“What? No, no, no, please Y/N. I’ll do anything,” she continues to plead with you.

“I’m not breaking up with you, okay? Don’t worry. I just need some time. What you said wasn’t cool and I just want to calm down a bit,” you say trying to keep the emotions out of your voice. You feel terrible at how heartbroken Sophia looks. “Sophia?”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, that’s okay. As long as you're not breaking up with me,” she mumbles, wiping at the tears running down her cheeks.

“No, God no. It’s just a break,” you say quickly, wanting to make sure she understood. She smiles slightly at how panicked you looked. With that, she moves to walk away, but not before giving you a hug and a kiss on your cheek. You blush slightly, watching sadly as she walks away.

For the next few weeks, you and Sophia did not talk. You went back to your apartment in Monaco and continued to train and prepare for the Dutch Grand Prix. Sophia went back to Portland and after taking a week off recovering from the World Cup, rejoined training with the Thorns. Everyone could see how distracted Sophia looked at training and outside of it. They knew that you guys were on a break and that you were not talking to each other. While she was still playing well, her friends noticed that she was a lot quieter and that she didn’t seem to want to spend too much time with other people more than she had to. Your own team could also see how sad and distant you looked. So, a few days before you were due to fly to the Netherlands, your teammate and friend, Lando Norris, suggested you ask her if she wanted to come to the race.

A/N: I know that the race weekend is scheduled from the 25-27th and that Portland has a game on the 27th, but let’s just pretend that there is no game lol.

Agreeing with the idea, you send Sophia a text asking if she wanted to fly out to the Netherlands and watch the race. Sophia, of course, says yes and immediately starts to pack her bags. You send her the tickets for the weekend and the plane.

As Sophia walks into the paddock, she’s nervous but excited. There was someone from the McLaren team showing her to the garage, and while she had come to a few Grand Prix’s before the car had been terrible then. Since the last time she came, the team had seen a ginormous amount of improvement. Now, you were competing for podiums and top 5 finishes instead of trying to not finish in the bottom 5. She was shown to your driver room and told that you were in a meeting, but you’d be done soon. After waiting for about ten minutes the door opens and you walk in, with your race suit hanging around your waist and the black fireproofs leaving little to the imagination. You stop your movements when you see Sophia sitting there.

“Hey, thanks for coming I know it was pretty last second,” you say sincerely.

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Thanks for inviting me,” she responds. She notices you playing with your hands nervously. Deciding that you need to stop, she stands up and reaches out, grabbing your hands and encouraging you to play with the rings on her hands instead. You smile softly, finding it sweet that she always remembers you like to play with her rings. For a few moments, there was silence. Then you break it with your words,

“How have you been?” Sophia sighs, thinking back to the last couple of weeks.

“I’ve been…okay,” you give her a look, “What?”

“The bags under your eyes say differently.” The US player looks down, embarrassed.

“Okay, so maybe I haven’t been that great.”

“Mhm, well I guarantee you’ve been better than I have,” you murmur. Sophia gives you a questioning look. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t focus, I did terrible in the simulator training. I think some space was good for us, but now I think I’m feeling better.” She smiles at you, raising her eyebrows, encouraging you to continue “Do you wanna get back together?” Sophia smirks,

“I thought we didn’t break up? We were just on a break,” she challenges. Your eyes widen at your mistake,

“Err, well, shit.” She laughs at the expression on your face. “Well, whatever we were on, do you want to stop it now?”

“Yes please,” she requests. You chuckle lightly, before wrapping your arms around her neck. She smirks and rests her hands on your hips then leans in slowly. Your lips meet and start to move against each other. One of her hands moves across your abdomen, your abs tensing slightly under your fireproofs. She runs her tongue across your lips asking for access which you grant. Your tongues fight for dominance as she pushes you against the wall, deepening the kiss. After a couple more seconds, you pull away from each other.

“So, no more break right?” You ask teasingly. She fake ponders the question until you hit her shoulder lightly. She laughs,

“Yeah, yeah. No more break, babe” You grin and connect your lips once again.

For the rest of the weekend, Sophia is by your side. She loves hanging out with the mechanics and engineers. She also really likes Lando, who’s in a good mood for most of the weekend because the car is performing really well. Your girlfriend watches from the garage in excitement as you get your first-ever podium in F1 at Zandvoort. The Internet goes mad when you point and blow her a kiss from the podium, something which she returns. The team starts the post-race celebrations inside the garage while you are finishing up some media and debriefs. When you come running in everybody cheers and there are a lot of hugs and high-fives given out. You go straight to Sophia, holding your 2nd place trophy proudly.

“Babe! Babe! Look what I’ve got! It’s so shiny!” You shout happily. She laughs at the giddy expression on your face.

“Yeah I see it, love. It’s pretty cool,” she says while pulling you into a tight hug, “I’m so proud of you.” The smile that you give her melts her heart. For the rest of the night, you two stay tight together and drink the rest of the champagne in the bottle given to the podium finishers. A couple of weeks ago you thought your relationship was over, but now here you are with your girlfriend proudly beside you for one of your lifelong dreams. It doesn’t get much better than that.

#sophia smith x reader #sophia smith #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #uswnt x reader #f1 reader x woso

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