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thesightstoshowyou · 5 months

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Makin’ Friends

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A truck stop bathroom is about to see more action than it has in years.

Warnings: Nonconsensual touching, brat taming, use of “Daddy,” slapping, excessive dirty talk, descriptions of blood and gore, descriptions of drug effects, dubious consent, degradation, biting, facial

Fat drops of crimson drip and splatter onto broken tile and dingy, cracked porcelain. Trembling fingers rifle through supplies, bottle caps and ammo clacking as they are shoved aside. Gritted teeth grip hold of gauze wrapping and tear.

Smashing the dressing over your oozing gut forces a grunt up and out of your throat. The bullet in your belly burns where it sits nestled between innards. Your leg burns too—a graze—but it will have to wait. Vitals first.

You spit out a curse and frantically upend your bag. Provisions and supplies tumble into the sink and crash to the ground, but your concern is elsewhere. Against your palm, the dressing grows warm and sticky faster than you can replace it. If you don’t find this fucking Stimpak soon you’re gonna pass out. You can almost hear the Radroaches excitedly clicking their disgusting mandibles in anticipation of their next meal.

A pane of glass from the broken bathroom mirror smashes onto the worn countertop and you jolt, your frayed nerves making you skittish as a cottontail. Your gaze momentarily raises to your haggard reflection. Sweat beads along your brow and sticks your hair to your skin. Chapped lips press into a thin, anxious line when you see how much color has drained out of your face, the effects of blood loss startlingly visible.

Where in the fuck is that god damned—

Movement in the mirror, behind you. Breath sticking in your throat, you whirl around, boots slipping in the gore that has pooled at your feet. Your free hand grips the countertop to keep you upright as your eyes meet the gnarled, grinning face of the last thing you want to see in your current state.

Where’s your gun—your eyes flick to the right—shit, you set it on the back of that busted toilet—

“The fuck are you doing here, ghoul?” Your question drips with condescension, bravado your only available weapon.

The Ghoul shoulders the doorframe as one gloves hand comes to rest against the bandolier across his chest. “Shoulda known it was you making all that racket back in town. Did ya’ bite off a bit more than ya’ could chew, darlin’?”

You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so lightheaded. “Bounty had some unexpected friends,” you comment. It would be nonchalant if not for the white-knuckled grip you have on the countertop.

A wry chuckle, then, “Friends, huh? Now that’s somethin’ you’re painfully short on, ain’t it?” The toe of his boot playfully taps at some debris on the floor. “Think it’s cuz of that winnin’ personality a’ yours?”

Your knees shake, your shoulder aching from keeping you upright. “You’re one to talk. I don’t see your entourage anywh—

Your words die on your tongue when you finally focus on what the Ghoul rolls under the heel of his boot. What you thought was a chunk of tile is actually the thing for which you’ve been searching so feverishly: The fucking Stimpak.

The Ghoul’s brows raise in feigned surprise when he spots you staring at the floor. “Oh, this what ya’ been lookin’ for?” Keeping his gaze on yours, he leisurely crouches and retrieves the coveted little vial before standing to his full height once more.

Your stomach plummets. You can’t stop the way your chest heaves, your body desperate to pump oxygen into your slowly dwindling blood supply. Agony pulses in nauseating waves through your belly, your jaw clenching to keep your weakness hidden. But who are you kidding?

You’re not stupid. You know this Ghoul has no qualms about splattering your brains all over the broken mirror behind you. If he wanted you dead, he would have done it already. No, he must be here for something else.

“What do you want?” you mutter, the words shaking as they leave your lips. Yellow teeth peek from between tattered lips as the Ghoul smirks. He pushes away from the door and steps toward you, boots crunching on shattered tile and glass and refuse with each unhurried step.

You stumble back, his advance pressuring you against the counter behind you, but he doesn’t stop until he’s mere inches away, until the scents of ozone and gunpowder and worn leather sting your nose. Instinct takes over and you lash out, fingers intent on his eyes, but he catches your weak jab with embarrassing ease. The Ghoul snatches your other limb for good measure and gathers up both of your wrists in one, gloved hand.

Your lips pull back over your teeth in a snarl, but it’s useless. You’re caught, caged in by his body and the sink digging into your ass. And now, with no pressure over the wound in your gut, blood freely leaks down your front to soak the both of you.

The Ghoul hums thoughtfully. “Kitty’s been declawed.”

“Fuck you,” you grit out, but it sounds more like a whine than an insult. Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision. You’re about to black out—

“Ah, now, is that how you ask nice for somethin’?” He brings the Stimpak into your line of site and dangles it there, taunting you. You give him the nastiest glare you can muster, but your anger seeps out of you with your blood. Animal panic takes its place.

He must see the desperation in your eyes because he leans down, his face so close to yours you feel the heat of his breath as he murmurs, “Go on now. What’s the magic word?”

Tremulous breaths spill from your nose as you clamp your mouth shut. Pride is going to be the death of you. Would you really rather die than give him whatever the hell it is he wants?

Thickly, you swallow and whisper, “…please.”

The Ghoul tilts his head, “What was that, sweetheart? Couldn’t make it out—

“PLEASE-“ you bite your tongue, suck in a breath, “Please, I…help me.” A low chortle greets your words, then stabbing pain as a needle plunges into your abdomen. You grunt and hiss as the drugs burn their way through tissue to jumpstart the healing process. Pain killers douse the anguish like water over a fire and you slump in relief, forehead dropping to a sturdy shoulder.

The empty syringe clatters when it’s tossed onto the counter. Gloved fingers find your hair and grip hard to tip your head back. You wince and blink in an effort to come back to yourself, opiates and stimulants and steroids and whatever else was in that vial at war with your consciousness as they repair your shredded guts.

“There now. All better. I believe a ‘Thank you,’ is in order,” the Ghoul drawls. You’re still so weak, desperately in need of rest and hydration, but the drugs have rekindled the embers of rage.

“I’m not telling you a god damned—

WHAP

Blinding pain collides with your cheek and suddenly you’re staring at the torn ad for Cram plastered to the wall: Now with 50% more Cram! Wetness, thick and tangy like iron, drips into your mouth. Your nose…it’s bleeding. Your cheek throbs in time with your pounding heart.

He’d fucking backhanded you….

Your head is yanked back by the hand in your hair until your face is inches from the Ghoul’s once again. “If you’re gonna be an ungrateful little shit, I can just put another hole in your belly and be on my way.”

You clench your eyes shut as your teeth grind together in barely contained ire. Curses that would make a sailor blush sit at the back of your throat like bile. It’s so tempting to just spit in his face and suffer the consequences. You’re not gonna fucking saying it, you can’t….

“…thank you.”

“That’s a good girl. I knew there were some manners in there somewhere.” Pressure between your legs makes your eyes fly open, a startled yelp slipping from your mouth.

Gloved fingers rub gentle circles at the apex of your thighs. Pleasure blooms in their wake, little pulses that arc through your core and zing up your spine. You open your mouth to hurl outraged insults, but, to your horror, a little mewl escapes instead.

Your cheeks burn and you splutter, “W-What-what are you—

“Looks like them drugs are workin’, huh?” The deep purr of the Ghoul’s voice rumbles against your chest and you squeak, goosebumps raising across your flesh. Fruitlessly, you tug against his iron grip on your wrists, but even just that consistent pressure makes you shiver.

You have got to be kidding….

The fingers massaging your cunt through your pants push right where you want them most and your lips part in a sharp gasp. It’s like your hips have a mind of your own as they tilt to increase the friction. The muscles of your thighs quiver in an effort to keep you from completely humping his hand.

Angry tears—anger? Is that what you’re feeling?—prick at the corners of your eyes as you look up into the Ghoul’s face. He smirks down at you, his eyes alight with mirth and hunger. Just that simple look he gives you makes your throat go dry.

“Feels good, huh?” You suck in an irritated breath through your teeth when he pulls his hand away. Yellowing teeth catch a fingertip of his glove, his bare fingers sliding free. “Good girls get to feel good. Simple as that. Now open up.”

Digits press insistently at your lips. Against your ribs, your heart pounds, the needy pulse between your legs matching its rhythm. It’s infuriating how badly you want him to touch you again….

A defeated groan sounds in the back of your throat when your mouth pops open. Fingertips tease your front teeth as the Ghoul murmurs, his words dark and deliberate, “I think ya’ know what’ll happen if ya’ bite me.”

You shoot him a withering look that says, ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ He raises a brow in response. ‘I ain’t taking any chances with you.’ You let your tongue unfurl from your mouth for good measure.

Two fingers slide past your teeth and plunge deep into your mouth to test your gag reflex. “Suck,” the Ghoul orders. You only hesitate a moment before you close your lips around his digits and hollow out your cheeks. Still, that disobedient part of you can’t help but tease your teeth against his nails when he pulls the wetted fingers from your mouth.

“Seems like you’re wantin’ another slap,” he grumbles before shoving his hand down the front of your pants. Whatever clever quip you had prepared morphs into garbled nonsense when he locates your aching clit and strokes it with calloused fingertips.

You don’t realize the extent of your desire until he dips into the remarkable slickness of your folds. “Appears we didn’t need your mouth,” the Ghoul jokes. You would respond with something scathing if you could think of anything to say, but the mind-numbing shocks of pleasure rippling through your belly are making it difficult to speak.

“Turned ya’ into Daddy’s little brain dead whore in no time, didn’t I?” Your cheeks blaze and you choke on an indignant sound.

“I-I-you can’t just—fuck—

“S’alright. You can say it. Ain’t nobody else here to see you debasing yourself.” You whimper and shake your head, but your traitorous body rolls your hips into his stupid hand despite yourself.

Hot breath ghosts across your ear. “Say it and I’ll fuck that wet little hole. Just four simple words is all: ‘Please fuck me, Daddy.’”

“N-Not, I’m not—

“You know as well as I do that needy cunt’s beggin’ to be filled.” As he speaks, fingers circle your entrance for emphasis. You feel your resolve crumbling away beneath your curled toes.

But—christ—a ghoul? And a mean sonofabitch ghoul with the filthiest fucking mouth at that…. A ghoul that has you leaking like a broken pipe….

“…p-please—god dammit—please fuck me…Daddy.” Your face has to be on fire.

No sooner do the words leave your lips than you are twirled around. The room whirls like a top, your palms slipping in the blood still dripping off the countertop when you try to steady yourself. Only the hand in your hair keeps you from smashing your chin on ancient porcelain.

The Ghoul ruts against your ass while his free hand works his pants open. Your mouth snaps shut, your teeth clacking together to stop the groan when you feel his hard length dragging against your clothed flesh. Your skin tingles, your cunt soaking through your underwear in anticipation.

Dizzy from the drugs surging through your thin blood and the maddening want, you watch in the broken mirror as the Ghoul grasps the waistband of your pants to shove them down to your knees. Hot, gnarled skin slides along your slit, teasing, until you whine and wiggle your hips.

He meets your hazy gaze in the mirror, a smug sneer tugging at the corners of his lips. You huff and open your mouth to lash out, but the thick head of his cock breeches your entrance and turns the retort into a slurred, “Ffffuck!”

Hips surge forward to bury all that rough girth into slippery muscles that haven’t been used in god knows how long. Your eyes grow wide as saucers, your jaw locked in a silent scream, the air forced from of your lungs by the intrusion. Your walls spasm and clench in an effort to accommodate the stretch.

Behind you, a strained groan, long and low. “Tighter than I thought you’d be.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’d say it if you could figure out how to do anything other than moan.

The Ghoul’s scarred fingers dig into your locks, adjusting his grip so he can pull you back into his sharp thrust. The wanton noise you make has you wishing you’d bled out, but it’s not long before complex thought is wiped from your brain to be replaced with a mantra of ‘more, more, more.’

Wet slapping, the jingling of a belt buckle, rustling of a shredded duster, harsh grunts, and high, girlish cries fill the dilapidated bathroom as the Ghoul pummels you into the countertop. Your guts now ache for a different reason, assaulted from pleasure so taut and intense it borders on agony. You feel each frenzied stroke in the top of your skull all the way to the tips of your toes.

Warmth envelops your back as the Ghoul leans over you, the pistoning of his hips never faltering. Again, his lips find your ear, that voice like smooth bourbon filling your fuzzy head when he asks, “Is that pretty pussy about to cum on my cock?”

Resistance leaves you in a breathy keen. All the fight has been fucked out of you. Submission comes as an eager nod and a tiny, pathetic, “Please, Daddy.”

He gives a low growl in response, one you feel vibrating against your back. Fingers hook in the collar of your shirt and wrench it to the side. Bared teeth find the place where your neck meets your shoulder and sink into smooth flesh so hard you’re sure they’ll come away red.

You cum with a strangled scream, that pressurized ball of need rapidly unraveling in your belly. Slick walls squeeze, clinging tight to the girth battering them. Your eyes roll back, your shriek of euphoria reverberating off the low ceiling. Against your shoulder is a muffled rumble, then the absence of heat at your back.

Your head spins when you’re flipped around and shoved to the floor. A pained cry leaves your lips when your knees crack on filthy tile. Your head is jerked back, neck tendons popping with the force, while Ghoul’s other hand furiously pumps his drenched cock.

Your brain catches up with the situation just as he utters a pinched, “Fuck!” Eyelids snap shut a second before sticky warmth splatters across your face. The dose of radiation you’ll receive if any of that drips into your mouth…. You clench your jaw, lips pressed tight together.

Panting, trembling, skin buzzing like a thousand bees, you hastily wipe your face on your sleeve. Timidly, you peek up at the Ghoul looming over you. One hand still holds your hair, the other already readjusting his belt.

“That’s a good look for you, sweetheart.” All you can manage is an irritated nose scrunch. You’re too exhausted to bite, weariness settling deep in sore muscles. Rest and water are now your priority; that, and getting rid of the fingers still digging into your scalp.

Your stomach flips when he chuckles. “That’s cute.”

“What now?” you snap, the harshness of your tone lessened when your voice cracks.

“You think you’re done, dontcha?” Your breath catches in your dry throat. He can’t be serious.

“Hey, no, c’mon—

Your hands fly to his wrist when the Ghoul tugs you to your feet by your hair. You curse and stagger like you’ve forgotten how to walk, your knees seconds away from buckling.

“Up and at ‘em, baby. Night’s still young.”

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #thesightstoshowyou #fallout 2024 #fallout #go on now and reblog it #i know you want to

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puddingyun · 8 months

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sensitive . ݁₊ ⊹ k.ys

yeo x reader

18+ mdni

: 1.6k words, childhood friends, smut, dacryphilia, handjob/blowjob :

day 6 of fff24 ♡

Yeosang had always been softer than other guys you knew. He didn't care for the ugly parts of growing up - the playground fights, the bitching and backstabbing, the grazing of knees and spraining of ankles - and instead preferred the quieter, more beautiful things. He liked playing video games by himself, watching dust motes dance in the sun, and sipping on strawberry-banana smoothies when everybody else was seeing who could down the most malt chocolate shakes without puking.

It had always been quietly presumed that he would grow out of his softness when he got older, replace his naïveté with a little harshness and sharpen the gentle parts of him. This never happened, though. When he was younger, Yeosang had been the boy who needed a kiss to his knee before a band-aid could be applied, and now that he was older he still needed a kiss to his bruises before he could forget about their dull ache. As much as some people liked to turn their noses up at those parts of him, you couldn't help but find it endearing. He was sweeter than anybody else you knew, the same way a bruised peach was sweeter than a firm one.

Even this afternoon when you'd been walking back to his place in the snow you could feel his hand holding on tight to yours each time you walked over an icy patch, scared to slip and hurt himself. Each time you glanced over at him and saw his rosy cheeks you were reminded of his clumsy caution when he was younger, tiptoeing when everybody else would run.

You could hear him in the shower from where you sat on the sofa, his soft sighs interrupting the water drumming against tile. You turned down the sound of the TV and listened to him from afar, all of his faint sounds and movements filling the apartment like a radio show playing from next door.

"I'm sleepy," was the first thing he murmured as he stepped out of the bathroom, dragging his feet along the floor on his way to the sofa. He sat down beside you with a long huff and then slowly leaned into you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck so that you could feel his breath on your skin. "Aren't you sleepy yet?"

"Only a little. I just wanted to watch TV for a while," you replied, raising a hand to run your fingers through Yeosang's hair. When your nails scratched his scalp you felt him melt into you even more, moving to wrap his arms around you. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired," he mumbled, withdrawing his face from your neck to see what it was that you were watching on TV. You watched the way he blinked slowly, trying to figure out what was happening in the middle of the episode he'd just walked in on. He was sweet and fuzzy around the edges the way you'd always known him to be.

"Hey," you whispered, smoothing some of his hair out of his face. "C'mere."

He was only a little curious when he turned his head back towards you, lips parted and ready to ask what was wrong. When you leaned in and pressed a soft peck to his lips his expression quickly changed to a smile, hands holding onto your waist tightly as he chased after your lips, kissing you again and again and again until you were breathless.

"I thought you said you were tired," you teased, kissing the space between his eyebrows.

"I am, but..." he started and just as quickly trailed off, his cheeks flushed and hands wandering up beneath your top.

"But what, Yeo?" you asked, already smirking. As though on cue, Yeosang blinked twice and his eyes turned shiny with tears, glimmering in the low glow coming from the TV.

"We could kiss more," he mumbled, thumbs dragging along the skin beneath your breasts as though testing the waters. You watched, amazed as always, as his eyes remained a pool of unshed tears even as he tried to blink them away. They stayed there, not spilling or going away, and Yeosang's cheeks only turned darker the longer you went without answering.

"Okay," you replied finally, smiling at his relieved expression. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips and laid a hand on his chest. "Lay back."

Yeosang did as told, obedient and malleable as always. You placed your hands on his shoulders and your legs on either side of him so that you were pressed together, his arousal from the kisses you'd exchanged already obvious. Slowly, so slow it ached, you leaned down and kissed him again. This time his tongue swiped against your lips, hot and needy, and when you opened your mouth to let him in he groaned low in his throat.

His hands explored while your tongue licked into your mouth, pushing up your shirt only to travel back down to your hips before his blunt nails were digging into your ass, pulling you closer to him as though you weren't already as close as you could get. You took his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking and letting go with a soft nip that made Yeosang moan. When you pulled back a string of saliva connected your lips for a second before snapping and disappearing. You giggled, watching as the first tear rolled down Yeosang's temple.

"Are you okay?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer. Yeosang nodded, flustered, and sniffled. You felt him grind his hips up into you, eyes fluttering shut as he did.

"Yeah. I just like you a lot," he admitted breathily. He looked beautiful, lips slick with spit and lashes wet with tears he hadn't yet shed. You leaned in and kissed along his jaw, right up to his ear, and then kissed down his neck, stopping your trail only to bite down on his skin. "Fuck-"

Yeosang's moan trailed off into a whimper as you sucked on the skin until you'd left behind a dark, splotchy hickey there, the indents of your teeth still visible around it. You glanced up at Yeosang and noticed that his temples were both wet now, glistening each time he blinked. You pressed a quick kiss there, tasting the salt of his tears on your lips, and then moved to position yourself between his legs.

"Are you going to...?" Yeosang asked quietly, his voice wobbly and his hips bucking up into nothing.

"Do you want me to?" you asked, smiling when Yeosang nodded. "Okay, baby."

He was only a little squirmy when you pulled down his sweatpants and underwear to reveal his dick, already hard and leaking precum against his tummy. You smiled, leaning in to kiss the base while you watched his expression twitch from the slightest touch.

His soft panting rose to a string of moans as you took his dick in your hand, rubbing your thumb against the frenulum and watching how more precum oozed out of him. You couldn't help but smile as you began to stroke him, each movement wetter than the last. Even now he was sweet, his cheeks wet when he lifted his head to look down at you. It was all you could do not to shove your free hand in your pants and get off to the sight of him.

"Fuck, that feels good," Yeosang moaned, thrusting up to meet your movements so that he was fucking your fist. His abs tensed with each movement and then spasmed with each little hiccup and sob that managed to escape his lips. Leaning down to suck on the head of his dick you watched him press a hand over his mouth to contain his noises, moans muffled as you flicked your tongue against the head of his dick.

"Cum whenever you want, Yeosangie," you reassured him, eyeing the hand balled into a fist at his side. With each stroke of his dick you twisted your wrist a little, watching how fat, hot tears escaped Yeosang's eyes with each blink. He threw his head back and moaned loudly, dropping his hand from his mouth to let his sounds out into the apartment. You giggled, leaning down to kiss down one of the veins that ran along his cock.

"That feels - fuck - that feels so good," he sobbed, voice strained as he fucked into your hand. "Can I really cum whenever?"

"Of course, love," you hummed, kneading at his thigh with your free hand. "Whenever you want."

This was all the permission he needed, because as soon as you put his mouth back on him he was spilling his load on your tongue, whimpering and sobbing as you sucked him off through his orgasm. Even as you lifted your head and swallowed what he'd given you he was still hiccuping, tears rolling down his cheeks like a waterfall. Except this waterfall wasn't thundering or dangerous, it was meek and sweet.

"Good?" you asked as you moved back up to kiss him once more, the taste of cum and tears and spit all mixing to create an odd but familiar flavour.

"Mhm," Yeosang sniffed. He smiled up at you. "Now I'm really tired."

"Let me go take a shower then we can get into bed," you assured him, stroking his hair out of his face to kiss his forehead.

As you stood, you glanced back at Yeosang, his face all messy with tears and his nose and cheeks pink, and felt your heart (as well as something else) throb for him.

You really did love how soft Yeosang was.

#pirateeznet #joongfryefff24 #kang yeosang x reader #kang yeosang smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #he's the sweetest (ㅠ‸ㅠ)

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loveinhawkins · 23 days

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swim to him

ao3 Written for @steddiemicrofic August 2024 prompt, “plug,” 437 words. Rated T, season 4, Scene Rewrite, after Steve’s dive. cw: descriptions of blood, injury & disassociation

When Steve’s pulled underneath the lake, he hears the screams: piercing for barely an instant, then muffled and echoing as he’s dragged further and further down…

It’s weird, but if it wasn’t for the burning pressure in his lungs, it’d almost be relaxing—like diving into the school swimming pool, hearing the buzz of conversation slip away, so all he needs to focus on is each stroke, the drag of his body through the water…

He feels a violent change; the relief of leaving the lake is cut short the moment he tries to take a gulp of air—the chill hits the back of his throat, and he’s in the tunnels in ‘84, breathing shallowly through a bandana—no, no, that sucks, think of school, school and swimming, school and…

It works for a little while, even when something—many somethings—gnaw on his flesh; he just dives deeper into the pool, the comforting sting of chlorine…

And suddenly Eddie’s right there, his hair soaking wet, dripping onto Steve’s skin; he’s talking, but Steve can’t make it out, his ears still plugged with water, so he reads Eddie’s lips.

Steve, he’s saying over and over, Steve, but that doesn’t make sense, Steve thinks, in school he’d just be Harrington, wouldn’t he?

“Steve,” Eddie repeats. This time, Steve can hear it.

The school melts away. But Eddie’s still there: face pale against an unnatural red sky.

Lightning flashes, and Steve glances down—watches the swell of his chest as he inhales, and he nearly turns his head away at the sight of blood. He stops himself, because he has the gut feeling that it’ll terrify Eddie even more: Eddie, who’s pressing material against Steve’s stomach—denim, Steve realises slowly, his vest.

It’s going to stain. It’s going to be unsalvageable.

Eddie doesn’t seem to care.

“You’re okay,” he’s saying now, pushing the vest down hard, wincing in tandem with Steve, almost like he can feel the wounds, too, “you’re okay, you’re okay—oh, Jesus—”

The pain spikes. Steve closes his eyes despite himself, and Eddie’s panicked voice fades, replaced with the deep echo of the pool, the kind Steve swears he can feel in his chest, and the only pain comes from the slightest of grazes: his toes scraping the tiles at the bottom; but it’s all worth it ‘cause he just made the best dive ever—

“Steve,” Eddie begs, “please.”

Steve pushes himself off the bottom of the pool. Kicks hard.

He comes to and sees the denim vest torn into strips, wrapped tight around his middle.

“I’m here,” he gasps.

“You weren’t,” Eddie says—accusatory, terrified—but his voice is a tether, keeping Steve afloat.

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficaugust #pre steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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crystallinestars · 1 month

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Romantic Scenarios

If I could draw, I would have drawn these instead of writing them out, but alas, writing is all I can contribute. This is 99% aesthetics and 1% plot.

Characters: Argenti, Jiaoqiu, Aventurine, Ratio, Sunday, and Luocha

🌹 Argenti

Inside an abandoned chapel of the Goddess Idrila, stood a princess and her knight. Moss and ivy covered the crumbling walls, and grass poked through the marble tiles, creating a carpet for you and Argenti to tread upon. You stood in front of the altar, illuminated by sunlight shining from the holes in the ceiling and the intact stained glass windows above. Argenti knelt on one knee before you, gazing at you with equal parts of devotion and adoration while extending a red rose to you, swearing to protect you as your loyal knight and secret lover.

🦊 Jiaoqiu

You entered a small medicine shop, and were greeted with the pleasant aroma of exotic spices and herbs. The walls were covered in shelves chock-full of colorful bottles, vials, and jars containing various liquids and powders. Behind the counter at the back of the shop sits Jiaoqiu, welcoming you with a sly smile and a polite greeting. A familiar tickling in your throat sent you into a coughing fit, and you cover your mouth with your hand while a concerned Jiaoqiu quickly walked over to you. Once your coughing subsided, you held up a flower petal for Jiaoqiu to see, one you had expelled from your lungs, much to his astonishment. He was your last hope, you said, your last hope in curing this mysterious illness. (Hanahaki AU)

🃏 Aventurine

Rain drizzled a steady beat against the window of your apartment. It was the middle of the night and the room was pitch dark, save for the dim light of a fluorescent shop sign shining inside from a neighboring building. It cast cyan and magenta hues through the window, outlining your and Aventurine’s silhouettes while you made out on the couch. Your wet hair was stuck to your face, both your and his hands eagerly peeled away the rain-drenched clothes on your bodies, but you didn’t feel the cold. There was only the warmth of Aventurine’s lips and the scorching heat of his whispered “I love you”s.

📘 Ratio

Countless stars reflected in the surface of the glassy, still lake, creating a beautiful cosmic pool. You and Ratio stood a few feet away from the water, gazing up at the glittering sky. It was a bit chilly so Ratio allowed you inside his jacket, holding you close to keep you warm while you both watched the meteor shower above. A myriad of shooting stars raced through the sky, leaving behind golden trails that disappeared in the blink of an eye only to be replaced with another. In that moment, you were grateful to Ratio for inviting you to watch this rare phenomenon with him, for it was truly beautiful.

🪽 Sunday

You and Sunday walked along the sandy beach, hand-in-hand. The cloudless blue sky reflected off the ocean’s surface and the warm water gently lapped at your feet. Each of you held an ice cream cone in your free hand, leisurely eating while strolling along the shore. Feeling mischievous, you lied, saying Sunday had a bit of ice cream on the corner of his mouth. Before he could react, you leaned in and kissed the corner of his lips, watching with restrained laughter how his face flushed at the sudden affection, and attempting to hide it from you by covering it with his wings.

⚰️ Luocha

Luocha’s hold on your hand and waist was firm yet gentle as he confidently guided you across the ballroom floor, dancing along to the live orchestral music. The glittering chandeliers, lively chatter and laughter of colorfully-dressed guests, and delicious scents of food piled on the tables had all overwhelmed you earlier, but now disappeared into the background as your gaze was caught captive by Luocha’s. The Duke’s eyes were gentle, and there was an unspoken emotion in his verdant depths that shone through every time he looked at you. You could never quite put your finger on it, but that emotion had your heart fluttering in your chest and wishing that this dance would never end.

#honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #hsr x reader #argenti x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #aventurine x reader #veritas ratio x reader #ratio x reader #sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #luocha x reader

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librababe99 · 15 days

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Vigilante's Lullaby |Part Two|

cw: 18+, MDNI, Jason Todd (Red Hood), gn! Reader, blood, injury, emotional trauma, self loathing, anger and violence, mental health struggles, SLOW BURN word count: 2.9K summary: Red Hood returns to your clinic after a brutal fight, more emotionally shattered than ever. As you tend to his physical injuries, the vigilante finally removes his mask revealing both his true identity and the emotional scars that run even deeper than his physical wounds.

a/n: Decided to take a break from my epidemiology course and churn out the second part to this series! Thank you for the interactions with part one... it makes me happy seeing it reach people--if you'd like to leave feedback or want to be tagged for this just drop a comment below! Happy Reading <3

(part one) | (DC Masterlist) | (Part three)

The night Red Hood stumbled into your clinic felt different, even before you saw the state he was in. The familiar creak of the back door announced his arrival, but the sound was sluggish, as if even the door sensed the weight of his presence tonight. The air seemed heavier too, thick with a tension that hadn’t existed in your previous encounters. You heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the tile, the drag of his body as he moved, and immediately you knew something was wrong—terribly wrong.

He stepped into the dim light of the room, his silhouette barely visible in the flickering glow of the overhead bulb. You could tell right away he was worse off than usual. He wasn’t just hurt; he was shattered, more broken than you’d ever seen him. Blood poured from gashes in his side, and the fabric of his suit was torn and darkened with dried crimson, almost as if it had fused with the wounds underneath. Sweat slicked his skin, shining under the weak fluorescent light, and mixed with the blood in a gruesome pattern that made his normally imposing figure seem even more tragic.

His footsteps were slow, labored, and when he finally sat down in the chair by your desk, he slumped into it like a man carrying the weight of the world. His chest heaved with erratic breaths, his broad shoulders rising and falling as though even the act of breathing was a battle. His usually sharp, unrelenting posture was gone, replaced by exhaustion so deep it seemed to settle in his very bones.

“You’re lucky I’m still awake,” you muttered, grabbing your medical supplies with hands that were steadier than you felt. Your voice was automatic, almost muscle memory at this point, but when you turned to look at him—really look at him—you stopped short.

The words died on your lips.

This wasn’t the Red Hood You knew. The cold, hard-edged vigilante who usually stormed into your clinic with a snarl and a bitter remark was gone. In his place was something fragile, something broken beyond repair. His shoulders sagged, his arms limp at his sides. Blood trickled down his body, pooling at the base of the chair, but that wasn’t what made you freeze. It was the way he looked at you—like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still real.

He didn’t snap back at you this time. Didn’t bristle, didn’t mutter one of his usual retorts about how he didn’t need anyone’s help, especially not yours. No, this time, he was quiet. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it filled the room like a suffocating fog.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands—gloved, as always—and flexed his fingers as though testing whether he could still feel. He took a long, shuddering breath, and his fingers drifted toward the edge of his helmet.

You watched, your heart hammering in your chest, as he hesitated for the briefest moment. His hand hovered near the helmet’s edge, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. It was a gesture you’d seen before—one that indicated he was about to let his guard down, though never quite as fully as this. But tonight, there was something final about the way he moved.

And then, with deliberate, almost painful slowness, he pulled the helmet away.

It was like watching a wall crumble, slowly, painfully, revealing what had always been hidden behind it. The helmet came off with a quiet hiss, the sound almost too soft for the enormity of the moment. And there he was—Jason Todd, unmasked, laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. The boy who had died and somehow returned, a ghost reborn in flesh and blood.

His dark hair, matted and damp with sweat, clung to his forehead in disarray. His skin, pale and almost sickly under the clinic’s harsh lighting, was marred by bruises, cuts, and dirt. But it was his face—his bare, vulnerable face—that stole your breath away. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones now hollowed by exhaustion, and a long, jagged scar that ran from his temple to his chin.

That scar was a reminder of the death he’d once suffered, of the violence that had stolen him away from the world only to bring him back, changed—scarred not just in body, but in soul. His lips, usually pressed into a firm, unyielding line, were slightly parted, as if every breath he took was a struggle. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the labored breaths ragged and strained.

But his eyes—you didn’t let yourself look at his eyes just yet.

Instead, you focused on the scar, on the reminder of all that had happened to him, of the darkness he had endured and the horrors that had shaped him. It should have been the most shocking thing about him, but it wasn’t.

The most shocking thing was how broken he looked—how utterly, irreparably shattered.

“I died,” Jason said suddenly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He spoke the words softly, like they weren’t meant to be heard, as if saying them too loudly would make them hurt more. “And then I came back. But not like they wanted. Not like I wanted.”

His confession hit you harder than any of the wounds you’d ever treated. It wasn’t just the words—though those were devastating enough—it was the way he said them. His voice was hollow, distant, like he was recounting something from a nightmare he still hadn’t fully woken up from.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand, even as your heart clenched painfully in your chest. You moved closer, taking in the full extent of his injuries, and began cleaning the wounds with practiced, methodical movements. But your mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragmented puzzle of Jason Todd. The boy who had been Robin. The boy who had died. The man who had returned, not as the hero he once was, but as something darker—something forged in vengeance and rage.

Jason flinched slightly as you pressed a clean cloth against a particularly deep gash on his side, but he didn’t say anything. He just sat there, letting you work in silence, the weight of his confession still hanging heavily in the air between you.

As you stitched him up, he started talking again, his words coming in fits and starts, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say them but couldn’t stop himself. “I used to think… if I just kept fighting, kept going after the ones who hurt me, it would get easier. That the pain would stop, eventually.” His voice was rough, a rawness in it that you hadn’t heard before. “But it doesn’t. It never does.”

His words settled over you like a shroud, wrapping around your heart and squeezing tight. He wasn’t just talking about his physical wounds anymore—he was talking about the emotional ones, the ones that cut deeper than any knife ever could.

You glanced up at him briefly, your hands still moving with steady precision as you closed another wound. “Jason…” you started, but you weren’t sure what to say. What could you say to someone who had been through what he had? Who had died and come back to a world that hadn’t made space for him?

Jason didn’t meet your gaze. His eyes were focused on some point far beyond the walls of your clinic, as though he was staring into the past—into the darkness that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out.

“I’m not… who I was,” he continued after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I’m not Robin anymore. I don’t think I ever really was, even back then.”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat at the quiet resignation in his voice. There was no anger, no bitterness—just a deep, bone-deep sorrow. A weariness that went beyond the physical.

“I’ve tried to be something else,” he said, almost to himself now, his gaze still distant. “Tried to be what I thought I had to be. What Gotham needed. But…” He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

His words cut through you like a knife, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. You could see the toll this life had taken on him—the relentless fight, the endless war he waged against the criminals of Gotham, against the shadows of his own past. It had worn him down, broken him in ways you weren’t sure could ever be repaired.

And yet, here he was. Sitting in front of you, bleeding and bruised, but still here. Still fighting, even if he didn’t know why anymore.

You finished the last stitch and leaned in closer, your face just inches from his. Your breath caught in your throat as you found yourself staring at his lips, at the shallow, ragged breaths he was taking. For a moment, you hesitated. Your hand hovered over his chest, your pulse quickening as the space between you seemed to shrink.

Jason’s eyes finally flicked up to meet yours, and for the first time since he’d pulled off the helmet, you let yourself look into them.

They were dark, deeper than you could have imagined, filled with a storm of emotions you couldn’t begin to untangle—pain, anger, regret, fear. And something else. Something softer, more fragile. Vulnerability.

Your heart raced as your gaze locked with his, the intensity of the moment nearly overwhelming. For a split second, it felt like the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in the dim clinic, suspended in that fragile moment. Your hand hovered just above Jason’s chest, fingers trembling slightly as you felt the tension in the air, thick and charged with something unspoken. His breath hitched, his lips parting ever so slightly, and in that instant, everything felt raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly real.

The space between you seemed to close on its own. Your lips hovered near his, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, hear the faint, irregular rhythm of his breathing. Your heart pounded in your chest, louder than the quiet sounds of the city outside, louder than the doubts in your mind. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to close that final inch, to bridge the gap between you and him.

But just as your lips were about to meet, Jason pulled back.

It wasn’t a sudden movement, not a sharp rejection, but a slow retreat—a careful, deliberate withdrawal, as if he were trying to stop himself before he crossed a line he wasn’t ready to face. His eyes, so full of stormy emotion just moments before, shuttered. The vulnerability that had been there, fleeting and fragile, was replaced by something harder. Something broken.

Jason dropped his gaze, his jaw tightening as he leaned back in the chair, putting more distance between you. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white beneath the dark fabric of his gloves. The air between you, once thick with potential, now felt colder, emptier.

"I can't," he muttered, his voice rough and barely above a whisper. "I can't do this. Not with you."

Your heart sank at his words, but you knew—on some level—you understood. This was Jason Todd, after all. A man who had lived through death, who had clawed his way back from the grave only to find the world colder, more unforgiving than ever. He had built walls around himself—impenetrable, unscalable walls—and you had just seen them start to crumble, but they hadn’t fallen completely. Not yet.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a step back, giving him the space he so clearly needed. “Jason,” you started, your voice gentle, “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give.”

He glanced up at you, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you thought you saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, maybe, or relief. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, buried beneath layers of self-loathing and doubt.

"You don’t get it," Jason said, his tone harsh now, frustration creeping into his voice. "I’m not… I’m not someone you should get close to. Everyone who does—everyone who tries—they end up getting hurt. Or worse."

You shook your head, your chest tight with the weight of his words. “You’re not responsible for what happens to other people, Jason. You don’t have to carry that burden alone.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cold. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was dead. Do you understand that? Dead. And I came back, but I wasn’t the same. I’m not the same. And I don’t deserve—”

“Stop.” You interrupted him, stepping closer once more. “Stop punishing yourself for something you had no control over.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he looked away, his eyes dark with a mixture of anger and pain. “I can’t… I can’t do this,” he said again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve lost too much already. I can’t lose you, too.”

His admission hit you like a punch to the gut. He was pushing you away, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. He was terrified of letting you in, of what it would mean to open himself up to someone again—to risk the pain of losing another person he cared about.

Your heart ached for him, for the boy who had once been Robin, full of hope and light, and for the man he had become—hardened, scarred, and deeply, irreparably broken by the weight of everything he had endured.

But even so, you couldn’t walk away. You couldn’t just let him drown in his darkness, not when you knew there was still a part of him that wanted to fight, that wanted to feel something other than pain and rage.

You reached out, gently placing a hand on his arm. His body tensed at the contact, but he didn’t pull away this time. “You’re not alone, Jason,” you said softly.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at your hand on his arm as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his body seemed to relax ever so slightly beneath your touch.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The silence between you was enough, a fragile truce in the midst of all the chaos and pain.You stayed with him for a long time that night, tending to his wounds in silence. But something had shifted between you, a crack in the walls he had built around himself. And though it was small, though it was fragile, it was a start.

The next few nights were quiet. Jason didn’t come back right away, and you tried not to let the growing ache in your chest consume you as the days slipped by without a word from him. You kept busy, focusing on your work, on the patients who came through your door with injuries and stories of their own.

But Jason was always there, a constant presence in the back of your mind, lingering like a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. You wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe. If he was still trying to outrun the demons that haunted him.

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

Then, one night, just as you were about to close up for the evening, he returned.

He didn’t say anything when he stepped into the clinic, didn’t need to. You could see the tension in his body, the way his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, the faint tremor in his hands that betrayed just how close he was to the edge.

This time, the mask was already off.

Jason’s face was pale, the shadows under his eyes even darker than before, and there was a wildness in his gaze that sent a chill down your spine. He looked like a man barely holding himself together, like he was seconds away from shattering completely.

You didn’t ask what had happened—you didn’t need to. The blood on his clothes, the bruises on his face, and the haunted look in his eyes told you enough.

Instead, you moved toward him, grabbing your supplies. “Sit down,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

He didn’t argue this time, didn’t resist. He just collapsed into the chair, his body folding in on itself like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. His hands, trembling and bloodied, rested in his lap, and for the first time, you noticed the way his knuckles were bruised and raw.

“Jason…” you whispered, your voice breaking ever so slightly as you knelt in front of him. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stared at his hands, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“I went too far,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost control.”

His words were sharp, filled with a self-loathing that made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

“You’re not a monster,” you said softly, reaching out to gently cup his face. “You’re not beyond saving.”

Jason’s eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the fear there—the fear that he was, in fact, beyond saving. The fear that the darkness inside him had consumed him completely, and there was no coming back from it.

But you didn’t let go. You held on, refusing to let him drown in that fear.

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gilbertpoolman · 1 year

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Signs Your Swimming Pool Needs Repair: Weekly pool service

The pool service company near me discusses various indicators that a swimming pool may require repair. They explains that several signs may suggest that a pool is in need of repair, including visible cracks or damage to the pool surface, leaking water, and malfunctioning pool equipment. They also highlights the importance of identifying and addressing these issues promptly, as neglecting pool repairs can lead to more significant and costly problems in the long run. It provides practical advice on identifying and troubleshooting common pool problems, such as algae growth, water discoloration, and malfunctioning pool pumps. They emphasizes the importance of regular pool maintenance and inspection to prevent issues before they become severe. Overall, gilbert poolman provides valuable insights into the signs of pool damage and the steps pool owners can take to keep their pools in good condition.

#gilbertpoolman #pooltiles #poolcleaner #pooltilerepair #arizonapoolservice #poolservice #repairservices #pool tile replacement #swimmingpool

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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a place where i belong

also on ao3 // 13k words cw: verbal abuse; gaslighting; family angst; smut/nsfw

He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. Standing by the sink and downing a painkiller, shoes on, jacket on, car keys in hand. He pauses when he hears it, hypervigilant as always, freezing without swallowing the gulp of water, the pill floating in his mouth for a moment as he realizes.

A car pulls into the driveway.

He swallows, closing his eyes and sighing heavily, and he sets the glass in the sink.

He’d forgotten they were coming back today. It’s been on the calendar, marked with a vague, innocuous red dot that he’d begun to look past, to look through, to ignore without meaning to. He’s been too focused on everything else, on his own messy handwriting reading Lucas basketball - 3pm and kids theater - noon and Max physical therapy - 1pm. His weekly hours are jotted down on a piece of paper that’s stuck to the wall next to the calendar, updated every Saturday evening. Robin’s handwriting is just as bad as his, but he’s gotten better at reading it, the same way she’s gotten better at reading his.

Steve rests his back against the counter by the sink, taking a breath, steeling himself. He crosses his arms, clutching his keys in his hand so tightly the teeth bite into his palm. He looks at the ground. Follows the lines between the tiles with his eyes like he’s mapping out a maze. Or an escape.

He hears the front door open. Hears some shuffling, some muttering, the clunking of suitcases coming through the entryway.

And then he hears, “Steven, your car is filthy, when was the last time you had it washed?”

His eyes get stuck on a tile, at the corner of it. The tiles used to be a pristine, shining, sparkling white. When Steve was a little boy, they were always sparkling. Glistening. Always freshly mopped, scrubbed, waxed. They don’t look like that anymore. They’re dull now, still white but just barely grey. The one Steve is looking at has a crack in it. It’s a tiny crack, thin as a hair, branching off from the corner, but he sees it from where he’s standing.

“A few weeks ago,” he says, even though he knows it’s been months. “I don’t know.”

The house has aged with him, he thinks. His parents stopped making sure the floors were being taken care of when they started leaving. They stopped making sure the chimney was cleaned, the pool was cleaned, the walls were sturdy. Steve gave up on keeping everything in order when he started high school. When he started to question whether or not they were coming back at all instead of what day they’d show up.

Steve stares at the tile. Traces the crack in it.

“Steven, I paid good money for that car, I expect you to take care of it.”

He nods at the floor.

Quiet.

Good.

He hates when they come home. It’s like the house gets a little colder, like the echoes of the kids’ laughter get sucked out the windows. Like the last burning embers in the fireplace have turned to ash.

It doesn’t happen often, them coming home. But when it does…

“Goodness, this floor is filthy. We need to get these tiles replaced.”

He blends into the walls. Turns to mist that they look right through. Fades back into the little boy he used to be, too small to look into his father’s eyes or to reach the liquor cabinet, quiet and well-behaved and good.

They keep talking. He doesn’t hear his name. He keeps looking at the floor. He decides he likes the crack in that tile. He kind of wishes they were all like that. It took almost twenty years for that crack to appear, that tiny, thin crack. He wonders how many tiles there are in the whole room, wants to multiply that number by twenty. See if he’ll still be alive when they’re all like this one, damaged so subtly he has to look for it. He imagines it, the tiles grey and dusty with age, cracks spreading across them like a spiderweb across the floor. In his head, it’s beautiful.

And then he remembers that they want to replace them now. Because they’re not as shiny as they used to be.

Steve doesn’t feel very shiny. He doesn’t think he’s ever been shiny.

They’re still talking. Steve exhales.

His eyes find a scuff on his shoe. He blinks at it, trying to remember where it came from, and for an awful, awful second he thinks it’s from gym class, from basketball practice, from fucking around in alleyways, before he remembers.

He thinks it’s from the Upside Down. From running, hiding, fighting.

The keys bite into his palm, and he loosens his grip, inhaling sharply as his brain registers the pain. He looks at his hand, holding his fingers open to make sure he isn’t bleeding. He isn’t. His skin is red, indents from the teeth of the keys sharp in his skin, in the creases of his palms.

Fuck.

He looks at the clock across the room, and for a moment he wants to just leave silently, to walk right past them to the front door. But he doesn’t.

“Uh,” he says, quietly enough that he isn’t really interrupting them. They both look at him, turning their heads a little but still glancing at him out of the sides of their eyes, and he finally looks at them. Sees them. They look older than he thought they did, lines around their eyes and mouths and on their foreheads. His father’s hair is mostly grey now, his mother's still dark red. It looks fake, just like the pearls around her neck. “I need to… go.”

“Go where?”

“To— To pick up some kids.” He stutters. He hates stuttering. “And take them home, I— I told their parents I’d get them home by six.”

Walter sneers.

“Why are you driving children around?” he asks. But he isn’t really asking anything at all. He’s just… commenting. Like he always it. Your grades are shit. Your car is dirty. Why are you driving children around?

“I’m their babysitter,” Steve says. He used to hate that word. It felt so demeaning. He remembers his babysitters from when he was little, teenagers that only took the job for the money instead of for Steve, teenagers that would spend hours in the living room smoking or nursing beers and watching movies while Steve played by himself upstairs or in the corner.

But he doesn’t mind it now. Being the babysitter. Driving the kids around. Making sure they’re okay, they’re safe and healthy and happy. Even though he tells them to shut up, he likes hearing their laughter and relentless bickering from the backseat. Even though he calls them little shits, he thinks he loves them.

“Babysitter,” Walter repeats dryly. He’s making that face again. He’s always making that face at Steve. Like he smells, like he’s a stain on the carpet. Like he’s a dirty floor tile. Walter sighs, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “We’re going to need to discuss your career plans, Steven, you can’t go on with your life babysitting.”

Steve stares at him blankly. He won’t meet Steve’s eye.

He’s wearing a suit. He’s always wearing a suit. Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him in anything else.

And now, come to think of it, Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him.

It’s been months that they’ve been away. Months since they’ve stepped through the front door into the boring entryway, through the boring hallway, into the boring kitchen. With no greeting, no Hi, Steve, how’ve you been? No We missed you, how are your friends? What happened with the earthquakes and the serial killer? Are you okay?

Nothing.

A comment about the dirt on Steve’s car, and the dull floor tiles, and Steve’s future career. He wonders if they even know what color his eyes are.

“Right,” he says finally, his hand clenching around the keys again. “Well, I’d love to have that conversation with you, but I really need to go, so…”

“We just got home,” Catherine says sharply, looking at him from where she’s sitting at the table, unbuckling her high heels. “You haven’t seen us in months, Steven, and this is how you greet us?”

Steve looks at her. At her hair. It’s stiff with hairspray, piled up on top of her head in fake curls. Her makeup is creasing in her wrinkles, and her lipstick is faded around the center of her lips. Steve blinks.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here right now,” he says carefully. “And I already told the kids’ parents I’d have them home by six, it should only take a few minutes.” He pauses, looking at her but feeling Walter’s eyes on him. Like he’s analyzing him, looking for faults. He can’t see the scars under Steve’s shirt. “I can’t just leave them there,” he says, pausing, thinking about how worried the kids would be. How they’d blow up the walkies trying to contact him, calling Eddie and Robin and even Nancy to ask if they know where he is, if they’ve heard from him. But he knows Walter would just laugh. “I’m responsible for them,” he finishes.

And he starts toward the door.

“When did you turn into such a little adult?” Catherine says lightly behind him, teasing. Careless.

He stops walking, fist tightening on the keys again. He’s facing the doorway, and the room is quiet except for the soft shuffling of her shoe on the ground as she undoes the buckle. And he feels like his whole body is aching and sore, because he was nine.

The first time they left him home alone. It was just a few days while they went to Indianapolis, but he remembers how quiet the house was. How he suddenly missed the smell of cigarettes and weed, how he missed the indistinct chatter of the television, of his babysitters’ voices muffled through the walls while they talked to their friends on the phone. He sat on the stairs for a while after hearing their car pull out of the driveway. Like he was waiting.

He realized after a few hours that without a babysitter, he could go outside. It was his first time outside without supervision.

He just tried to catch the fireflies.

Steve turns around and looks at them. They’re both looking back at him, eyebrows raised curiously at the way he stopped short, at the way he froze.

“Probably when I turned into an actual adult,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends.

Walter scoffs.

Steve feels like he just plunged into Lovers’ Lake again. Ice cold all over, in the dark. Eyes straining to see what’s ahead of him.

“You’re an adult when you finish high school, Steven. You’re a child.”

Steve blinks.

His gaze shifts over to him, to that fucking expression, at the earnestness in his eyes. The fucking ignorance. And Steve, inexplicably, laughs.

It’s a short laugh, but it’s almost hysterical, and he really just doesn’t know how the fuck else to react, to respond. They’re looking right at him. And they can’t see the age in his eyes, in his height, his face. They don’t even know him. He’s a stranger in their house.

They’re strangers too.

“I’m an adult, Dad,” Steve says dryly after the laugh, still half-smiling, even as the expression on Walter’s face deepens. Condescending, and mean, and judging, and even with the grey hair and the wrinkles, he’s the same man that Steve used to look up at as a child. “I graduated high school,” Steve says before Walter can say anything. “Two years ago.”

Walter blinks, making a face and looking at Catherine, who just raises an eyebrow at Steve.

“You were in Italy,” Steve says, trying as hard as he can to remain light, nonchalant, to keep his voice soft and sweet and quiet and good. “I sent you an invitation to the ceremony.”

“Oh, Steven, you know we never check our main when we’re abroad,” Catherine says lightly.

Steve looks at her. The faux kindness in her eyes. The smile gracing her red lips. Like it’s Steve's fault. Like he’s a child.

He hates her.

“Right,” he says softly, nodding slowly, looking away. “Silly me.”

“So you think finishing high school makes you a grown-up?” Walter says, amused. Steve looks at him.

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“...Steven, you have no idea what it means to be an adult.”

Steve looks at him. At his face. The condescending shine in his eye, like he’s talking to a kid, like Steve isn’t his height. (Maybe taller. He’s too far away to tell right now.)

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

Steve nods. Puts his keys down.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

The phone is in the living room, near the doorway, and he closes his eyes as he picks it up, taking a deep breath before he dials the number he memorized within a day of learning it.

“Munsons.”

“Hey,” Steve says quietly. “Uh, would it be cool if you picked the kids up from the arcade for me?”

“The arcade…” Eddie repeats, his voice more distant like he’s leaning away from the phone. “Weren’t you getting them today? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve lies easily. But Eddie’s always able to know when he’s lying. Steve doesn’t know how he does it. Every time Steve lies that he’s fine, that No, my head doesn’t hurt, and I didn’t have a nightmare, I just wanted to get some water, and I feel fine. Eddie just… looks at him.

“Steve.”

And Steve always breaks. Lets the brick wall between them crumble to dust.

“Uh.” He pauses, glancing down the hall. He feels like they’re listening. “My parents came back a minute ago. We’re talking.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says. “Is everything okay? Do you need backup?”

Steve smiles into the phone, closing his eyes as his stomach flutters.

“No, just… It’ll be fine. We’re just talking.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and Steve can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get the little shits, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“‘Course, Stevie.” Steve’s stomach flutters again. “Good luck with your parents.”

“Thanks.”

They hang up. Steve presses his face to the wall for a moment, taking a slow breath before he exhales.

He goes back to the kitchen.

Leans against the counter by his keys. Crosses his arms and looks at the floor. Finds the cracked tile and stares at it.

It feels farther away now. Like he’s gotten taller.

“You don’t think I know what it means to be an adult,” he says.

“No, Steven,” Walter says lightly. Jovially. Condescendingly. “I think you’ve lived a very sheltered life. You haven’t seen the world, or experienced anything that could push you into adulthood. But that’s okay,” he adds like it’s reassuring. “You’re fortunate, you know.”

Steve's jaw twitches. He grinds his teeth. Stares at the tile, then the scuff on his shoe.

“Do you wanna know what I think?” Steve asks quietly.

Walter scoffs again.

The sound grates at the inside of Steve’s skull, and his stomach twists. His lungs feel constricted, like they’re too tight.

“What do you think?” Walter asks. His voice is gentle, so gentle it sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old, humoring him, playing along. Steve lifts his head and levels a gaze on him.

And across the kitchen, in the soft late afternoon sunlight, Steve looks at his wrinkles and his grey hair and his goddamn suit, and he’s just a man. And Steve wonders how the fuck he used to look up to this man, how the fuck he used to think he was anything more than this.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” Steve says softly.

Walter’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head in shock as Catherine lets out an Excuse me!

Steve nods, staring, and staring, and staring, and he can’t look away.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” he says again. “I think I have been… through hell. And you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here,” Steve snaps, his voice a little louder. He uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, and he thinks he is taller than his father. His stomach twists again. “You wanna know when I became a little adult, Mom?”

She stares at him, eyes wide.

“I became a little adult when you left me home alone to fend for myself,” he says forcefully. “When I was a child. And I should have been off playing with my friends, and memorizing multiplication tables, and getting my knees scraped on the pavement.” His heart is pounding now, and he can barely hear himself over it. “I wasn’t doing any of that. I was learning how to fucking cook, because there was no one else to do that for me. I was learning how to reset the heat in the house, and I was growing up when I shouldn’t have been.”

“So you’ve been through hell because you had to learn how to use the stove,” Walter says dryly. Steve looks at him.

“God, you really have no idea who I am, Dad.”

“I’m your father,” Walter says, an amused smile teasing his lips.

“Is that what you call yourself?” Steve asks. “Is that what you tell people? That you’re a father? Because, I…” He scoffs and shakes his head, and maybe he’s more like his father than he’d hoped he’d be, but he doesn’t care right now. “I gotta tell you, man, that’s gonna be really misleading when people hear that.”

“You don’t think I’m your father,” Walter says. He’s starting to get angry, and a part of Steve feels vindicated. Good.

“No,” Steve breathes.

“How on Earth is he not?” Catherine interrupts, and Steve had almost forgotten that she’s even here, looking up at them from the chair she’s sitting in. “You have his DNA.”

“Right,” Steve says. “So we’re related. Biologically.” He looks back at Walter, and they’re closer than he thought they were, but he can't tell how close they really are. Concussions and trauma do wonders to one’s depth perception. “You didn’t raise me.”

“I didn’t raise you?” Walter says, his cheeks flushing red. Something in Steve cheers.

“No,” Steve says calmly. “You left me alone with teenagers that didn’t know shit about how to take care of children, and you left me home alone. By myself. In the middle of the fucking woods.”

“You weren’t that young, Steve—”

“I was nine.” He looks at Catherine, silencing her. “I remember.” He looks back at Walter. Their eyes meet. They have the same eye color. Steve hates it. “Fathers know their children,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you,” Walter snaps. “You’re my son, Steven, how could I not—”

“How old am I?”

The room falls quiet.

Steve stares back as Walter looks at him. He can hear his own heartbeat, his own breaths. The water tapping in the sink. A bird chirping outside.

And he nods.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re still our son,” Catherine says haughtily.

“...When’s my birthday?” he asks. When they’re silent, he says, “What am I allergic to? What’s my favorite color? Who’s my best friend?”

“The Hagan kid,” Walter says, like it’s an accomplishment, answering one question incorrectly.

“I haven’t talked to Tommy Hagan in three years,” Steve says. “And you didn’t know that.”

Walter huffs and rolls his eyes.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he mutters. “Look, Steven, this…” He gestures aimlessly at Steve, making a face. “Your favorite color, your friend’s name, they don’t matter.” He laughs lightly, dismissively. “You wanna be treated like an adult, but these are the things you care about, Steven, they’re irrelevant.”

“It doesn’t matter that they’re irrelevant, Dad,” Steve snaps, his voice louder. “It matters that you don’t care. I’m your kid, you should care about the things I like, and— and about my friends, and about my fucking birthday.”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” Walter says, his eyes darkening with anger, and Steve aches.

When he was six, he was watching Looney Tunes on the television on a Saturday morning. He laughed a little too loud, and he was sent to his room for the rest of the day. Because his father needed quiet to focus on his work. Walter’s always hated hearing Steve speak, so Steve has kept quiet. Seen and not heard. Fading in the background, hiding in plain sight. But Steve is fucking sick of being looked through. Ignored.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, almost on the verge of delirious laughter. “No, I’m gonna raise my voice at you. Because I’m pissed, and because you never had a problem raising your voice at me.”

“You were a child—”

“So that made it fine? To yell at me? To tell me to keep my fucking mouth shut? That’s all fine to tell a child?” He stares at Walter. “You wanna talk about the shit that actually matters, fine. Let’s talk about the shit that actually matters.”

He’s shaking now, breathing hard and trembling with twenty years of anger that's boiling and spilling over his edges.

“You guys know about Hawkins,” he says, crossing his arms and looking at the floor, avoiding their gazes as he takes a breath.

“About Hawkins,” Walter repeats.

“Hawkins, yeah,” Steve says. “The shitshow that is my hometown, you know all the shit that’s happened here, right? The missing kids, the— the fires, the lab.”

“Of course we know everything about this town, Steven,” Catherine says curtly. “We’ve lived here twenty years.”

“You really haven’t,” Steve says lightly. “But that’s fine. You know about everything.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You know the girl that went missing?” he asks, looking up at them. “Barbara. And the whole conspiracy with the lab and the chemical spill and everything.”

“Yes,” Walter says. “We heard about all of that.”

They’re both staring at him curiously now, quiet while he looks back.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I was involved in all of that.” He watches their confusion deepen the wrinkles on their faces. “She was my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. She went missing from here, from—” He gestures out the window, toward the pool that’s covered with a blue tarp. The water is probably swimming with dead leaves.

“You know anything about Billy Hargrove?”

Catherine blinks.

“The… The boy that passed away in the fire,” she says slowly, remembering. “At the mall.”

The fire.

“The boy,” he mutters to himself before he bites his lip, pausing. “Yeah. The year before he ate shit, he almost fucking killed me.”

They both blink at him, blank.

“And he tried to kill me,” he continues, “because I stopped him from killing a thirteen-year-old.” He takes a shuddering breath, uncrossing his arms, looking at them, and his vision wavers as he remembers it, as he remembers the glass smashing over his head, the floor against his back, Billy’s laughter. The kids’ shouting. “He beat… the shit out of me. Gave me a grade four concussion.”

He looks back at forth between them, waiting for a reaction, but they keep staring. Catherine’s eyes are wide, but Walter just looks angry. Like Steve is wasting his time.

“It took me three weeks to recover from it,” he says. “And you were in fucking Spain.”

His voice shakes.

“The mall fire,” he continues before they can say anything. “You know about it. Fourth of July, thirty dead.”

“Yes,” Catherine says softly.

“Take a wild fucking guess where I was.”

Silence.

Until Catherine’s voice says quietly, “...The mall.”

“Inside,” Steve says softly, looking at her intently. “With my friends, with the kids I babysit— and it wasn’t just a— a fucking fire.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t tell you what really happened, because I signed a goddamn nondisclosure agreement—”

“Steven, what—”

“But I can tell you,” he interrupts loudly. “That I got the shit beaten out of me again.”

A flash of light. A fist cracking against his face. An ache in his ribs, a sharp pain in the side of his neck. His own voice, rough from screaming, broken and pleading.

“Another grade four concussion. The medics asked for my home number so one of you could come to pick me up,” he says, his throat tightening, his eyes stinging. “And I had to tell him that you were in Chicago for a fucking business trip.” His breath shudders, and his vision blurs, and his hands are trembling as he gestures aimlessly, pointing to nothing. “I was driven home by a fucking government agent, because you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You heard about the kids in town that were murdered?” he says, his voice breaking, tears sparking his eyes. “The kids that were fucking… broken?”

“...Of course we heard about them.”

Steve exhales shakily.

“...There was a serial killer loose in town,” he says, fingers curling into fists. “And you never even called.”

“We were working,” Walter snaps.

“You’re always fucking working,” Steve says strongly. “I got used to you not being around, but it didn’t make it any fucking easier. You weren’t here when I had concussions, when I couldn’t fucking see, or when my hearing started going, you weren’t here when I could barely move because my injuries were infected, you were never fucking here.”

“Oh, Lord,” Walter says, rolling his eyes and scoffing, glancing at Catherine. Steve’s stomach twists, and he can’t see clearly. Everything is too bright, swimming in his tears. “How were we supposed to know you were hurt?”

Hurt.

He makes it sound so… little. Like Steve had a papercut. Like he needed a band-aid and a kiss on his forehead to feel better.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Dad,” Steve says adamantly. “Obviously you wouldn’t fucking know, that’s not the problem— The problem is that you weren’t here for any of it, for anything I’ve gone through, and even when you knew what the fuck was happening in this town you couldn’t even be bothered to call, to— to make sure I was okay.”

“You said you’re an adult, didn’t you?”

Steve exhales.

He doesn’t feel like an adult right now.

He feels like a child. Like he’s five years old, searching for his parents’ attention, their affection, anything. Like they’re looking past him, through him, ignoring him in the hopes that he finally shuts up.

Seen and not heard.

“You said you signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Walter says. “Let’s say you really did— You have to be eighteen for contracts to be legally binding. So you’re an adult.” Walter looks into his eyes, like he’s sizing him up. “You shouldn’t need mommy and daddy to take care of you.”

Steve’s lip quivers. He blinks tears back. And he’s stuck here. A kindergartener in the body of a twenty-year-old, the way he was thirty when he was twelve. Unmoving.

Walter scoffs again, looking at Steve trying not to cry.

“Are you done with your little temper tantrum?” he asks dryly, turning slightly. “It was a long trip back, I’d like to take a shower and rest.”

And Steve longs to tell them. About the monsters, the dark, the flickering and flashing lights. About the Upside Down. To show them the scars that cover his skin.

“You weren’t here when I was a child, either,” Steve says, stopping him before he can leave, and Walter turns with a heavy sigh, giving Steve a bored look. Steve’s fists tighten. His nails bite into his palms.

“Steven,” Catherine says, standing from the table like she’s bored too. “That’s quite enough.”

“You weren’t here when I was injured,” Steve says shakily, his vision blurring again. “You weren’t here when I was concussed, and when I couldn’t see, and you weren’t here when I turned twenty, or when I graduated high school, and you weren’t here when I learned how to ride a bike, or how to swim, and you weren’t here when I got my first A, and you weren’t here for parent-teacher conferences— I went by myself,” he adds roughly, gesturing at himself, hitting his own chest.

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here when I had nightmares or when I got sick, I took care of myself.”

“It made you strong—”

“I was a child!”

He’s never raised his voice at them like this. Never yelled. But he’s crying now, tears falling freely down his cheeks as they stare like he’s grown another head, and he can’t help it.

“I didn’t need to be strong,” he shouts. “I needed to be loved, and I fucking wasn’t.”

“How…” Catherin huffs, her face red, and Steve looks at her, taking a hiccuping breath. “You think we didn’t love you,” she says. “But we provided a roof over your head, and—”

“A roof wasn’t enough,” he says, holding back a sob. “I used to— I used to wait after school, fucking waiting for you to come get me, to— to drive me home, I used to watch all the other kids with their moms and dads, I used to watch them laugh, and smile, and hug them, and I fucking waited for you. I waited until nighttime once, and you never fucking came.”

“Steven, that’s just irresponsible,” Walter says, and Steve hiccups.

“I was nine,” he says. “I waited for you, all I fucking wanted was my parents to drive me to school, and you were off in fucking Paris or wherever the hell you were. I had to teach myself how to ride a bike, and I had to take myself, because you weren’t here—”

“I have responsibilities—”

“I was your responsibility,” Steve finally screams. “I was your son.”

He takes a gasping breath as they stare at him again, and he wipes his face so roughly it hurts.

“I missed you,” he chokes. “I needed you.”

“You clearly didn’t need us that much,” Walter says, huffing, gesturing at him. His wedding band sparkling in the sun and Steve wants to melt it. “If you’re doing just fine now.”

“I’m not,” Steve says before he can stop himself.

He’s never said it before. That he’s not fine. Even when he was concussed, when Robin was concerned, he insisted he was okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad, Robbie, don’t worry. And he went home. Turned off the lights. Covered the windows. Laid in bed. Cried.

It’s some cruel, cruel irony that these are the first people to know.

“I’m so fucking far from fine,” Steve says. He covers his face for a moment, and for a brief second, he wishes he was bruised, purple and blue and bloody. He doesn’t know why. Maybe so they could fucking see it. So they’d believe him.

“...The first time my best friend said I love you to me, I laughed.” He looks at them, and he suddenly wants to crumple to the floor, to lean against the wall, to go to bed. Exhausted. “I never fucking heard it from you guys. Never heard it from my girlfriend. I didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know what it fucking meant.”

He looks at them across the room. They’re both near the doorway of the kitchen, both turned slightly toward each other like they’re leaving, hesitating to watch Steve. Like he’s putting on a performance, like he’s pretending.

“You really fucked me up,” he says weakly, tiredly.

They’re quiet for a moment. And he doesn’t know what he expects. An apology. We’re sorry, Steve, we’ll be better parents from now on. We’ll be present in your life.

“I really don’t like the language you’ve been using today, Steven,” Catherine says. Ignoring him. The tears on his face. “It’s really no way to speak to your parents.”

But he supposes he should have seen this coming. The deflection.

He looks away, blinking tears back and exhaling, but before he can say anything, a car pulls into the driveway. He turns to look out the window, wiping his face as he catches the end of Eddie’s van before it’s hidden from view, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

That was quick.

He should have anticipated Eddie coming over as soon as he could. He probably sped on the way here.

“Who…” Walter starts, but he’s interrupted by the front door swinging open. The doorknob hits the wall with a muffled bang, and a moment later, Eddie appears behind in the entry to the kitchen.

Walter and Catherine part, looking him up and down, looking, scandalized, at the rips in his jeans, the swords on his t-shirt that form an upside down star, at his hair. And he isn’t even wearing a jacket or any jewellery, and Steve’s stomach flutters with the realization that Eddie really didn’t waste any time.

Eddie’s eyes find Steve, and he crosses the room, pushing past Walter.

“Are you okay?” he asks Steve quickly, his eyes scanning over his face, his body, lingering on the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” Steve says softly, wiping his face again, and Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. Steve thinks he must be holding himself back; usually after nightmares, he wipes Steve’s tears for him, the same way Steve wipes his. “No, I just…”

Eddie exhales, looking into Steve’s eyes, looking for a lie. He’s out of breath, like he ran here instead of drove, and Steve smiles weakly. Until Walter interrupts.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” he says forcefully, and Eddie and Steve turn to look at him. “Coming into my house.”

Eddie looks back and forth between Walter and Catherine like he’s trying to memorize them both, scanning their clothing the way they scanned his. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are pursed, and even though from here Steve can’t really see him, there’s a warm pit in his stomach, because Eddie’s so beautiful, and he came for Steve, and he’s stepping forward a little bit like Walter is going to try to lay a hand on Steve, and Steve’s never felt so fucking safe before, and he doesn’t know what to do with this, and—

Catherine gasps. Steps back with a slight stumble even though she’s not wearing her high-heels anymore. Clutches at her pearls.

“You’re that boy,” she says, touching Walter’s arm and pulling. “That Hellfire boy, you—”

“Eddie didn’t do anything,” Steve interrupts, his stomach dropping, but Walter recognizes him too, and he turns red, glancing at Steve and then looking back at Eddie.

“Get out of my house,” he says, his voice too loud, and Steve feels so fucking small, and he hates feeling small.

But Walter starts toward Eddie when he doesn’t say anything, and Steve remembers suddenly that he isn’t small anymore.

He steps in front of Eddie, knocking Walter’s hand aside before he presses his fingertips to his chest, pushing him back gently. Walter stares, wide-eyed, red-faced.

“You lay a finger on him,” Steve says too calmly, “and I will fucking kill you.”

Walter blinks, shock coloring his face darker before he laughs, but it’s a forced laugh, and Steve’s never been more serious in his life, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his heart pounding, and Walter doesn’t seem to know that Steve will do whatever the fuck he needs to for Eddie.

“You think you can kill me, Steven?” Steve looks into his eyes.

He’s smaller than Steve. Not by much, but when Steve lifts his chin, he has to look down at him to hold eye contact.

“We just had a whole conversation about how little you know me,” he says quietly. “Do you really wanna fucking test me?”

He hears Eddie exhale behind him, but he doesn’t look away, staring into Walter’s eyes, challenging him, and his hands almost itch. He hasn’t had any fights in a good long while.

Walter looks past him, breaking eye contact, staring Eddie down now, but his eyes flicker like he’s looking across Eddie’s face, analyzing him. Steve knows what he’s looking at. The scar on his cheek, the mangled skin. Steve loves that scar. It had to be stitched together, but it makes Steve think of the constellation Cassiopeia, almost W-shaped. He longs to trace it someday. To thank it.

Walter backs up finally, and Steve exhales, watching him go back across the room to stand with Catherine, who’s still watching, wide-eyed, a hand on her chest over her heart.

“Sickening, Steven,” Walter says, shaking his head and glaring at Eddie. “Really. I thought I raised you to associate yourself with better—”

“You didn’t raise me,” Steve interrupts. “Stop… acting like you were some fantastic fucking father that a fucking stand-up job of raising a son, you didn’t do shit.” He stares, breathing hard, his back tingling with some sort of anticipation. “I did. Not you.”

“So you think you’re so independent?” Walter says with that awful fucking laugh again.

“I had to be,” Steve says softly. Eddie is closer now, still behind Steve, but less like Steve is protecting him, and more like Eddie is here. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

Walter looks at him. At Eddie. He’s holding the back of a chair, exasperated, and he shakes his head.

“Never thought I’d be so disappointed in my own son.”

Steve looks away, hesitating.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. His voice is so kind.

“...Can you go upstairs and pack me a bag?”

“‘Course.”

Eddie touches the small of his back gently as he passes by toward the entryway, where he passes Walter and Catherine with a faux polite nod that’s so on brand for Eddie that Steve wants to smile.

Walter glares at Steve while Eddie goes upstairs, and Steve can hear him breathing heavily. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw him this angry.

And then Walter is standing up straight abruptly, muttering something about fucking trash in my house under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, and Steve’s stomach drops as he follows, his vision blurring as his blood courses in his veins, fingers twitching. But instead of going up the stairs, Walters passes by them, headed toward the master bedroom, and Steve stops, watching. He scoffs when he realizes where he’s headed, and he leans against the wall. He hears a thump upstairs.

“Steven, you really…” Catherine shakes her head in disappointment. She’s got her arms crossed, twisting the plastic pearls of her necklace. “This is all very disrespectful.”

Steve looks down at her.

“...You think you deserve my respect?” he asks quietly. She looks at him like she’s alarmed. “You think I care if you think you do?”

He looks away before she can respond.

Eddie is coming down the top steps just as Walter appears again.

Steve looks up at Eddie.

He’s carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, carrying the nail bat in one of his hands, and he raises an eyebrow as Walter yells at Steve from across the room.

“Where is it?”

“Nowhere you’ll find it,” Steve says lightly, lifting a hand to catch the bat as Eddie tosses it to him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Walter is huffing, and puffing, and it’s kind of ridiculous now.

“What’s he looking for?”

“Gun.”

“Ah.” Eddie is almost smiling. The gun is in the back of his van, taken for target practice when Nancy taught Robin how to shoot.

Steve turns back into the kitchen to grab his keys, swinging the bat. It scratches the tile floor. When he turns back around, Walter and Catherine are staring at it, at the rusted nails and the blood-stained wood.

“What the hell…”

Steve swings it again, moving his keys so he’s holding the one for his car between his fingers.

“You don’t know me.”

Eddie is by the door with the duffel bag when Steve gets to the hallway, and he looks into Steve’s eyes. The light is dimmer now. The sun’s starting to go down.

“Come to my place, yeah?” Eddie says softly, touching Steve’s arm gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his jacket before he squeezes. His eyes are shining earnestly, and Steve’s chest aches. He nods.

They both step out onto the porch. It’s cold out, the air biting at Steve’s face, but it feels refreshing, like inside the house was stuffy and claustrophobic, like he’d been trapped under a blanket for too long. Eddie goes to the van, tossing the duffel bag in as he gives Steve one more look.

“Is there anything else we don’t know about you?” Walter says behind Steve, who turns to look at him again.

Walter’s eyes are lingering on Steve’s arm, like he can see Eddie’s handprint on it, and then he looks into Steve’s eyes, shining with disgust and judgement and hatred, and Steve

doesn’t

fucking

care.

“You’ll never get to know,” he says quietly.

And he leaves.

He’s vaguely aware of Catherine saying something, her voice high-pitched and wavering, and Walter shouting something about the car, but Steve ignores them, blank and empty as he gets into the car and pulls out of the driveway. He glances at the house in the rearview mirror as he leaves. It occurs to him that with the location of it, hidden by trees, away from town, Steve could live in Hawkins all his life and never have to look at the house again.

He smiles.

Eddie and Wayne live in an apartment in town now. It’s two floors above a cafe that opened a little after Starcourt, and sometimes when Steve is going to the door, he smells coffee and baking pastries. It’s nice.

He doesn’t smell it at this time of night, though.

He and Eddie arrive around the same time, and they’re quiet as Steve parks next to the van, grabs the bat and silently follows Eddie to the door. Eddie leads him in, up the narrow stairs, and they’re quiet as he unlocks the apartment, as they step inside and kick their shoes off. Steve leaves the bat resting against the wall by the door in Eddie’s room, and Eddie tosses him his bag.

Steve looks into it, rummages through the bunched-up, hastily-packed underwear, jeans, shirts, sweaters. His fingers brush cold cans that he recognizes as his hairspray, and he smiles, his stomach fluttering because Eddie remembered where they were.

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. He’s leaning against his dresser. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says easily.

“Steve,” Eddie says again, almost whispering.

“I am, Eddie,” Steve says, looking up at him, his hands falling still on top of the bag. Eddie’s eyes are shining with concern, and his arms are crossed. “I really…” He trails off, looking at the ground.

It’s hardwood, the wood faded and creaky, and there are a few gaps between the floorboard. He can see the nails in them, shining in the dim light of Eddie’s room, and it makes Steve think about the tiles in the kitchen at his parents’ house. Faded and dull and cracked because they’ve been walked on. Used.

“I feel great,” he says, looking back at Eddie, half-smiling.

Eddie’s expression softens.

“Just tired,” Steve adds, looking away. “I haven’t… cried. In a while.”

“You wanna lay down?”

Steve hesitates.

“...Can I borrow a sweater?”

Eddie smiles.

“‘Course, Stevie.”

Steve likes it when he calls him that.

It makes him feel little, but not in the way his parents make him feel. Not little like a little boy, like he has to stay quiet, stay still, like he can’t ask for a second serving of dinner or turn the volume of the television up past three in case he pisses them off.

Little like Eddie will take care of him.

Which he does, even though he has no idea how it really affects Steve, how it makes butterflies erupt in his belly every time he touches him, every time he calls him Stevie. He has no idea how hard Steve is crushing on him, and a part of Steve hates him for it. For how sweet he is, how kind.

Because there are nights he’ll call after a nightmare and Steve will look out at the moon while he listens to him cry, while he listens to Eddie tell him he called because in the dream he lost Steve, because he needed to make sure he was okay.

Because Eddie touches him in ways no one else does, in ways no one else ever has. In ways Steve wouldn’t ever let anyone.

He blushes every time he remembers that night, the night he’d spent after staying up too late watching movies with Eddie. He’d had a gruesome nightmare, but as soon as his eyes opened he couldn’t remember what had happened. But Eddie was there, tentatively touching his hand, eyes wide awake, saying Stevie. Stevie. I’m right here. You’re okay. And Steve had just cried, reaching out to Eddie, who took him in his arms.

He held Steve until he stopped crying. And then he kept holding him. Steve had pushed his face into Eddie’s chest, gripping his shirt, listening intently to Eddie’s heartbeat. It was a little fast, but it still helped.

And then Eddie pushed a hand into Steve's hair.

Steve was already falling asleep, and he had let out a soft hum. Eddie pulled his hand away, apologizing.

Sorry, I know you don’t like your hair being touched.

And even half-asleep, Steve spoke.

Only you. Please.

Eddie pushed his hand back into his hair gently. Steve hummed. Eddie’s fingers twisted around the strands carefully as his other hand slid up Steve’s back, and Steve just fucking melted. He let out a whine that he could barely hear, and Eddie’s fingers curled into a fist, gripping his hair in a tightening fist until it almost hurt, and Steve groaned.

Too hard?

Mm. Feels good.

Eddie kept doing it until Steve fell asleep, pulling his hair, squeezing his fist in it, tugging until Steve’s scalp ached dully, and when Steve woke up, Eddie was still asleep, his hand still in Steve’s hair. And then it was normal, every time they slept in the same bed or sat too close on the sofa during movie nights, Eddie’s fingers would find Steve’s hair again.

They both change. Eddie tosses Steve some sweatpants along with the sweater, and Steve smiles, glancing up at Eddie as he changes, facing away from Steve. He’s paler than Steve, and Steve kind of wants to see what their skin would look like side-by-side, pressing close. His scars are mesmerizing. Steve wants to trace them with his fingertips, with his lips and tongue.

Eddie beckons to Steve when they’re climbing into his bed, and Steve sighs. They move into their normal position, Eddie leaning against the wall, Steve between his legs, back to his chest.

He feels little again.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him, hugging him tightly, and Steve lets his head fall back to his shoulder, sighing. He slides his hands over Eddie’s forearms. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, and the fabric is soft. Steve plays with one of the folds, looking around the room, and he realizes they haven’t communicated at all about how long Steve is staying here.

His bag is on the floor by the dresser. It blends right in with Eddie’s dark clothes littered around the floor and hanging out of his drawers, with the dark rug that Eddie bought when he moved in.

Steve’s eyes trail across the wall, across the sliding doors of the wardrobe that are partially open, the interior hidden in shadows. At the CORRODED COFFIN tapestry that’s pinned up, the Judas Priest poster on the back of the door. The photos and magazine pages and posters that are covering the old, faded wallpaper. Eddie’s lamps have a golden glow, and it makes everything look warm. Steve loves it here.

“How long am I staying here?” Steve asks softly, and Eddie snorts, arms tightening, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

“Forever?” he says. “I hope?”

Steve’s stomach flutters.

“You want me to stay forever?”

“Mm.”

Steve exhales when Eddie’s hand finds his, and he watches, spreading his fingers to lace with Eddie’s. His hand is a little cold.

“Sounds nice,” he says quietly. Eddie hums. He sets his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“You still feel okay?” he asks softly, his voice soft and breathy next to Steve’s ear.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He feels so okay. Here in Eddie’s room, in his clothes, in his arms. “I feel good.”

One of Eddie’s arms reaches across his chest like he’s keeping him secure, and he rubs Steve’s upper arm, squeezing gently.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve takes a breath, unlacing their fingers to trace the back of Eddie’s hand.

“It was kind of, like. A lot of stuff.”

“Tell me, Stevie.”

Steve closes his eyes.

“They, uhm. Came back and just… started telling me my car was dirty, started saying the— the kitchen floor was dirty, that they should get the tiles replaced. They didn’t even say hi.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes.

“And when I tried to leave, I had to, like, explain I had to pick up the kids, and Dad started, just, berating me for babysitting, and Mom made this… comment. That I was acting like an adult. And when I said I am one, Dad…” He exhales, pressing closer to Eddie, whose arms tighten. “Said I’d be an adult when I graduated high school.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment before,

“What?”

“Yeah, they don’t— they don’t even know how old I am.”

“Holy fuck, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, squeezing him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Steve ignores the butterflies that erupt in his stomach.

“It’s…”

“You don’t have to say it’s fine.”

“...It’s not fine.”

“‘S right.”

“I tried… I tried telling them, like— showing them how they just don’t know me, but they just— everything I fucking said, they just… Tried to make it so it wasn’t their fault. Pretended it was no big deal, even though— even though it is, I…”

“It is,” Eddie murmurs softly. “It matters to you, they never treated you right, Stevie.”

Steve exhales shakily, relaxing against him again.

“They’re so fucking condescending,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. Eddie rubs his arm gently, reassuringly. “He always does this thing, where, like… If I point something out, or I— I do something, he pulls this bullshit, and he’ll say, like, Oh, let’s say that’s true, as though I don’t fucking know, like I didn’t just fucking tell him.”

Eddie lifts a hand and reaches to touch his hair, running his fingers through it gently.

“He said I’d be an adult when I graduate high school, and then as soon as I told him I did, and I am, suddenly I actually know nothing about adulthood and I haven’t experienced the world, and I’m— Whose fucking fault is that? They never took me along on any of their fucking trips, they left me in fucking Hawkins, Indiana.”

Eddie plays with his hair, listening to him talk. His fingers are so gentle.

“He said I was having a temper tantrum,” Steve says, looking across the room. Eddie’s hand tightens, tugging gently. “I just… They make me feel like— like such a child. And it’s bullshit, because how can I feel so fucking little when they never treated me like I was little when I was?” he rambles. “They acted like I was a grown man when I was a kid, they acted like I knew how to live my life, but they were never there to show me how. And now I am grown, but they tell me I’m disrespectful, and that I’m having a tantrum, and…”

“Take a deep breath for me,” Eddie says softly.

Steve inhales slowly, closing his eyes, and he exhales after holding it for a moment, relaxing against Eddie again, who murmurs a soft, “There you go.”

“Can I tell you something?” Eddie asks quietly. Steve nods, holding his forearm with both hands as his fingers drag through his hair slowly. “...You did everything fucking right, Stevie.”

“...You think?”

“Jesus, yeah. They’ve never treated you the way you deserve, Steve, you have every fuckin’ right to stand up for yourself, to— to tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Steve exhales again, a feeling settling in his chest.

“I hate them,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

“And I hate that fucking house.”

“You’re here now.”

Eddie tightens his fist in his hair, and Steve sighs, closing his eyes.

“Love you,” Eddie says softly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Eddie says that a lot. Every time they say goodbye, every time Steve does something stupid, every time either of them has a nightmare.

It was a nightmare that prompted it the first time. Eddie had slept over at Steve’s, and Steve woke up to Eddie crying in his sleep, his body shaking as he cried into the pillow, whimpering and clutching at the blanket. Steve woke him up carefully, touching his face, his hands, his arms, squeezing as gently as possible, whispering his name. Eddie woke after a minute, his eyes finding Steve in the dim moonlight, and before Steve could even say anything, he was reaching out for him, sobbing and pressing his face into Steve’s chest as Steve pulled him into a hug. He whispered it when he stopped crying, as they were rocking back and forth, as Stee combed the tangles out of his hair.

I love you, Stevie.

And Steve’s world flipped inside out, and he was in pain, every cell in his body on fire, because he was hearing it, because Eddie told him, and because only Robin had ever said it to him like that, all three words, carefully annunciated, intentionally said. And also because Steve knew how he meant it.

I love you too, Eddie.

“Why’d you come?” Steve asks. “After taking the kids home?”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Eddie says. “...Had a feeling.”

“...Thank you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie takes a breath, tugging again before he turns his face and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple.

He’s never done that before.

Steve feels almost sick with butterflies, and he can feel his face flushing with heat, but he can’t suppress his smile. Eddie looks at him for a moment, and then he does it again, slowly. Deliberately.

Steve exhales, letting himself feel it, Eddie’s lips on his skin, his breath warm and close. Eddie’s hand tightens again, his fist squeezing in Steve’s hair before he lets go.

And then Eddie’s lips press to his cheek, slowly and softly, and then again, and again, slowly moving down toward Steve’s jaw. Steve tilts his head, his eyes closed, and he’s scared to open them, scared he might wake up.

Eddie’s lips press under his jaw, sucking a soft kiss into his skin, and when he pulls away, his lips brush Steve’s skin as he murmurs, “So fuckin’ proud of you.”

And Steve whimpers.

He’s gripping Eddie’s arm tightly, and he feels like he might start crying, but Eddie just kisses him again, moving down to the side of his neck, gently pulling his hair out of the way.

Steve bites his lip to hold in another sound, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to it, to Eddie’s lips on his skin, to Eddie’s soft, slow breathing, as he feels Eddie’s fingers tug at his hair. He feels fucking weightless, like he’s floating in the air, like nothing in the world exists right now except for them.

“So proud,” Eddie breathes against his neck, kissing him again.

“Did I do good?”

Steve wants to jump out the fucking window.

His voice comes out weak and breathy, quiet and so fucking desperate that he flushes with embarrassment, and he opens his eyes like he’s going to look for an escape, to leave even though he just got here, but Eddie…

“So fucking good, Stevie,” he whispers without hesitation. “You did so good, I’m so proud of you.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales sharply, his head falling back as Eddie kisses his neck again. It’s wet this time, and Steve keens at the thought of Eddie’s open mouth against him, of his tongue and his teeth and his spit.

“Eddie,” Steve whines breathlessly, squeezing his arm.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks quickly, his hand pausing in Steve’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” Steve says weakly. Eddie hums softly, his hand tightening, and Steve lets out a soft noise before Eddie kisses a slow line up the side of his neck until he finds his earlobe, where he pauses, kissing it before he sucks it between his lips as gently as possible. “Eddie.”

“Alright?”

“Mm. Feel so good.”

Eddie hums quietly, and Steve keens as he nibbles at the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping gently, tenderly. His arm tightens around Steve’s torso, his other hand squeezing in his hair so hard that it hurts, and one of Steve’s hands finds Eddie’s leg next to him, gripping just above his knee desperately.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs into his ear, like he just knows how overwhelmed Steve is, how his whole body is flooding with this feeling.

“You got me,” Steve repeats absently, head lolling back onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“‘S right, Stevie.”

He kisses his neck again, harder, more confidently, his teeth and tongue on Steve’s skin, and Steve fucking hopes he leaves marks in his path. He wants evidence of this, proof that it wasn’t all in Steve’s head like some fucked up wet dream.

Eddie tugs on his hair, moving his hand to the back of his head before twisting his fingers in it tightly. Steve lets out a broken noise, biting his lip to muffle it.

“Eddie—”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes.

“I…”

“What is it?” Eddie whispers, kissing his jaw gently. “Tell me.”

“Need more,” Steve says weakly, his face hot with embarrassment.

“More what?” Eddie murmurs, and Steve wants to be annoyed, to roll his eyes and tell Eddie not to make him say it, but he can’t, because his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and his limbs feel heavy, and he feels fucking high, just because of Eddie’s mouth on him, because of Eddie’s sweet words.

“You,” he chokes. “Please, Eddie, I need you, please—”

“Fuck,” Eddie exhales, tugging Steve’s hair so his head tilts before he leans down and kisses his neck, his lips brushing his skin as he speaks. “I need you too, Stevie.”

Steve stifles a whine, pressing his lips together as Eddie sits up a little, leaning closer to kiss his neck, and he’s almost kissing his throat now as Steve’s head falls back, and Steve reaches up to his head, pushing his fingers into Eddie’s curls messily.

“Eddie, please,” he says softly. “More.”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, breathing hard against Steve’s neck. “Turn around, come here.”

Steve turns, aching when he has to leave Eddie’s chest, and he tries to keep his balance on Eddie’s soft mattress that’s covered in blankets. Their legs tangle, and Steve has to take a moment to sort them out, and Eddie giggles softly, reaching to push Steve’s hair out of his face. Steve smiles hopelessly, moving forward.

Eddie pulls at his legs, tugging him so their legs are wrapped around each other, so their chests almost press, so their faces are close. Eddie looks wrecked, his cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shining like he’s going to cry, and Steve knows he can’t look much better. He exhales, reaching up to trace his scar. It stretches when Eddie smiles. Eddie closes his eyes, turning his head to let him.

His hands slide up from Steve’s legs to his hips, his waist, pressing and firm and gentle on Steve’s sides. Steve slides his hands to hold his face, leaning close enough that their noses nudge together.

Eddie exhales, his eyes fluttering shut, and his hands slide to Steve’s back, pulling him closer as he murmurs.

“So fucking proud of you, Stevie, I can’t even tell you,” he says softly, nudging their noses together again. “No fucking words.”

Steve’s body flushes with heat, and he melts, his hands slipping to Eddie’s neck. He can feel the scars under his fingertips.

He tilts his head, his eyes stinging as Eddie keeps talking, keeping whispering and murmuring about how proud he is.

No one’s ever told Steve that they’re proud of him. He’s never heard it before.

But Eddie says it so earnestly, like he’s fucking reverent, and Steve listens.

And then Eddie is kissing him between words, his lips gentle and a little chapped against Steve’s, and Steve feels like he’s going to fall over with it all, his lips parted because he can barely kiss back. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, whispering to him.

“So proud of you, Stevie, you did so fucking good. So brave.”

Steve’s hands find Eddie’s head again, his fingers pushing into his curls, and he sighs, listening and listening and listening and absorbing the feeling of Eddie’s lips pressing to his softly.

His hands tighten in his hair after a moment, and he pulls Eddie in, shutting him up with a hard, lingering kiss. Eddie’s hands tighten on Steve’s waist, his fingers pressing into the scarred skin, and Steve’s whole body aches. They part with a slick sound and a gasp, but Steve pulls him back in before he can say anything, tugging his hair.

Eddie kisses him back desperately, clutching at his back, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, and Steve thinks he might be dying. It feels so fucking good, and the way Eddie is touching him…

His fingers dig into the knit of the sweater he’s wearing, holding him close as his legs tighten around him, and after a moment, one of his hands slides around Steve’s side, up over his chest slowly until it reaches his neck. It feels like he’s being so careful, gentle like Steve is delicate, and Steve’s never wanted to feel delicate before, but he’s basking in Eddie’s touch like it’s sunlight. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck, and their chests are almost touching as Eddie nibbles his lip the way he did with his ear earlier.

It feels kind of silly, really, in the grand scheme of things.

That they’d survive the end of the world, stop the end of the world, live through horrors beyond comprehension, and Eddie is proud of him for yelling at his parents. And now they’re making out, kissing each other stupid in Eddie’s bedroom, surrounded by his posters and blankets and the glow of his cracked lamps.

But Steve can’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

Eddie is holding the side of his face now, his fingers gentle on his skin, and Steve holds in a groan when Eddie’s tongue slips past his lips, his chest tightening.

Eddie pulls away and they both gasp for air.

“Baby,” Eddie breathes.

“God, yeah.”

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks quietly, brushing his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and Steve closes his eyes as they start to sting. He doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, almost choking the word out. “It was so okay, Eddie, I… Please.”

Eddie kisses him again. Pulls away to breathe, resting their foreheads together.

“Want you,” Steve says softly, whispering.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he can’t take it back.

Especially when Eddie is kissing him like this, like he’d die if he didn’t, like he’s drowning and Steve is air. Steve’s arms tighten around his neck, and he’s shivering, chills spreading over his skull, down his spine, as he listens to the soft breathy hums Eddie is letting out as he listens to the wet sounds of their lips, their tongues. Eddie licks into his mouth, licks his lips and his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Steve lets him, even though their lips and chins are wet now, slick with each other’s spit, and it’s a little gross. Steve doesn’t fucking care. It feels good.

He lets out a whine, letting his jaw drop for Eddie to suck on his tongue for a moment, and his cheeks flush with heat. Eddie smiles against his mouth, kissing him again.

“You still want more?” Eddie murmurs, caressing his cheek. Steve exhales, nodding.

“Please.”

Eddie presses wet kisses over his jaw, down his neck, and Steve melts, his head falling back to give him room. He shivers, tightening, when Eddie’s lips find his throat, pausing to suck on his skin lightly before he continues, kissing across the scars on his neck.

His scars are lighter than Eddie’s. Shallower. A metallic, faded pink that only stands out against his skin when he tans.

His parents didn’t notice them.

Or the scar on his chin, which Steve forgets about himself a lot of the time. It’s from that night at Starcourt. He used to stare at it in the mirror, hating it, hating himself. It’s faded so much it’s barely noticeable, but everyone knows it’s there. Steve knows it’s there.

Eddie knows it’s there.

He kisses it when he finishes with Steve’s neck, holding Steve’s face in place as he presses kiss after kiss after kiss to it, softly and tenderly, and Steve wonders if he looks at this scar the way Steve looks at his scar.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

Steve bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie presses his thumb to his lower lip, pulling it free before he kisses him gently.

“Do you wanna take your sweater off?” he asks quietly, whispering. Steve nods.

“You too,” he whispers, opening his eyes and meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks so… tender. His eyes are shining at Steve, and he’s almost smiling, just barely, and his face is so relaxed, more at peace than Steve thinks he’s ever seen him while awake. “Please.”

Eddie nods, kissing him again before pulling his hands away from his face, and he reaches for the hem of the sweater Steve is wearing.

They have to separate for him to pull it up over Steve’s head, and Steve shivers when it’s off, the air in the room colder than he expected. Eddie tosses the sweater aside, his eyes skimming over Steve’s body, and he feels shy suddenly, overcome with the desire to hide his chest, his scars, the soft rolls of his belly.

Eddie pulls his sweatshirt off, and Steve watches, crossing his arms over his stomach as he looks at Eddie’s pale skin, at the scars that mark his sides, his chest. The art that’s inked into his skin. One of the tattoos is almost gone, the bare edges of it rough around the skin graft on his chest.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says softly, like he’s scared of disturbing the quiet air. He reaches for Steve’s hands, pulling them away from where they’re hiding his stomach, and he leans in to kiss him, pulling his hands to touch Eddie. “Wanna see you.”

Steve kisses him back, squeezing his eyes shut, and he slides his hands across Eddie’s chest to touch his neck. Eddie hums, pulling his mouth away to look at him, and Steve blushes as Eddie’s eyes scan his chest, his arms, his belly.

“So fucking gorgeous, baby,” Eddie murmurs against his mouth.

Steve whines.

He pulls Eddie into another desperate kiss, and he shifts onto his knees, leaning over him, holding Eddie’s jaw so he tilts his head back.

“You too,” he says breathlessly, into Eddie’s mouth. “So fucking pretty, Eddie, you’re so beautiful it fucking hurts.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie pants, and he wraps his arms around Steve’s legs, holding him as they kiss, and it’s messy and sloppy and desperate, and Steve feels like Eddie is touching him everywhere, his callused hands rubbing away every bad feeling Steve’s ever had. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue along Eddie’s, and Eddie’s hands tighten, squeezing his thighs.

He slowly shifts onto his knees too, moving up so they’re face to face, and he hugs Steve’s waist, pulling him against himself. Steve groans softly, stifling it, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s neck again before he slides his hands over his shoulders.

And they can’t keep their hands off each other, palms and fingers sliding and pressing and touching. Eddie’s hand pushes into Steve’s hair, tugging sharply as he sucks on his lip, as his other hand slides across his back, gentle on his scars, and then he’s running his hands over Steve’s waist and chest and reaching down to his thighs, murmuring beautiful into Steve’s mouth, and Steve believes him.

They kiss until Steve’s mouth is sore, until his legs are tired from kneeling like this, until his chin is wet again, and Eddie is smiling against his mouth, still fucking talking, still telling Steve how proud he is, how good Steve was.

He kisses Steve’s neck, and Steve’s head falls back.

“God, baby,” Eddie breathes, panting as he kisses his neck again, and his tongue slips over Steve’s skin. “You’re so fucking good, shit.”

“Eddie,” Steve chokes, pushing his hand into his hair and pulling. “I need— Fuck, I need you, baby, Eddie, please, I—”

Eddie lowers so he’s kneeling, and he pulls at Steve’s thighs again, pulling him so he’s straddling his hips. Steve wraps his arms around him, letting out a sharp breath as he lowers, as Eddie licks a line up his neck. Eddie’s hand runs over Steve’s stomach until it reaches his sweatpants, and he touches him over them, gently pressing against his dick. Steve chokes, hiding his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks breathlessly, his other hand running up his back and holding the base of his skull. Steve nods. “Baby, I need words, please.”

“Yes,” Steve gasps. “‘S okay, it’s so okay, please, just… I need you .”

Eddie does it again, pressing and squeezing, and Steve is so hard it almost hurts, but Eddie is so tender with him, rubbing his back as Steve clings to him. They’re both breathing hard, and Steve is biting his lip to stay quiet, but it’s hard when Eddie whispers.

“Can I take it out?”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “Yeah. Please.”

He holds his breath.

Eddie’s hands are warm. And gentle. Eddie pulls away just enough to glance down to look, carefully tucking Steve’s sweatpants out of the way, and he’s smiling. Steve tugs at his hair, making him tilt his head back so he can kiss him so hard their teeth clash. Eddie is still smiling, his hand moving slowly, carefully.

When they part, Steve is gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, and Eddie notices, reaching up and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“Breathe for me,” Eddie whispers. Steve exhales slowly, looking at him, watching as he nods, and lowers his head. A moment later, he’s letting a line of spit drip out of his mouth to Steve’s dick and Steve groans quietly, pulling him back into a hug as Eddie slides his hand to spread it. Eddie’s other hand presses to Steve’s back securely, holding him close.

“Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s so high-pitched, weak and shaky and breathless and so vulnerable he wants to hate it, but he also doesn’t care, because Eddie is holding him like this, touching him and letting him tremble. “I like it, I like it so much, Eddie.”

“Good boy,” Eddie murmurs.

And fuck.

Eddie moves his hand slowly, and after a moment he shifts so he’s sitting, and they’re back to how they were before, their legs wrapped around each other. Steve keeps his arms around his neck, hiding his face. Eddie slides his other hand into his hair.

“You want me to pull?”

“God, yes,” Steve chokes. “Please.”

And Eddie definitely noticed how it made him feel just a moment ago, because—

“Good boy.”

Steve can hear his smile.

His hand tightens, his fist squeezing in it, and it’s a slow, dull ache that grows on Steve’s scalp. He stifles a groan, pressing his lips together.

“Stop doing that,” Eddie says breathlessly, his hand loosening, and Steve exhales with relief, his mouth falling open. A moment later he processes Eddie’s words, and he hums in confusion.

“Keeping yourself quiet,” Eddie says. “Stop, I wanna hear you.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, his eyes blearily finding the Slayer poster above Eddie’s bed. His vision is blurry, and he feels like he’s cross-faded, out of his damn mind with the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him.

“You don’t want me to be quiet,” he mumbles absently. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“No,” Eddie says softly, twisting his hand. Steve’es eyes close again. “I don’t want you to be quiet. Let me hear you, baby.” He moves his hand a little faster, tightening his fist, and Steve lets out a whine, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Louder,” Eddie says, moving his hand faster, his other hand tugging Steve’s hair sharply.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps before he moans weakly.

“Louder,” Eddie whispers, his hand tightening in his hair. Steve lets out a sob.

“Eddie.”

“There you go,” Eddie whispers, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, and it sounds almost condescending, but it wraps around Steve like a blanket. “Good boy. You don’t have to be quiet, baby.”

So he isn’t.

His mouth stays open, panting against Eddie’s neck and shoulder, letting out soft moans and whines and whimpers and Eddie’s name as Eddie pulls at his hair again, his other hand jerking Steve off, alternating between rapid and fast and slow and tender, squeezing and tugging and drawing it out.

“I love how you sound,” Eddie murmurs after Steve lets out a sob. “So fucking pretty, baby, God.”

“Eddie,” Steve whimpers.

“I got you, honey, ’s okay.” He scratches Steve’s scalp, pulling his hair.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Eddie lets out a soft noise, and he pulls at Steve’s hair sharply, tugging him away from where he’s resting his head, and he kisses him. Steve kisses back after a moment, almost lightheaded, and he clutches at him, at his hair, his arm.

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie pants when they part, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you so much.”

Steve lets out a long groan, squeezing Eddie’s wrist.

“Eddie, I—”

“You can come,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s okay.”

He kisses Steve’s cheek, murmuring as Steve buries his face in his neck again, moaning as Eddie’s hand speeds up again, and Steve is crying into his neck, sobbing as his body floods with heat, as he comes.

“There you go, baby,” Eddie whispers, fingers still working, jerking Steve until he finally slows down. “Did so good, Stevie.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie’s hand finally stops, and he lets go, his other hand running through Steve’s hair comfortingly as Steve catches his breath. He tucks Steve back in his sweatpants carefully, patting his crotch when he’s done, and Steve snorts.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly when Steve is breathing slowly. Steve hums. “That good, huh?”

“Mm. No one’s ever wanted to hear me before.”

“No?” Eddie says, running his hand over Steve’s back, tracing his spine. “But you sound so good.”

“Hm. I don’t know,” Steve mumbles. “One girl commented that I was noisy and it just… made me self-conscious, I guess.”

Eddie hums softly, sliding his hand up to hold the back of his neck, and it feels protective, possessive, and Steve could die happy here.

“I like hearing you,” Eddie says. “Don’t ever want you to be quiet.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck before he kisses him gently under his jaw. “Can I get you off?”

“Mm. Yeah. ‘S not gonna take much, though, I almost came just listening to you.”

Steve giggles, lifting his head and reaching for the hem of Eddie’s sweatpants as their eyes meet. He pushes his hand under them, watching Eddie’s expression shift, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lips part, watching his shoulders slump. He’s still holding the back of Steve’s neck, and his hand tightens.

“Can I take it out?” Steve whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie breathes. “Go ‘head.”

Steve does, licking his lips, and Eddie pulls him in to rest their foreheads together. Steve lifts his hand to his mouth and spits on his palm before reaching down again, touching him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, laughing lightly. “Fuck.”

“You always this easy?” Steve asks softly, whispering. Eddie hums.

“Only when I have the… hottest boy in the world touching my dick.”

Steve giggles, sliding his hand up and down slowly, listening to Eddie breathing heavily. He’s having fun. He’s never had fun like this during sex. It’s always felt like something to just do, to get done, to make his partner feel good. But even as he focuses on Eddie, he can’t stop smiling, watching his own hand on Eddie’s dick, listening to the soft moans and hums Eddie lets out. Eddie’s other hand finds Steve’s thigh and squeezes tightly, gripping so hard Steve wonders if he’ll leave bruises under his fingertips. He kind of hopes he does.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps after a while. “I’m gonna come.”

Steve kisses him. Messily, desperately.

“Come for me.”

Eddie grunts, his hand slipping to hold the base of Steve’s head, and he pants, breathing hard against Steve’s cheek as Steve watches, almost mesmerized by the come dripping over his fingers, his knuckles.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes as Eddie comes down, his grip on Steve’s leg and head relaxing. “You’re so…”

Eddie hums softly.

“So…”

“I don’t know,” Steve says quietly, pulling his hand away as Eddie softens, and he tucks him back into his sweatpants, imitating him with the gentle pat. Eddie laughs. He has a beautiful laugh.

“I’ve heard I’m a lot,” Eddie says.

“You are,” Steve says, looking into his eyes. He smiles, and Eddie tilts his head curiously. “In a good way,” he adds. “I like it.”

Eddie smiles bashfully, his cheeks pink, and Steve nudges their noses together, closing his eyes.

“...Are you gonna talk about it?” Eddie says after a few moments. Steve exhales, swallowing.

His hands are in his lap, and he looks at them, at the come on his hand.

“...I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Eddie touches Steve’s chin, gently prompting him to lift his head. He’s smiling when Steve looks at him, and he leans in to kiss him softly, chastely. Familiarly.

“Cool,” he says, his lips brushing Steve’s. “Same.”

And Steve laughs.

Eddie kisses him again, smiling against Steve’s smile, and Steve wraps his arms around his neck, keeping his dirty hand in the air as his other hand pushes into Eddie’s curls. Eddie’s hands slide across Steve’s back.

Steve pulls away.

“You are getting come all over my back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eddie says sarcastically, and Steve snorts. “What do you think about a shower to clean you up?”

“Ah, that was your master plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, my goal was to get you naked by getting you mostly naked.”

“Pure genius, Eddie.”

“I know…”

Steve follows him to the bathroom after they get clothes. (Eddie just gives him more of his own)

It feels nice when Eddie washes his hair. Even though he forms it into a mohawk with the soap. He’s grinning as he does it, his eyes sparkling, amused, and Steve lets him. It also feels nice when Eddie washes his body, which he does without saying anything, scrubbing him gently, tenderly, washing the soap away with the showerhead and pressing kisses to his wet skin. Steve does the same to him. It feels nice to do this, to help him even though he doesn’t really need it.

Steve kneels to do his legs, and as he does, he kisses his scars. Eddie holds a hand out, blocking the water from hitting Steve’s face. And Steve somehow falls in love all over again.

The tile wall is cold as Eddie pushes him against it to kiss him, but he doesn’t mind.

They separate to dry themselves off, and Steve stops him when he starts to scrub his hair dry with the towel. He scolds him lightly, pulling close and taking over, scrunching the ends and drying it gently, noting that he wants to get some product for him. Eddie just gazes at him silently, his hands on Steve’s hips.

“I love you,” he whispers when Steve hangs the towels.

Steve hugs him, and Eddie hugs him so tightly that he lifts him up a little bit, his toes touching the ground.

“I love you too.”

Over his shoulder, Steve can see them in the reflection of the mirror. It’s fogged over from the shower steam, but he can see the shape of them, their dark clothing in the bright light of the bathroom, and Steve sighs.

They go back to bed, arms around each other as they find their places again, Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest. Eddie kisses his neck. Steve closes his eyes.

“So what do you say about forever?” Eddie asks quietly as Steve is starting to drift off. He hums, turning to tuck his face into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie pushes a hand into his hair, holding him gently.

“Forever sounds nice.”

if you like my work maybe consider supporting me on ko-fi or looking into my commissions <3

#say it with me #This Is So Much Longer Than I Expected It To Be #oh well #steddie #steddie one shot #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

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skbeaumont · 5 months

Text

Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 4 – The Barbeque

Series masterlist

Chapter Summary: Saturday brings a barbeque, a whole lot of flirting, and a perfect storm of tension that might just push you and Joel to the brink of something new. Rating: Mature Tags/warnings: flirting, sexual tension, smut, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU!No outbreak. Word Count: 3.1k

Taglist: @mysterialee@amyispxnk @ghostofzion-blog

The Texas heat is almost unbearable even when you wake at just past seven the next morning. Laying in bed, you can still feel the ghost of Joel’s hand against your jaw, the gentle way his fingers tangled in your hair, the delicate fan of his breath mingling with yours. The memory keeps you in bed a little longer, has you pressing your own hand beneath the waistband of your shorts. You come hard to the thought of Joel’s expression as he looked at you from the doorway of the garage, the intoxicating pull of his eyes. You wonder how his fingers – that trailed so dexterously across your cheek not twelve hours ago – would feel pressed against your core, if they would dip inside you, laying pleasure upon pleasure as he watched you with that same dark, intense expression.

Eventually, you force yourself to get up and dress. You pull on the bikini your brought with you – white, with sculped edges and long ties that you double knot – and then don your favourite sundress, one that you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Examining yourself in the mirror, you can’t help but feel a little nervous, your stomach squirming uncomfortably. Last night, Joel had been seconds from kissing you, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you up to meet his hungry lips. And God, the thought of it makes your toes curl, your thighs press together.

But there’s anxiety there, too.

It’s been months since you broke up with your boyfriend back home, the same one you’d been with throughout your entire time at university and the gap years between. The thought of starting something new with someone else feels terrifying in so many ways. What if Joel decides he doesn’t like you, or want you? What if he’s hesitant, or unsure, and it ruins all of the hard work you’ve done over the past few months, convincing yourself you’re deserving of love and affection?

You close your eyes against the image in the mirror, refusing to let yourself fall into old habits of self-criticism, and take a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. You focus on thinking about Joel’s easy smile and his calloused, warm hands. You think about his broad, strong shoulders and the dark lock of hair that always falls across his forehead. The nerves die away a little, replaced by anticipation and excitement. You open your eyes again, look yourself in the eye and repeat the words Diana said to you on Wednesday. “Flirt your ass off.”

Five hours later finds you and Danny lugging a slightly rusty beer cooler over to the Cuthberts’. Theirs is the biggest lot on the road, a sprawling house surrounded by a flawlessly mown front lawn and backed by huge garden, complete with a patio – almost certainly larger than your entire flat back in London – and a tiled, picture-perfect swimming pool. You let out a low whistle as you and Danny round the house into the garden, taking in the two-tiered, five-grill barbeque in the centre of the patio and the array of chairs, sofas and tables laid out on the decking. There are no other guests yet, but you find yourself searching Joel out anyway, peering around the potted palm trees and oversized plant pots.

Mr Cuthbert, a large, jovial man in a bright Hawaiian print shirt, slaps Danny convivially on the back and introduces himself – “call me John”, he says, offering you a wink which you steadfastly ignore.

You and Danny put the beer cooler in a shady part of the patio and help John fill it with the beers from his drinks fridge – a separate appliance than his usual fridge, he proudly informs you as he hands you bottles of wine, premixed cocktails, sodas, and beers. By the time you’re done, a few guests have trickled into the garden, all carrying more drinks and food.

Slowly, the garden and deck fills up with neighbours and friends. You stand near the kitchen in the shade, leaning against the cool stone of the house, your eyes fixed on the gate, watching with anticipation as each newcomer arrives. You hear Sarah before you see her or Joel, catch the end of a shout of her infectious laughter as the two of them come into the garden.

Joel’s in tinted sunglasses that reflect the garden back at you, his hair brushed back from his forehead, dark and thick and streaked with a few errant greys. He’s wearing a loose-fitting linen Henley and a pair of shorts that show off the tanned vee of collarbone and chest, the bottom of his thick thighs. He says something to Sarah, points her in the direction of a group of similarly-aged kids and she darts off, leaving Joel to survey the garden. When his eyes find yours – or rather when his sunglasses reflect your own figure – he breaks into an easy sideways grin, holds up one hand in greeting.

You told yourself you would play it cool, ease into the flirting, but before his hand has even returned to his side you’re darting towards him, sidestepping a toddler and two middle aged women. He meets you halfway across the garden, taking large steps that cover the distance to the deck easily.

“Hey,” You say when you meet.

“Hi.” He replies, and he draws his sunglasses up off his face to rest on the top of his head, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he does.

“I’m disappointed,” You say, gesturing at his shorts and shirt, “I was promised a toolbelt and workmen’s boots.”

He laughs at this, a deep, throaty chuckle that comes right from his chest.

“Toolbelt’s just at home, if you want me to go and get it.”

“Maybe later.” You reply, smirking.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

You follow him to the beer cooler and watch as Joel plucks two bottles out of the icy water, opens the tops with one hand. The simple gesture shouldn’t be so goddamn attractive, shouldn’t make blood rush to your cheeks and heat pool in your belly, but it is and it does. He hands you one of the beers, and your fingers brush his warm knuckles as you take it. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches in response, his eyes flashing in the bright sunlight. You can feel the blush hot on your face just from these tiny, pathetic touches, slick already pooling in your core, dampening the bikini bottoms under your sundress. You clear your throat and Joel nods to a quiet corner of the deck where a loveseat lies unoccupied. You follow him to it, sink into its plush cushioning. Joel sits beside you. He's so broad that he takes up more than half of the sofa, his shoulder bumping against yours as he settles. You both look out over the garden, at where Sarah and the other kids are having an intense discussion in a tight cluster.

“She really enjoyed that math lesson you gave her,” he says, musingly, “won’t stop goin’ on about it. Never seen her so keen to be over at Connie’s before, either.”

“She’s really bright.” You reply, turning to him.

“No idea where she gets that from.”

You roll your eyes at him, cross one leg over the other, watch as Joel follows the movement with his eyes, drags his gaze up your bare thigh to the hem of your dress.

“’s a nice dress,” he says, the drawl of his accent stealing away the first syllable.

“Thanks. I’d been saving it for a special occasion.”

“This a special occasion?” He asks, gaze flicking from your bare thigh to your face, the trace of a mischievous smile playing on his plush lips.

“You tell me.” You reply, letting your own mouth curve into a grin.

There’s a splash from the pool and you both turn to see Sarah emerging from the water, face cracked into a wide smile as her friends jump in after her. Joel shakes his head, laughing.

“Always gotta be the first one in.” He says, and you laugh too, watch as Sarah splashes another girl.

“You going in?” You ask, as a few adults start sitting at the side of the pool to dip their toes in and slowly climbing in after the kids. “Not a chance.” He says, “I ain’t a swimmer.”

“That’s a shame.” You say, standing up and pulling the sundress up over your head, “Would’ve been nice to have some company.”

Joel’s eyes travel over your body, taking in the curves of your breasts and waist, the swathes of bare skin. His gaze makes you feel self-conscious, but his expression is awe-struck, reverent, like he’s looking at something sacred. His pupils are blown wide despite the bright sunlight, cheeks reddening. The hand clutching his beer is white-knuckled, the other twitching where it rests in his lap like he wants to reach out and trace the path of your curves. He swallows, Adam’s apple rippling in this throat.

“I’ll be jus’ fine watchin’, darlin’.” He says, his voice hoarse.

You waste no time sliding off your sandals and darting towards the water. It’s immature, maybe, but you’ve never been able to resist diving headfirst into water. The pool is cool, fresh: perfect in the intense Texan heat. Sarah giggles as you resurface, splashes you with a back hand. You spend the next half-hour messing about with her, having handstand competitions and lying on your backs to float idly. Every time you let your gaze wander to where Joel is sitting, he’s watching you, his expression intense. He looks away the first few times you catch him, but after the fourth time he lets himself watch you, raises his beer to his lips and takes a sip. When he draws the bottle away, there’s a droplet on his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it, and you have to press your legs together in the water to dull the ache. This man, you think, watching him wipe his mouth with the back of one large hand, veins standing out on his toned forearms, is going to be the death of me.

After a few more minutes you’re starting to feel the cold, fingertips wrinkling in the water. You float over to the side of the pool and push yourself up onto the side. Droplets run down your stomach and legs as you stand up, goosebumps rising in their wake. You turn to look for where you left your bag and towel, but suddenly warmth is engulfing you, a soft, fluffy towel wrapped around your shoulders.

“Here,” Joel’s voice from behind you, his hands on your shoulders, draping the towel over you.

“Thanks.”

He steps back, lets his hands fall back to his sides.

“Water nice?” He asks, as you start to pat yourself dry.

“Refreshing,” You reply, looking up into his face.

“Looked it.” He’s standing close to you in the busyness of the garden, people milling around you both.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Looked… good.” He swallows again, tendons in his neck shifting. You want to put your lips to the flesh there, bite down onto rough skin, lick the stubble covering his jaw.

“I should go and get changed,” you say, nodding towards the house.

You step around him, start towards the kitchen door, turning to look behind you as you pick up your bag from where you left it by the beer cooler. Your eyes meet and the heat in his is almost palpable, rolling off of him in waves. You feel his gaze follow you as you step through the door into the cool air of the kitchen. Inside, you find the Cuthbert’s downstairs bathroom, shut the door behind you and lean back against it, your head spinning, heart pounding.

By the time you’ve changed back into your sundress, food is being served. You take a paper plate and let John load it up with chicken and a burger from the grill, then go and find a seat at a table with Danny, Connie, Joel and Sarah. You slide onto the bench next to Joel, letting your thigh brush against his and offering him a chaste smile when he raises a single eyebrow in response.

“How’s work, Joel?” Danny asks, swiping a blob of ketchup from his cheek.

“Oh, fine, thanks. Busy, at the moment.”

“Tommy alright? Not been getting into any more trouble?”

Joel laughs at this, shaking his head as he replies, “No more’n usual.”

Danny offers an understanding nod in response, and Sarah giggles, catching your eye across the table.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a happy, hazy buzz of food and conversation. Joel remains beside you, your legs pressed together on the bench seat. At some point, as Danny regales you all with a story of a traffic incident he witnessed last week, Joel stretches out, raising his hands over his head. When he brings them down, he lays his arm along the back of the bench behind you. You lean ever so slightly into him, imagining how it would feel if he slipped his arm down from the wood onto your shoulders. When you lean your head back to look up at the clear sky, you let it rest on his forearm, feel the heat of him seep through the hair at the nape of your neck through to your skin. The garden has started to empty now; the sky is slowly turning a pale, picture-perfect pink as the evening draws in. Danny lets out a long, steady sigh and pushes himself to his feet.

“We should get back to Nana,” he says to Connie, who nods and stands, “but you stay on as long as you like.” He adds to you, helping Connie pull on her cardigan.

You and Joel wave them off. Sarah leaves too, tired from the day, a little bored now the other teenagers and kids have left.

“Shouldn’t stay too much longer,” you say, looking around at where Mrs Cuthbert is collecting glasses up.

“No,” Joel agrees, but neither of you move.

His arm is still across the back of the bench, your neck now leaning against it. He flexes his hand, lets the tips of his thick fingers trace the skin on your bare shoulder, pulling up the strap of you sundress where it’s fallen down. The feeling of his hands on you is exhilarating and you shift in your seat, subconsciously begging him to keep touching you, to let his hand trace your shoulder to your collarbone, to dip down beneath the neckline of your dress to your bare breasts. He doesn’t, of course – there are still plenty of people in the garden – but he does leave his fingers where they are, just resting against your shoulder. Minutes pass. The tension between you seems to be building irreversibly, all the flirtatious banter and playful teasing from earlier gone, replaced by heavy silence and a kind of buzz in the air that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

Joel clears his throat after maybe ten minutes, runs his free hand up the leg of his shorts, wiping his palm which, if he’s feeling anything like you, is sweaty with a heady combination of anticipation and nervous energy.

“Should get back.” He says, his voice low, face turned to you so that the words are said against the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,”

This time, you both move as one. You stand, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you do, while Joel picks up his sunglasses from the table and slides them into the vee of his Henley. You both call hasty goodbyes to the Cuthberts, thanking them for the food and hospitality. And then you’re leaving the garden, stepping out of sight of the deck into the small alley between the house and the fence. You’ve hardly taken more than two or three steps before you both break.

Joel rounds on you as you grab him by his shirt. Crowding you against the wall of the house, he fists a hand in your hair and draws your mouth up to his. The kiss is frenzied, passionate right from the moment your lips meet. He groans from somewhere deep in his chest, licks his tongue into your mouth, his teeth grazing your lips, bruising them. His hand caresses your jaw, fingers spanning your face, cradling it as he kisses you. It’s intoxicating. You reach up to thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pushing yourself up onto tiptoes to card them through his curls. You moan into his mouth, let your tongue lick into his mouth, his stubble tickling your face, harsh and scratchy in contrast to his soft lips.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He whispers, leaning down to place open mouthed kisses on the underside of your jaw. “I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate.”

“Joel…” It’s all you can say as he nips at your collarbone, runs his fingertips down your sides, hands searching out the flesh of your ass, pulling you to him, bending so that he can slide one thick thigh between yours. The movement brings his hips flush with yours, the line of his hardening cock pressing into your stomach, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. You grind against him, pressing your cunt into his thigh, seeking out friction. He hisses into your open mouth as he drags his hips against yours, cock trapped between your rutting bodies – a hot, thick line against you.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he breathes, nipping and pecking at your lips, dragging a hot hand up your side to squeeze your breast.

“Please don’t stop,” You reply, gasping as his fingers find the hard nub of your nipple and pinch, pleasure coursing through you like adrenaline.

The whole thing is ridiculous: you’re pressed against the wall of your neighbour’s house, Joel’s hands mapping out the curves of your body as he kisses you. Anyone could see, anyone could come round the path from the garden but neither of you seem to be capable of caring. The dam has burst and it’s all you can do to cling to each other, rocking your hips together, seeking out friction. It’s only when you slide a hand between your bodies, seeking out the hard line of Joel’s cock that he pulls back. His lips are swollen, eyes entirely black in the low light.

“We can’t do this,” he says, “not here.”

And then you’re both laughing, the absurdity of the entire situation overcoming you. When you calm down, still breathing heavily, Joel draws your face between his hands and presses another kiss to your lips.

“I want to,” he says, stroking his thumb along your cheekbone, “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

“Me neither,”

“Sarah’s staying at Tommy’s on Friday.” He says, “Come over. I’ll cook dinner, or take you out. I’ll treat you right, like you deserve.”

“Friday?” You say, “That’s a long way away.”

You push yourself onto tiptoes to kiss him again, draw his bottom lip into your mouth and he groans against you, his hips canting forward so that his cock drags against your hip.

He pulls away, rasps, “Shit, darlin’. You’re making me crazy.”

“I’ll be over on Tuesday, for Sarah.” You say, “I’ll stay until you get back from work.”

“You make it really hard to say no.”

“Then don’t say no.”

“Okay. But I’m taking you for dinner on Friday too. Don’t say I don’t know how to treat a woman.”

“Joel Miller, I don’t think anyone could ever say that.” And you press another kiss against his lips, smiling into it.

When you get home a few minutes later, your lips bruised and your head buzzing, there’s already a text in your inbox.

I’ll leave the toolbelt on for Tuesday. J

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller au #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #AU!no outbreak #joel x reader #joel x you #the last of us fic

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meowhara · 4 months

Text

࿐.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒆

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ miguel o’hara x fem siren!reader

cw : blood and gore (not much but still)

synopsys : miguel's residence was a unique one, though nobody knew the existence of a deadly being inhabiting beneath it

It was always the same question whenever anyone visited his house. They’re always wondering why it was built like that. Some parts of his house where the tiles should be, were replaced by thick glasses. Clear enough to see the deep blue water underneath. His house was practically built over a gigantic man made body of water. It wasn’t an empty body of water either, there was life thriving underneath. The variety of fishes no matter what sizes or kind live there with coral reefs and underwater plants for the aquatic creatures to live in. Making a whole complete living underwater ecosystem.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” Miguel huffed, his back facing the man that considered him a friend just because they met back in college.

“You. Look at this place.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” He popped open a bottle of fine alcohol and poured a glass for himself, then leaned on the kitchen’s counter before taking a sip.

“No… Not really.” The man reverts his gaze to the wide window behind Miguel. The marine life beyond that window was just stunning. For somebody like Miguel, having this kind of lifestyle wouldn’t be anyone’s first guess.

Miguel rolled his eyes from his reply, walking off from the counter with his drink before walking upstairs. “Would you mind leaving? I’m busy.” He scowled.

“Why? Are you hiding something?”

Miguel’s eyes twitched, isn’t he just polite?

He set himself down on a couch in the middle of the room. The living room was a unique one. There’s a spot where the tiles are supposed to be, left absent and empty. Leaving a literal two rectangular pool connected to each other’s ends, with a wide angle where an “L” shaped marine blue sofa that stretches for at least three meters long on both of its sides. A coffee table made out of thin marble with an oval shape in the center which was also in blue, decorated with gold lining.

The pool, oddly, is a wide one. It was made so that a whole human could slip through it, rather than for decorational purposes. Nobody really pointed it out in the past though, it seems to be a normal thing for anyone to have in their home if they had the money for it. Most people would drown from how deep the pool is if they're not careful. The bottom of the pool was out of the question from how deep it was intentionally made.

The ceiling was high above with water flowing down, forming a thin wall made out of water. Flowing down onto the same pool in the middle of the room. Tall windows on one end of the house, showcasing the breathtaking beauty of Nueva York, especially at night.

His eyes focused on the ill-mannered man he barely knows. Watching each one of his moves carefully.

“Don’t you have a Girlfriend?”

“Broke up.” He answered quickly as the man stood before him after he finished strolling around uninvitedly.

“How did you get your hands on these types of creatures anyway? I’ve never even seen some of the fishes you have swimming around underneath these tiles.” He tapped his feet onto the transparent material underneath his feet. The fishes swam away from the loud thumping noises of his feet.

“I have my own way.” He spoke before taking another sip.

“Illegal?”

“No.” After a long pause, he continues, “Would you mind doing me a favor?” Miguel added.

“What favor?”

“Taking a few steps away?”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged, “Personal space.”

“Geez.” Unsuspectingly, he took a few steps back until his feet were almost touching the edge of the floating platform.

A low whistle escapes Miguel’s mouth seconds before a creature with high speed emerges from underneath the water. Slamming the unsuspecting man into the ground, knocking air out of his lungs. He felt its sharp fangs digging into his flesh with the creature’s weight pushing him forcefully onto the ground. A creature with a human-like body and a massive fin instead of legs hisses their sharp fangs at him, their hair long with water dripping down. Its eyes are as dangerous as the dark mysterious sea, ready to devour him at any second. The man’s eyes widened in sheer panic as he tried to push whatever it was away.

A smile plastered across the host’s face. Calmly sipping all the remaining wine into his system with his back relaxing against his seat. The man screamed, fighting for his life. He even begged for Miguel to save him. But he was too busy watching your beautiful form ripping flesh out of your prey’s body with your mouth. Watching his pet feasting on her favorite meal of the day. His screams died down eventually. The scene was a complete mess, chunks of meat everywhere with a mixture of blood and water splattered across the floor.

Miguel set the empty glass in his hand down before standing up and closing the distance between the both of you slowly. When you saw him approaching you and your meal, you hissed at him.

“Easy there, cupcake.” He scoffed, “I’m not going to steal him away.”

He stood there as you possessively dragged the remaining of your meal back into the pool. Drowning it with you. “That brat.” The word came out from his mouth followed by a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“Lyla, clean this shit up for me.” He commanded the programmed woman.

“You're spoiling her Miguel.” She complained, her hollow body flickering in the dim lit room.

“I'm not. My baby got what she deserves.”

This has been going on for a pretty long time. People disappeared after entering his home, especially the uninvited ones. Although, there are some exceptions. There is someone that loves crashing into his place.

“How many times did I tell you to stop coming here?” His arms crossed over his chest as he scolded the only person that would leave his abode unharmed.

“It's not my fault you made this place very interesting.”

“That was not a reason for you to keep coming here every time I went to work.”

“Aww, don't brothers share?” Gabriel teased.

“I hate you.” Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“I won't be coming here ever again.”

Miguel raised his eyebrow, unamused by his little brother's promise.

“I won't be coming here ever again, if you let me have a party here.”

“No.” He didn't even think before the answer left his mouth.

“Then I'll pester you until the end of my life.”

“Go on then. I would rather you bother me rather than inviting people here.”

“Come on, my friends would love this place.”

Miguel's eyes were not focused on him after he saw a glimpse of your eyes inside the pool from where he's standing. He saw the hunger in your eyes upon looking at his brother, a tasty meal for your kind. He knew this would happen that's why he never invited anyone over except for your feeding time every once in a while.

But there's no way he would let you feast on his own family, he shook his head with a serious look on his face. He knew that you would listen to him either way, so he sighed as he watched you disappeared before his eyes.

“If you still want to live, leave.” Miguel spoke with a firm tone in his voice.

“But—”

“I said no to your stupid party and that's final. Leave before I told Lyla to never let you in here ever again.”

“You would ban me from coming here just because of this?”

“Gabriel.” He warned, insisted on letting him stay and telling him the reason why was never the best move to pull no matter what the situation is. Miguel watches as he leaves, listening to his brother swearing under his breath before the door shut by itself. The sound of small waves of water followed by ripples of water made Miguel turn his body to look at your head peeking out of the pool with a frown evident on your face. Breaking his heart from how sad you look after not getting what you wanted, he hates disappointing you.

Your eyes were fixed on the door, hoping your walking food would come back. “I know baby, I know. I'm sorry, okay? But you can't eat him.” He lowers himself to touch your face, gently caressing your cheek. You keep your head fixed on the door without hissing at Miguel. Human language is a foreign one to your ears, you can't understand anything, just a few basic words. Miguel was fully aware of this so he repeated himself. The certain word will always taste bitter to his mouth when it comes to pleasing you. “No baby, you can't eat him.”

Your frown worsens from the word ‘no’. You're not sure what it means, all you understand is that every time the word escapes his mouth, he won't let you get what you desire. “I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.”

After that, he fed you even more men to satisfy your hunger. Their bodies sunk into the abyss of water where the monster he fell in love with abode.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x you #miguel spiderverse #siren #siren reader

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fortheloveofwonderland · 8 months

Text

Me & You & Everyone We Know | Chapter 19 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - With the help of his BAU family, Spencer starts making some positive strides in bettering himself. He and Maeve have a long overdue heart to heart in which they come to a mutual understanding.

A/N - here is the penultimate chapter!

Pairing - Single Dad! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, smut minors DNI.

Warnings - hangovers, vomit, Spencer’s bad decision making, swearing, attempted one night stand, tears, BAU team as family, serious conversations, letting go of the past and moving on, talk of pregnancies, long overdue apologies, chapter starts angsty but there is a surprising amount of fluff in this.

WC - 5.9k

Chapter 19 - We're Good

No need to hide it,

Go get what you want.

This won't be a burden if we both don't hold a grudge.

I think it's pretty plain and simple,

We gave it all we could.

It's time I wave goodbye from the window,

Let's end this like we should and say we're good.

Spencer did wake up, but not through lack of trying otherwise. When he did open his eyes, his head throbbed so wildly he felt like someone had it in a vice.

His mouth was drier than the sprawling Nevada desert he’d once called home. His limbs ached violently, his back felt as though he’d been folded in half.

He blinked a few times, trying to work out where exactly he was. He didn’t have any memory past the fourth scotch, after that everything went black.

He was staring at a white surface, possibly a wall or a door which was no more than a foot in front of him, the surface beneath his face was cool and hard, certainly not a pillow.

He’d been laying on his side so he forced himself onto his back and tried to figure out if he knew the ceiling he was now staring up.

It was white with a nondescript light bulb hanging in the centre. A little way to the left there was a large water stain he thought he recognised.

He blinked at it, trying to pull a memory to the front of his fractured brain. Lily was two. Splashing in the bathtub. She threw her little body down so violently in the water she had sent a tidal wave crashing through the entire bathroom.

Spencer had been soaked from his head to his toes. They’d had to replace the old floorboards for porcelain tiles. The kind of cool, hard tiles beneath his back. On the ceiling had been left a large water mark.

He rolled his head to the other side and saw the bathtub next to him. At the very least he’d made it home.

He inhaled deeply before slowly exhaling and pushing himself into a seating position. He groaned, holding his head in his hands.

He’d been hungover plenty of times before but not like this. This felt like the end of the goddamn world.

The toilet seat was up and he could just about see the vomit pooled in the bottom of the bowl. He pulled a face and dragged himself towards it on his hands and knees, shut the lid and flushed it.

Using the toilet cistern he got to his feet, wobbling as he did so. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his hair a complete mess and little flecks of vomit in the corners of his mouth.

He ran the faucet and washed his face with cold water. Not having the effort to brush his teeth right now, instead he grabbed the bottle of mouthwash and swilled an ample amount around his mouth before spitting it out in the sink.

Looking back at himself in the mirror he noticed now he was shirtless. He frowned, closing one eye in an attempt to aid his pounding head. He let his open eye fall down his body to see he was in fact completely naked.

He shook his head, turning to the open bathroom door. He found his clothes in a haphazard trail along the landing leading to his bedroom.

His bedroom, yes, a bed that’s what he needed. A couple of hours of decent sleep should help cure this rotten hangover.

He stumbled through the door, ready to collapse but stopped short when he saw there was already a figure in his bed.

She was awake, staring at him with a combination of annoyance and frustration. Spencer frowned at her, still wobbling on his feet.

“Uh,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry but who the fuck are you?”

“Wow,” she scoffed indignantly. “Just wow.”

Spencer watched through bleary eyes as she got out of bed and started throwing her clothes back on, huffing periodically. He tried to remember where he’d met her, who she was and how she had ended up in his bed but his memory failed him. Once she was dressed again she turned to him and folded her arms across her chest.

“First you can’t get it up and now you don’t even remember me? You’re a charmer.” She rolled her eyes.

“We didn’t sleep together?” He closed one eye again as the room started to spin.

“No,” she huffed again. “You must have drank too much, couldn’t get hard.”

“Of course I couldn’t.” He sighed. “That tracks. Please see yourself out.”

With that he collapsed in a heap on the bed, burying his face into the pillow. He heard her scoff and then her footsteps getting further away. After a minute he heard the front door open and close.

He closed his eyes without protest, not allowing himself to think about how royally he fell off the wagon last night. Maybe he’d never get sober, perhaps he wasn’t able to function without alcohol.

Maybe his kids would be better off living with their mother full time and leaving Spencer to spiral into alcoholism.

Thankfully his brain shut off for long enough to enable him to fall asleep, laying on his front on top of the covers whilst nuzzling the pillow.

When he woke up again, it was with a start, as though he’d been shocked by an electric current. His eyes shot open and his heart was rampantly hammering against his ribcage.

He immediately rolled over in bed, squinting against the onslaught of light through the open curtains. A silhouette stood in the window but he couldn’t work out who or what it was.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Reid,” the voice groaned. “Cover yourself up, please?”

Spencer looked down at his body, still naked and exposed to whoever was in his bedroom. Without much contemplation he pulled the sheet over his lower half and attempted to sit up in the bed.

The shadowy figure got closer and he half thought he was imagining it. He’d lived with his demon so long that maybe they were now coming to life.

When the haze cleared, Emily Prentiss’s face appeared through the fog and she sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Emily?” He croaked. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“I knocked for like twenty minutes, called you multiple times. I tried the door and it was unlocked so I let myself in.” She shrugged. “By the way, I found your dog shut in the kitchen. He’d almost worn a hole in the door from scratching.”

“Ah shit, I must have forgotten he was in there.” He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

“I thought Tara went with you to a meeting last night?” Emily asked, concern lacing her words.

“She did.” He nodded.

“So what happened? Clearly you’re hungover.”

“After the meeting I went and irreparably fucked up my life.” He pulled a face, pushed his hair back from his eyes.

“What does that mean?” Emily frowned.

“It means I went to see Y/N. I slept with her and then I told her I didn’t really love her and that I only told her that to get her into bed.” He sighed with a shake of his head. “Pretty good night, right?”

“Oh Spence,” she placed her hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was hot and blanched. “You really aren’t yourself lately.”

“No kidding,” he scoffed. “Emily I am utterly lost. I am out at sea with no life raft and I can’t see the fucking shore.”

“You put your feelings over what happened with Maeve on the backburner for so long, it was inevitably going to catch up on you. You met someone, you started to fall for her and then you were reminded of the last time that happened to you. You were reminded of what Maeve did and how much that broke you.” She whispered, gently squeezing his shoulder.

“I’m going to lose my kids if I can’t sort my shit out.” He seemingly ignored her, changing the subject. “Emily, I cannot lose my girls. It will destroy me.”

“You’re not going to lose them.” She gave him one of those looks that always made him feel like she knew something he didn’t. It was hard not to believe her when she looked at him like that.

“How do you know that?” He sighed.

“Because I know you,” she shrugged. “Because you would go to the ends of the earth for Daisy and Lily, you would do anything for them. You raised Daisy whilst working one of the most demanding jobs there is. You raised Lily while your wife was cheating on you. You have raised them both this past year practically alone and they are two of the best kids I have ever met. You are the best dad I have ever met.

You have sacrificed so much for your daughter’s, things much harder than giving up drinking. You’ve got this, Reid, for that I have absolutely no doubt. You will stop drinking, last night was the last drink you ever have, do you understand me? You will go to meetings, you will let me and the rest of the team help you. You will lean on us the way every single one of us has leaned on you at some point in our lives. We’re family Spencer, you aren’t going through this alone.”

His bottom lip quivered and soon a few tears rolled from his eyes and down his cheeks. Sometimes he forgot that they were family. He sometimes thought just because he’d left the BAU he wasn’t a part of that anymore. But family was stronger than that.

“I love you, you know that right?” He sniffed. “I don’t say it enough but I love all of you.”

“That’s the beauty of family,” she smiled. “We already know.”

“I think I’d like to shower and then maybe go to a meeting.” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Would you come with me?”

“Of course I will,” Emily nodded. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” He frowned sceptically at her.

“You let me call the rest of the team. I think this is something we should all be together for.”

“Ok.” He nodded. “Ok.”

“I’m proud of you.” Emily smiled as she stood up.

“Don’t be yet, give me a few weeks of sobriety first.” He inhaled, waiting for Emily to leave but she didn’t seem as though she planned on going anywhere. “Uh, Emily?”

“Yes Reid?”

“If you want me to get up you’re going to need to turn around or something. Unless you want another eye full.”

“Oh shit, yeah, sorry.” She laughed awkwardly, turning towards the door. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Spencer slipped out of the bed, ignoring the pounding in his head, just as Emily opened his bedroom door.

Another figure stood on the other side, eyes quickly flicking from Emily to Spencer and his naked form.

“Oh jeez!” Luke rapidly put his hand up to cover his eyes. “What the fuck have I walked in on?”

“Did my house have a revolving door fitted without my knowledge?” Spencer cupped his crotch in his hands. “Where do you people keep coming from?”

“I thought we were taking Taco to the park.” Luke groaned.

“Change of plan, Alvez.” Emily laughed at his obvious discomfort. “Let’s go put the kettle on and I’ll explain everything.”

***

An hour later the BAU team had gathered and sat in the back row of the community hall while Spencer took to the stage.

Gathering the troops had been an easy feat. After Emily had told Luke the whole story over coffee she’d sent a text to Penelope simply stating: Spencer SOS and the address of the community centre.

As expected, Garcia had rallied the rest of them and they all met outside of the building in downtown DC.

Emily was closest to the aisle, JJ next to her who was clutching her hand for dear life. Penelope on JJ’s other side was getting the same treatment.

Luke was next to Penelope, his arm around his girlfriend's shoulder. Matt was next to him offering Luke the occasional glance and gentle smile.

To Matt’s left was Tara who drummed her fingers on her thigh until Rossi, on her other side, placed his hand on top of hers to still her.

Seven of the members of the BAU family sat and watched their eighth member awkwardly stand at the podium, take a deep breath and speak.

“I’m Spencer Reid,” he paused briefly to close his eyes for a second or two and then open them again. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

***

Two days later Spencer opened his front door to be assaulted by his daughters throwing themselves at him.

He was clear headed, forty eight hours sober and feeling surprisingly good.

Ok, maybe good was a stretch. He felt fine, average at best. But having his girls home and the grip in which they held him made him feel on top of the world.

“Daddy!” Lily screeched, burying into his shirt. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too dad.” Daisy sighed in content as she spoke.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you two.” He squeezed them tightly, relishing in having them back.

He glanced at Maeve who was standing on the steps behind them, hands in her pockets. Bobby was in his car on the drive.

“Can we talk?” Maeve mouthed at him so the girls wouldn’t hear. He nodded in reply.

“Girls, I think Taco has missed you nearly as much as I have. I think he’s in the yard, why don’t you go find him.” He placed a kiss on both of their heads as they let him go and rushed past him inside the house, screaming the dog's name. “I would invite you inside but I’ve spent most of the last few days packing for the move and the house is a disaster.”

“It’s fine,” Maeve smiled, keeping her hands in her pockets as she sat down on the front step, Spencer doing the same. “The girls said you were moving.”

“It’s time I think. I’m not sure I ever really liked this house.” He chuckled.

“Oh I’m sure you never liked this house.” Maeve laughed too.

“It served a purpose, but it’s time to move on.” He nodded with a wistful smile. “So how was California? The girls seemed like they had a great time.”

“They did, it was so nice to spend that much time with them.” She narrowed her eyes on him, he could see her trying to read him. “How was your week?”

“My week?” He pulled a face. “It was…eventful. Enlightening maybe.”

“You look…tired.” Her eyebrows furrowed a little.

“That’s one word for it.” He exhaled. “I’ve been struggling if truth be told. For a long time. But I’m making some changes, I’m trying.”

“Oh yeah?” Her lip twitched at the corner.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’m starting to see things from another perspective. I pushed you away. I was never what you needed me to be.”

“Maybe, but it still doesn’t excuse what I did.” Maeve shook her head sadly.

“It doesn’t. But I think I’m starting to understand. I need you to know I’m sorry for everything I’ve said and done since our separation.” It looked like it pained him a little to admit as much.

“I need to tell you something.” She sighed, rolling her lip between her teeth.

“Did you forget I was a profiler for many years? Not to mention the fact that I know you inside out, even after all this time.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“What?”

“Maeve, I knew the second you got out of the car.” He whispered, eyes welled with tears.

She swallowed thickly, feeling her own eyes brimming.

“The girls don’t know yet.” She sniffed.

“They’re going to be thrilled. Lily’s always wanted a little brother or sister. And you always did want that boy.” A tear crept from his eye but he made no attempt to brush it away.

“There is one more thing.” Maeve sniffed again.

“You’ve had your hands in your pockets since you got here.” Spencer shrugged. “Let me see it, Maeve.”

Maeve closed her eyes as a few of her own tears escaped. She removed her hands from her pockets and brandished the large, diamond ring on her finger.

“Wow,” Spencer croaked, a couple more tears rolling from his eyes. “I’m…happy for you.”

“How much did it pain you to say that?” Maeve laughed through her tears and Spencer couldn’t help but do the same.

“Only a little.” He shrugged.

“He makes me happy.” Maeve nodded, swallowing again.

“And I didn’t.” Spencer sighed.

“Don’t say that.” She reached for him, grasping his hand in her own. “Of course you made me happy. I did love you Spencer. We were just never fated to have a happy ending.”

“I’m starting to think I’m not fated to any kind of happy ending.” He huffed.

“I think you already found it but for whatever reason you pushed her away.” Maeve squeezed his hand.

“Who called you?” He rolled his eyes, knowing this had the BAU all over it.

“Rossi, he’s the only one who doesn’t hate me.”

“They don’t hate you.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to think I might hate Rossi though.”

“Blasphemy.” Maeve laughed. “He’s worried about you, they all are. I’m worried about you.”

“I told her I didn’t love her. I told her I lied to her just to get her into bed. I said some horrible things to her. I told her that I couldn’t risk the girls getting hurt again and she accused me of being a coward. She was right.” More tears fell from his eyes. “The truth is I don’t think I can take another hit, I’m barely holding it together. Isn’t it easier to just be alone than risk that kind of pain?”

“Look Spencer,” Maeve gripped his hand tighter. “I think it’s better to have someone. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s the most painful thing you have to do. Even if it’s the most painful thing you ever have to do. I think it’s better to have someone.”

“Jesus,” Spencer choked on a sob. “Stop making me like you.”

“You don’t like me, you love me.” She chuckled.

“Isn’t that a painful truth?” He laughed too.

“You misunderstand me. You love me,” she repeated, letting go of his hand and getting to her feet. “But you’re not in love with me. Not anymore. You called me the love of your life but we both know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He frowned up at her.

“No,” she smiled with a shake of her head. “We had a great relationship for the most part Spencer. I loved you, I was in love with you. But we weren't the loves of each other's lives.”

“Because yours is Bobby.” He stood up.

Maeve placed her hands on her stomach, not yet showing signs of the life growing inside of her, her ring glistening in the sunlight.

“And Y/N is yours.” She shrugged.

“I’m not so sure.” He shook his head. “But thanks anyway.”

“You’re going to be ok, you have to believe that.”

“I’m trying. Like I said, I’m making changes.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “In that vein, I, uh, spoke to my lawyer yesterday. We started drawing up a new custody agreement.”

“New? As in…” she frowned at him.

“The girls will spend one week with me, one week with you. We’ll switch out the holidays every year. It’s still a work in progress but if it's something you would be interested in…” he trailed off and suddenly Maeve was throwing herself into his arms, with so much force he almost fell over.

He tentatively wrapped his arms around her, accidentally inhaling her shampoo. He thought it might cause him to crumble. But it didn’t.

The smell didn’t breed the kind of sad nostalgia of someone who lost his wife to another man. It was a comforting smell, a familiar smell. It was a reminder that he’d loved this woman but no longer felt that way about her.

The simple smell ignited a hope within him that he and Maeve would one day be able to be friends. If they weren’t already.

“Are you serious?” She squeezed him tightly.

“Yeah, I think it would do us all good.” He stroked her back.

“Thank you, Spencer. You have no idea what that means to me.” She sniffed, pulling back a little so she could look at him.

His hands found her face, cupping her cheeks delicately and brushing away her tears.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” He smiled at her. “Are we going to be ok?”

“I think for the first time in a long time, we might well be.” She smiled back.

“Truce?”

“Truce.” She agreed.

“You should get back to your future husband.” Spencer leaned in and placed the softest kiss on her cheek before letting her go, both physically and metaphorically.

“A part of me will always love you, Spencer Reid.”

“I should hope so.” He teased. “Now get out of here before you make me cry again.”

“See you soon, yeah?” She spoke as she walked backwards down the stairs.

“I hope so. I really do.” He nodded, watching her go.

It was funny really, he’d never realised the extent of the weight of his hatred towards Maeve until he finally decided to let it go.

As he watched her happily slip into the car and kiss Bobby while toying with the new ring on her finger, Spencer felt lighter than he had done in years.

He was happy for Maeve and Bobby and their future child, really genuinely happy for them.

Maybe one day he’d find that kind of happiness. But for now he was content spending his time with his two girls.

***

Spencer focused the next few weeks on his daughter’s and his own rocky mental health. He went to therapy twice a week, took his medication every day and he hadn't had a sip of alcohol in nineteen days.

The girls spent the week after they arrived back from California with him and they took trips to the park, museums and everywhere in between. The second week he let them spend with Maeve even though the new custody agreement wasn’t finalised, he didn’t see the point in waiting.

And the girls loved spending more time with their mom, even Daisy.

While they were at their mom's, Spencer continued packing up the house, going on long walks and seeing his friend’s when he could to help distract himself from the need to drink.

Or the need to call you.

He’d almost called you over a dozen times but every time he went to, he called Emily instead. When he was craving alcohol he called Tara and when he wanted to boot his dog in the face he called Luke.

He knew there weren’t enough apologies in the world to make up for what he’d said to you and the way he’d treated you and it wasn’t fair of him to keep dragging you into his messy life. He loved you, but he needed to let you go.

Maybe one day, once the dust settled and he had a handle on his problems then the two of you might find your way back to each other. If it was meant to be, it would be.

But for now he needed to focus on himself and the girls. Everything else had to wait.

The day Daisy and Lily were coming back to Spencer’s for the next week, he met Maeve and his daughters in the park.

The girls were having a picnic with their mom while Bobby was at work, Daisy laying on her front, head in her phone, most likely texting Cam. Lily was playing with her new favourite stuffed toy, a surfing otter she had gotten in California.

The girls didn’t know he would be joining them, the four of them hadn’t done anything together since Maeve left. She saw him approach them and smiled at him.

“Hey girls, look who it is.” She nudged them both by their shoulders.

Lily looked up wide eyed from her otter while Daisy took a second or two longer to tear herself away from her phone. His eldest sat up and frowned at him while his youngest grinned the brightest smile in his direction.

“Daddy!” Lily squealed.

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

“Seemed like a nice day for a picnic.” He shrugged as he got closer, slowly lowering himself down to the blanket on the grass, next to Maeve, giving her a smile.

“Nope,” Daisy suddenly shook her head. “Nuh uh.”

“What?” Maeve frowned at her daughter.

“You two are not getting back together. No way, please god.” The teenager sounded incredulous.

“What on earth would make you think that?” Spencer chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“I have not once seen the two of you smile at each other since you split up.” She was frowning at them.

Lily simply looked between them in confusion.

“We are most certainly not getting back together.” Maeve laughed.

“Yeah, never gonna happen.” Spencer chuckled too.

“Oh thank god.” Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would it really be the end of the world if your parents got back together?” Maeve was still laughing.

“Yes.” She pulled a face. “I love you guys but you are so much better apart.”

“I mean, I can’t say I disagree.” Spencer shrugged.

“Same here.” Maeve nodded. “And you know Bobby and I are getting married.”

“I’m going to be a bridesmaid!” Lily cheered.

“I was just making sure you hadn’t changed your mind.”

“You don’t need to worry, your mom and I are pretty set on this whole divorce thing.” Spencer insisted.

“Well something is going on.” Daisy’s gaze shifted between her parents.

“I do have something to tell you and I wanted your dad to be here when I did.” Maeve instinctively placed her hand on her belly. “Daisy, Lily, you’re going to get a little brother or sister.”

Lily’s whole face lit up and she started rocking back and forth where she sat.

“I won’t be the little one anymore?” She beamed.

“No sweetheart you won’t.” Maeve ruffled her hair.

“Can I have a brother? I don’t want another sister.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Uh, it doesn’t work like that I’m afraid.” Maeve laughed. “Daisy, do you have anything to say?”

“Not that I can say in front of her.” Daisy shot her sister a look.

“Why?” Lily whined.

“Because you’re a baby.” Daisy hissed.

“I am not!”

Maeve and Spencer exchanged a curious look, unsure of what their eldest wanted to say. Spencer sighed before turning to Lily.

“Lil, why don’t you go play on the jungle gym? I’ll be right over.” He asked her softly.

She pulled a face like she might argue but then she huffed and reluctantly stood up.

“Fine,” she sassed him. “But I am not a baby.”

Spencer and Maeve watched her run off towards the jungle gym before turning back to Daisy who had her arms folded and was glaring at them in frustration.

“You guys are the worst.” She spat.

“Excuse me, young lady?” Spencer frowned at her.

“What exactly have we done to earn us that title?” Maeve added.

“You guys slept together?” She hissed, eyes wide. “You’re having another kid but you aren’t getting back together? And you’re marrying Bobby?”

Maeve and Spencer started to laugh out of nowhere, seeing their daughter’s error. Daisy frowned at them while they chuckled heartily.

“Oh pumpkin,” Spencer shook his head. “This is not my baby.”

“We maybe should have said you’d be having a half brother or sister.” Maeve giggled.

“Also I don’t love that you know how babies are made.” Spencer pulled a face.

“I’m fourteen, dad.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure you knew where babies came from when you were fourteen.”

“I had an IQ of one hundred and sixty one when I was fourteen, of course I knew where babies came from.” He clucked.

“So to confirm,” Daisy frowned again. “You did not sleep with-”

“Please don’t say it again.” Maeve cut her off. “No Daisy, we did not. Bobby is the father of my baby, not your dad.”

“Gross so you slept with Bobby.” Daisy pulled a disgusted face.

“Can this conversation please be over now?” Maeve asked no one in particular.

“I’ve got a kid to see about a jungle gym,” Spencer pushed himself up to his feet. “Have fun.”

Spencer left them, heading towards where Lily was hanging from the jungle gym, swinging herself back and forth. He came close to her and placed his hands on her hips and she dropped into his arms.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and arms around his neck while he held her by her thighs. She smiled brightly at him.

“Are you ok, pumpkin? You’re happy about all of this? You’re mom marrying Bobby and having a little brother or sister?” He started carrying her towards the swing set.

“I think so.” She nodded, but she had a curious expression on her face.

“What are you thinking?” He used one arm to hold her, his free hand brushing her unruly hair back off her face.

“If mommy marries Bobby, does that mean he’s my daddy now?” She pouted. “Because I don’t want him to be my daddy. I want you to be my daddy.”

Spencer’s heart wrenched at the mere thought of his kids calling someone else daddy. He grinded his teeth for a moment as he lowered her onto the swing and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Lily, I will always be your daddy, ok? Nothing is ever going to change that. When Bobby marries your mom he becomes your step-dad, but you don’t have to call him that, you can keep on calling him Bobby. I will be your daddy for the rest of your life, pumpkin. Promise.” He used his index finger to poke the end of her nose and she giggled.

“Ok!” She nodded bouncily. “That’s good because you’re the best daddy in the whole wide world and I wouldn’t want another one.”

He closed his eyes for a few beats, trying to force the tears back.

“And you are the best daughter in the whole wide world, you and Daisy. And I wouldn’t want another one of either of you.” He smiled at her.

Lily gripped the chains of the swing and leaned closer to her father, placing a rather sloppy kiss on his own nose.

“I love you daddy.” She beamed.

“I love you too, pumpkin. You have no idea how much.”

***

Waiting outside of the theatre he checked his watch again and huffed out a breath. The movie should have finished fifteen minutes ago, at least that’s what she’d told him.

He didn’t like this one bit. He didn’t like his daughter going on dates, he didn’t like being made to wait fifteen minutes after a movie finished because Daisy and Cam were doing god knows what. He didn’t like anything about this.

He looked at his watch again, wondering how much time could pass before it was appropriate to go in and look for her. When he glanced back up a set of sparkling blue eyes were staring at him.

“When I was their age, my ex-husband and I would stay behind after the movie finished and make out.” Blair shrugged, sidling closer.

“Wow, I did not need that image in my head, thank you.” Spencer rolled his eyes.

“They’re fourteen, Spencer. They are most definitely making out in there.” Blair laughed.

Spencer pulled a face, looking a little like a moody child being told he couldn’t have ice cream for dinner.

“I was in college by the time I was fourteen and everyone was significantly older than me. Is it normal to be making out at that age?”

“Very,” Blair nodded, leaning against the wall of the theatre next to him. “You really did not have a normal childhood did you?”

“I did not.” He sighed. “I didn’t kiss a girl for the first time until I was twenty one.”

A silence passed between them, the awkwardness of this situation washing over them like a wave. Spencer stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his lip between his teeth.

“You didn’t call.” Blair finally broke it, her eyes turned down.

“I specifically remember you telling me not to.” Spencer shrugged.

“Unless you were choosing me.” She nodded. “So you chose then?”

Spencer nodded slowly, inhaling a sharp breath before letting it out through his nose.

“I did.” He caught her eye. “I chose my girls. I chose me.”

“Good for you.” She offered him a half smile.

“I’m sorry for the way things ended. I did intend to call but every time I went to I thought you wouldn’t want to hear from me. I figured with our kids dating it was inevitable we’d run into each other at some point.”

“Did you mean to cringe when you said our kids were dating?” Her smile grew.

“No, that was entirely involuntary. It has nothing to do with Cameron, he seems like a really good kid. I just hate that my daughter is old enough to date.” He laughed.

“And make out with boys.”

“Ok, you have to stop that.” He shook his head, causing Blair to giggle.

Just then the front door of the theatre opened and Daisy and Cameron emerged, hand in hand. The sight made Spencer’s stomach coil into knots and his chest tightened painfully.

And he did not miss his daughter's kiss-swollen lips.

Oh good god, I can’t deal with this.

Blair nudged him in the arm as he was staring awkwardly at them and he desperately tried to push past it and not dwell on the fact his daughter was making out with boys in movie theatres.

Daisy and Cameron joined them, hands still interlocked.

“How was the movie?” Spencer asked, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

The teens exchanged a look, smirking at each other.

“It was good.” Cameron shrugged.

“Really good.” Daisy agreed.

Spencer pulled a face, wanting the ground to swallow him whole. Once upon a time he would have snatched Daisy away from him, forbade her from seeing him.

He was growing. Or at least he was trying to.

“Can we all go get ice cream?” Daisy asked, looking between them.

“The four of us?” Blair frowned a little.

“Yeah.” Daisy shrugged.

Blair looked at him with a questioning expression and Spencer sighed.

“Seems super awkward. Count me in.” He agreed.

Daisy let go of Cameron’s hand and he and his mother started walking. Spencer hung back with his daughter and eyed her curiously.

“I swear if this is some kind of parent trap…”

“Dad, trust me when I say I do not want you dating my boyfriend's mom.” Daisy scoffed before walking off, catching up with Cameron and slipping her hand back in his.

Spencer didn’t move for a moment or two, simply staring at their entwined hands and ruminating on his daughter’s words.

“Boyfriend?” He grimaced. “My daughter has a boyfriend.”

@foxy-eva @kbakery @chrissyflo3 @simxican @aysixdy @givemeth @loonalockley @shamlessfangirl-3 @derekm24 @pinkiceee-prose @werewolfbansheelove @mindbelova @hades-disappointment-child @weirdothatwritess

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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paw-padss · 2 months

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LETS GATHER, AT THE BUZZER!

(in honor of me starting tennis)

ft. zhongli, baizhu, kaeya, ayato, & albedo

summary: genshin boys in a modern highschool setting, and nothing screams highschool than sports teams! but of course, not everyone in highschool makes it to the big leagues...

a/n: ermm can u tell I know almost nothing about sports bc I mean I read and write fanfics about video game characters Im not the most athletic... sorry if this is ooc or inaccurate (about the sports or the characters)...

everything is wheel generated, I spun for a character, then a sport, then a skill, if u don't like it blame the wheel not me >:(

notes: not very formal and not very relationship based, just silly headcannons! also I didn't really beta read this sorry for mistakes... TT

as an adult, ZHONGLI is quiet and sophisticated, so when those close to him now realize how he used to be when he was younger, they are much more than shocked at Zhongli's past. An over-passionate and wild teenager, who expended all his newfound energy into tennis. His quick reflexes, the way his slender legs would run to reach the ball, the quick swing of his racket sending the ball out of his opponents reach. an excited and wild boy who would sulk off the court, disappointment in his eyes and sweat dripping from his uniform, whenever (or if ever) he got an out

highschool student BAIZHU would keep to himself for the most part, just doing his work and trying to make it to graduation. the only thing that got close to a club or an extracurricular was the time he spent tending to the small strips of land that surrounded the school and him helping the nurse during his free periods. His teacher, concerned about his solitude, would set up a meeting with baizhu and his guardian, advising that he perhaps join some actual clubs so he can become closer to his peers. Of course, in the middle of the year not many clubs are open and accepting members, except for the sports clubs. He just took the first flyer off the bulletin and walked off toward the gym. Just his luck that it happened to be basketball, and just his luck that they were desperate for new members that they just accepted him right away. but not only is baizhu a recluse but he's also pretty unathletic, often spending his time during games off the court and out of breath, missing all his shots and crouching away from the balls thrown his way. Safe to say he got swiftly kicked off the team the second a new replacement came.

after KAEYA'S adopted father died and he was practically shunned by his older brother, Kaeya found his highschool life to seem bleak and empty, everything seemed so alien to him, until he discovered his schools indoor swimming pool and fell in love. He loved the way the sunlight reflected off the blue tiles, the gentle ripples of the water, the thrill of the surface tension, the silent hum of the filters, the chill as he dived into the water, the world seemed to stand still as his head went below the water and all his troubles drowned below the surface. He didn't even care about the medals hanging off his walls or the trophies decorating his shelves, he just loved the feeling of the water as it enveloped him in its cool embrace.

his father was a baseball prodigy, so of course AYATO has to keep up the family name, the cheers from the crowd fill his ears as he feels the dirt beneath him and his tough grip on his bat, his eyes are set on the pitcher and with quick reflexes he hits the ball perfectly across the field before he dashes around the bases, the feeling the wind against his face as his feet help carry him to victory. Girls from the crowd admire him, his close-to-graceful way of rising to his feet from the ground as he dust off his knees and heads to the dugout, the way he takes off his helmet after a game, wiping the sweat from his forehead and shaking his hair back into its original shape, his frustrated walk and calculative look as he walks back to the dugout after he strikes out.

all the girls at school could agree that ALBEDO was the only one looked stunning in his lab coat and goggles that swept back his blonde hair, and they thought he looked even better in a loose soccer uniform that showed off everything hidden behind the coat. Today was sports day, and the boys in albedos class were assigned to be part of the boys soccer team. Now, for a kid who spent all his time in the chemistry lab, albedo didn't consider himself to be completely un-athletic, but he, like many other members of his science club, definitely wasn't stupid enough to go on a sports field and put himself up against a bunch of jocks and such. Being forced into this public humiliation for a grade meant that the whole school would have to watch on as albedo failed in both offence and defense. whether it was letting the ball slide underneath his feet or diving head first into the grass while trying to block the goals, it was as if he had two left feet. His blonde hair was left disheveled and sweat broke through his forehead as he found himself bent over and out of breath once he was out of the field. He quickly decided that next time, he would just stay home.

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ghostofaboy · 4 months

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Stress Release

Summary: Frankie has had a stressful day and unwinds in the shower.

Pairing: Frankie Morales Rating: Explicit | Word count: 653

Warnings: Masturbation, tiny bit of cum eating

Note: This has not been beta read, so apologies for any mistakes. This was a request from @for-a-longlongtime as part of my 200 Follower Celebration.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Throwing his cap down onto the bed, Frankie let out a long sigh. Today had been a crappy and seemed to dragged on for what felt like years. Asshole customer after asshole customer had been directed his way by an overwhelmed new manager who know all too well that Frankie knew far more about cars than he ever would. Pulling his t-shirt up over his head, Frankie tossed the sweat drenched clothing over at his laundry basket a little harder than he intended, cursing under his breath as it hit the rim, knocking the wicker hamper over.

Fuck, he was tired. And stressed. Too stressed to eat right now, despite knowing he probably should. Pulling off his jeans, Frankie threw them across the room to join the rest of his clothes on top of the spilt pile of clothes. Finally naked, Frankie ran a hand down his body as he looked around the room for his pajama bottoms. Idly playing with his soft cock, Frankie wandered over to his bed, intent on grabbing the soft gray shorts when he stopped.

Tugging on his slowly hardening length, Frankie smiled to himself. He knew exactly how to kill two birds with one stone. He could destress and clean up at the same time. Still casually stroking himself, Frankie padded silently out of the bedroom to his bathroom.

Switching on the shower, Frankie waited a couple of seconds for the water to get to the temperature he liked before stepping in. The hot water hitting his skin was an immediate relief after a long day and Frankie found himself letting out a contented sigh. After washing himself he knew he’d be feeling more like himself, but looking down at his twitching erection, Frankie smile. First things first.

Normally Frankie liked to take his time when he jerked off, savoring as he played with his balls, tugging on them in time with his pumps. He loved teasing himself with toys until he couldn’t take anymore, enjoying the rush as he spilled his seed over himself. But that would have to wait. Right now was about need. It was about function. He needed to cum.

Gripping his cock with his right hand Frankie began to pump, slowly at first setting an easy relaxed rhythm as he reached up to play with a nipple with the other hand. Already the arousal was pooling inside him, the stress of the day gradually becoming replaced with an urgent need for release. With each stroke of his shaft, Frankie bucked his hips, thrusting into his fist, letting the pleasure grow steadily.

Soon the rhythmic pumps gave way to more frantic stokes, hard erratic jerks of his thick cock that fed the fire burning in his core. His head swam with filthy, lewd images, some of his usual favorite and some newly discovered. A young man on his knees, mouth open and ready to swallow Frankie’s seed. A curvy woman with bright eyes playing with her tits as she watched him put on a show for him.

The thrum of dizzying lust seemed to feed on the hot water, adding to the heady anticipation rather than washing it away. As his legs began to tremble, Frankie pinched his eyes shut as he continued to mercilessly tug himself closer to the edge. Groaning and panting, Frankie’s imagined partner’s melted away as the static overtook his brain, until there was only the hot, aching fog.

Then, with an obscenely loud moan, Frankie let go. Letting go of the nipple to steady himself against the wall as he painted the tiles with his release, milking himself for every last drop. Slumping slightly against the cool tiles, Frankie brought a shaking hand up to lick drops of bitter cum from his fingers.

Chest heaving and legs still a little unsteady, Frankie returned to the hot, steady stream of his shower. That had been exactly what he needed.

#frankie morales #frankie 'catfish' morales #triple frontier #requested fic #ghost of a boy requests #pedro pascal character fiction

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iplayghoul · 2 years

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𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐫. 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞.

pairing:: eren yeager x fem!reader (black coded)

word count:: 2.7k

warnings:: mostly smut, sexual roleplay, pre-decided stuff, rough sex, eren has a fat dick, black coded characters, eren is ghostface, chasing, spitting, oral sex (f recieving), use of 'girl' and 'bitch', established married relationship, semi-public sex (in their home's backyard), fingerfucking, light choking, eren is sweet, i love yall.

notes:: i actually really love this😭comments and rbgs much appreciated, i love making eren nd his s/o black coded so they are.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭'? He laughs a little, "Fuck, they definitely did, oh my god," You cringe and press your hands against your face. "Shit, when'd you get yo' nails did?" His eyes widen a little in surprise, noticing three nails had already popped off and he hadn't seen this pattern yet.

You're sprinting past the bushes in your front yard, the dark sky engulfing you with only the full moon illuminating the path as the lights planted in your garden were switched off. Heavy booted footsteps clambered down behind you and with a hard swallow you forced yourself to speed up.

In only a pair of loose, soft shorts and a long t-shirt belonging to your husband on, you slapped a hand over your breasts to hold them down as you bent around the corner of your house. The rain from throughout the day made your tiled pathways slippery and your breathing, so heavy, began to sound like desperate whimpers as you grew tired.

Dashing through the backyard and around the pool, you briefly remembered the perfect place to hide. A small, gated nook hidden in the rose bushes with comfy pillows laid on the concrete floors. Your husband created the space for you, well used as a place for you to ground with nature and relax during a sunny day.

Your thighs smacked and rubbed against each other as you scurried up to the golden gate and unlatched it, slamming it a bit too hard behind you and replacing the latch. You silently wished you'd had the key for it on you, ready to lock it. Hastily scampering among the pillows, nestling yourself in the corner of the square nook and squeezing a pillow to your chest. A hand of yours slapped against your lips as you attempted to slow your breathing.

You could bite off your acrylics right this second, the tips prickling at your cheek and making noise as they rubbed together. You heard the booted steps again, one, two, one two, pressing on the tiled floors around the pool. The boots making crunching noise against the dirt you tracked on the tiles, your breath caught in your throat and you held it. Closer and closer it sounded out before a black gown ghosted past the gate.

The footsteps seemed to dissipate, and you released distressed sigh, relaxing your tensed body for just a moment. "Hmm, where's that pretty girl," The voice rumbling out deeply cutting through the silence. An owl cooed in the distance and you froze up like a block of ice just as quickly, and the air became similarly cold.

"Is my pretty girl hiding from me?" The footsteps came back slowly and you frantically grabbed pillows to brace yourself, nibbling at your fingers anxiously. The boot clad feet appeared at the gate entrance again, black gown falling down in the cool night's breeze to cover it. Slowly, you gulped, and as you looked up the body of the figure, your mouth dropped open and let out a sharp shriek into the night. His face was covered by a white mask that was twisted into a ghastly look; eye holes cut out and an elongated mouth.

With a quickness his black gloved hands rattled at the gate, and you strained your eyes to see beneath the mask, a pair of blue-green eyes filled with intensity stared at you. Taking a deep breath, you scooted up to the gate and smacked at his hands, scratching at his fingers as they tried to open the gate with force.

"No! Stop, leave me alone!" You wrangled with his arms as he overpowered you, pressing a hand near your throat and throwing you back against the pillows. In your moments of shock, you heard the gate's latch become undone; your heart pounded and you thanked every god you knew that your back was facing the tall man's direction. You were spared the suffering of seeing the threatening man come upon you while you could only be frozen to the floor in fright.

He was teasing you, heavy footsteps sauntering up behind your back and he squat down wide. You flinched as long fingers cascaded along your waist, slipping under your- your husband's shirt and caressing the pooch of your tummy. His long hands grazing against the swell of your boobs that hung naked beneath the shirt. You pressed your face into a pillow and he pulled his hands away.

"My pretty bitch won't look at me?" You could hear him biting back a cocky smile beneath the mask, "Fuckin' lea'me alone Mr. Ghostface!" your face burned and if your skin were pale, you'd be bright red. "Ah, so is that what they call me, pretty thing?" He mumbled, large hands back onto your lower back, playing with the softness of your skin idly as he spoke.

"Look at me, girl." He demanded and you closed your eyes tight, "Ah! Shit!" you yelped at the resounding smack he swatted against your ass, exposed under your night shorts. "I said look at me, honey."

Adrenaline rushed tears into the corners of your eyes, and slowly you shifted against the pillows, pulling the one covering your face down and staring him the face with a pout. Your glossed lips were halfway done now, the gloss rubbing off in your rush and your brows furrowed as you peered at him.

You didn't break eye contact either, when his hands came up to squeeze at your jaw, pressing your cheeks together to puff out your lips and make the stick out.

He lifted the mask and hood part of his outfit, not too much though, just for you to see pink plump lips and the short stubble of what could be a beard. He pressed his lips against yours, releasing the hold he had on your chin and dragging his fingers down to rest comfortably around your neck.

He gave it a testing squeeze, slipping his tongue into your mouth as you both moaned into the kiss, drawing back to hear the sound of released suction before pulling you back in for a deeper one. Your tongues molded against each other and by habit you suck intently onto his, eyes shut and melting into him.

Your hands held your body up to him, palms pressing into the pillows and his other hands pulling you closer by your waist. With another moan, he pulled back and your eyes open slightly, entranced by the string if saliva still connecting you both then glancing back up at him as he'd begun to desperately push his lips to your neck.

Then to your breasts where his impatient hands shoved up your husband's shirt, tongue spread wide and licking at the tattoos on your lower waist. He bit at the skin above your pussy, sliding down your panties and shorts together before rushing back up to your lips. You both groaned at the eager kiss, lips moving quickly but simultaneously; the patterns of your makeout already seeming practiced and memorized. The moans erotic and your kiss deep like an unholy dance.

He slipped a black glove off his right hand, pulling his lips off yours reluctantly and asserting his attention onto your cunt: sticky with need. Gently, spreading the dark lips apart to see pink, his fingers played at the entrance, staring where the slick gathered. Collecting it onto two fingers, he ran them through the folds of your pussy, ever-so-lightly and almost hesitantly pressing the wetness against your clit.

You clasped a hand over your mouth immediately, a starved, throaty moan dropped from your lips at the needed touch. He pushed your legs back, and you let your other hand grab at the back of your thigh to hold it up. You breathed hard behind your palm as his face drew nearer your cunt, mumbling, "What- watchu g'nna do t'me Mr. Ghostface?" You knew the answer, but asked anyways.

You couldn't see his eyes as he looked up at you, the heat of his breath making your cunt get drooly, "G'nna eat yo pretty pussy," He pressed a kiss to your clit and you could almost sob, "Then, m' g'nna fuck the shit out you," He gives your cunt a long lick and your eyes spring fresh tears, "N' I'm g'nna make you love every second of it. Got it?"

You only nod, and he pushes the mask further up, careful not to show you his face but you could just see the shape of his nose. It pressed against your clit as he engulfed your pussy in his mouth. Eagerly sucking and licking at your cunt like he were making out with it.

"Oh fuck! Gh- ah! Shit," the hand from your mouth now grabbing at a pillow below you hastily while the other struggled to hold up your left leg, the man between your legs used his hand to keep it elevated. His tongue flicked at your clit and he sucked the fleshy mound into his mouth like a pacifyer, letting the spit that builded in his mouth to pour all over it and your folds.

Your back arched up and your left hand, having forgotten holding your leg up, grabbed at your fat breasts and played at your nipples. The strong wet muscle of his tongue, fucking into your pussy while his fingers rubbed sopping wet circles around your clit. "Mmm, ah shit, Sir," His fingers unintentionally press hard onto your clit at the last address, and he moaned into your pussy.

Switching his attention, his lips encased your clit and two long fingers invaded the plushy, velvety walls of your cunt, well-kept nails scratching softly against it; he finds the chubby mound inside you with a quickness. Your going insane: a sharp nailed hand grabbed at your breasts with the saliva that dropped from your mouth. The mouth that was sucking and spitting and slobbering all over the three fingers of yours you'd stuffed into your attention seeking mouth, moaning like a bitch.

Your tummy starts to tense up and you feel pressure building near your clit, legs twitch and you begin to shuffle away from his lips on your cunt, large hands grabbing the fat of your legs and ass. He pulls you into his face, you see white and begin to whimper and whine, "No, no, no, no, no! Ahh, shit, shit!" He kissed your cunt deeply, "C'mon, pretty thing, cum all over m'face."

Legs stiffening up, you squirted thick ropes of cum on his face, chin and directly into his mouth as he continued to suck and lap at you. You lay back, fucked out as he licked up the mess you made.

Your eyelids hung low, but you could see him pull his mask back down over his face, long dark hair appearing over his shoulders with slight waves in them. He smacked his hands against your thighs and you remembered what he listed to you, 'Then, m' g'nna fuck the shit out you.'

Letting his smacks flop you over onto your tummy like he wanted, you perked your ass up, letting it jiggle in his face as he ran his hands over the crevices of your cellulite. Lifting your ass further up, he pressed a hand into the arch of your back and then spread your cheeks before molding your ass in his hands.

You felt him shift to stand up, eyes looking at nothing but the rose bush before you and darkness, you hear a belt and a zipper from under his outfit and shuffling; you flinch at the smack of his left hand on your left ass cheek, spreading 'em again. He shifts forward, hand on the base of his cock and rather than spitting in his hand to lubricate his dick, you feel him press the meaty muscle between your pussy.

He slides his cock up and down your cunt, letting the remnants of your orgasm coat him before he pulls away and pumps it in his hand. Your hands are crossed below you and your chin rests on them, restlessly sucking at your bottom lip. You fantasize and imagine what his cock looks like or— what it would look like although you already knew.

Its girth between your cunt felt like entirely too much. Regardless of him spreading your ass, when the base of his cock reached your pussy, the rest of his tip and shaft struggled to fit between your ass with it's size.

It wasn't too long, just about average or an inch more but it surely did seem thick. You were drawn from your thoughts when he pressed the tip against your entrance, not before he let it run circles around your clit. Instinctively, you pushed your hips back against him, yelping as you earn a slap to the ass. He was circumcised.

He pumped the tip in and out, stretching you out slowly to the point where you could easily suck in the tip; this doesn't take very long. After five times of pumping it in and out you realize what he's doing.

"Shit," you whisper, fuck it, "Eren— shit! Wait, no– Ah!" He hammers his cock into your cunt from the minute you fucked up and said his name in panic, grinning behind the mask as your pussy suckles on his cock with every stroke.

He's got a slight curve in 'em, feeling it poke and prod at your insides with every thwack of his hips against your ass. Together with it, came your ah, ah, ah's, moaning out loud and desperate to have your clit played with. You're sucking and slobbering on your fingers again and he reads your mind, his fingers quickly find your clit and relentlessly torture the nerves while his cock bullies into you.

White streaks run down his cock from your pussy, a creamy ring forms at the base of his dick and makes sticky strings when your cunt connects with it. He fondles with your clit, biting his lip behind the mask when he feels you dripping onto his fingers.

All ideas of the little cat n' mouse roleplay have gone out the window, all you can think about right now is how your husband pauses for a second, rests his heavy leg onto yours to hold you down and to gain leverage before he drills his cock back into your cunt to feel you deeper.

You only chant, "Eren, eren, eren!" and squeal into the night while he grabs your hair like it's a saddle and rides into your ass like it's nobody's business. A mouth full of pillow and some of your hair, becoming a mess beneath him.

"Oh my god," You feel your clit throb hard, "Oh my god, oh my god, 'Ren— slow down, fuuuck!" He doesn't slow down, his thrusts become erratic and you hear his low moans beneath the mask that he's now pulling off as he becomes increasingly hot and sweaty.

He leans over you and the hair that hasn't stuck to his face sticks to yours, he presses open mouthed kisses at your temple and you legs convulse. You let out a loud, broken cry, clenching on his cock as he slows and cumming hard for a second time. He groans openly into your ears, following it with a kiss while spurting his hot, white cum into your cunt.

You both remain in that position for a long minute, breathing heavily with the chirps of crickets coming from somewhere in the backyard. He pulls out slowly with a duetted hiss, softly grabbing you to lay down onto the haphazardly assorted pillows.

"Holy fuck, Eren," You look up him, he's sitting back on his heels and he's tucked his dick back into to his costume. "Yea, holy fuck," He offers a slight smile.

"You think the neighbours heard all dat',? He laughs a little, "Fuck, they definitely did, oh my god," You cringe and press your hands against your face. "Shit, when'd you get yo' nails did?" His eyes widen a little in surprise, noticing three nails had already popped off and he hadn't seen this pattern yet.

Looking down at them, you scoffed, "I got 'em done yesterday, boy. N' now they look crazy as fuck, she gon' see me twice this week. I got a story to tell her too!" You looked at him accusingly and he put his hands up in innocence.

You tug down his shirt that had rolled up around your neck and shoulders and he picked up your panties and shorts, grabbing your waist to help you up as you both made your way through the back door to freshen up; then, you'd lock up the house and go to bed.

— masterlist.

#attack on titan eren #eren yeager smut #eren yeager #eren jeager #ghostface smut #kinktober #eren is ghostface #attack on titan #aot smut #eren yaeger x reader #aot anime #eren aot #shingeki no kyoujin smut #eren smut #anime smut #black coded characters #black coded reader #eren x reader #﹒﹒﹒💗 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦: 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 💌 𓂃 !

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