#tearing through the pages & the ink || about

[yoursinisforgiven]

UNSEEN ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: descriptive violence, consumptions of alcohol, reader and isaac are both paranoid.  

last part / series masterlist !

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Blunt force trauma to the head. Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four missing fingernails. A missing heart.

The words sat before you in neat, clinical type, but they may as well have been carved into flesh for how deeply they unsettled you. This wasn’t just a case. This was suffering made tangible, pain reduced to a list of injuries, yet it refused to be contained by mere ink. Someone had lived through this. They had felt every blow, every shattering impact against their skull, every burning bullet tearing through muscle and bone. They had felt their fingernails ripped from their hands, one by one. Had they screamed? Fought? Or had they been too weak by then?

Your stomach twisted, but you read the words again, as if repetition would dull the sharp edges of the horror they described.

It didn’t.

The folder sat in front of you, thick with crime scene photos and an autopsy report, bound together in quiet violence. There was always a body. Always the cold, clinical dissection of what had once been a person—cataloged, examined, broken down into facts. You needed to see it. The written words weren’t enough. You needed the images, the grotesque reality, the bloodstains, the lifeless stare. You needed to know exactly what you were dealing with, to let the full weight of it sink in.

But before you could reach for it, a firm hand slapped the folder shut.

“No.”

Isaac’s voice was curt, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t need to explain himself. The answer was final.

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “I’ve seen worse.”

The words nearly left your lips, but you swallowed them back. It wouldn’t change his mind.

And even if you said it, would it matter?

Would he even believe you if you told him about the things that haunted you? About the nights when crime scene photos from your past clawed their way into your dreams, distorting, twisting, becoming something worse? About the frozen, blood-slicked bodies of Ivan and Rhene, their deaths forever etched into your mind in vivid, merciless detail?

No. You hadn’t told him about that.

Just like you hadn’t told him about Vic. Or Asriel. Or the voice on the phone—the one that slid through the receiver like silk over a blade, dripping with a quiet, knowing amusement.

The study is quiet as you stand before his desk, but it’s not the kind of silence you’re used to. This time, it’s heavier, weighted with something unspoken, something lingering in the stillness between you. The air feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm splits the sky. You know he feels it too. You can see it in the way his fingers rest just a little too stiffly on the edge of the desk, in the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

You decide to be the first to break it.

“What do we—what do we do?” Your voice wavers, not out of fear but out of something else, something tangled between uncertainty and dread. You place the documents back in front of him, watching as his eyes flicker downward, scanning the pages as if he hadn’t already committed every gruesome detail to memory.

But then he looks back up at you, and there’s something resolute in his gaze, something cold.

“We aren’t doing anything.” His voice is steady, deliberate. “I won’t let you get involved. Not in this.”

It’s the answer you expected, and yet it still grates at you.

You exhale sharply, rubbing at the tension in your temple. Of course. Of course, Isaac would do this—this weak attempt at shielding you from something that, in his mind, loomed too close, too dangerous. You knew he was paranoid. You had known that since the moment you met him. He saw shadows where there were none, traced threats in the air long before they took form.

So you don’t argue. Not this time.

Instead, with your legs growing numb from standing too long, you sink into the chair in front of his desk. The cold leather bites at your skin, the rich material stiff beneath your fingertips as you grip the armrest. The room feels colder than before, or maybe that’s just the weight of the case pressing in, curling around you like an unseen hand.

Isaac doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that unreadable expression of his, the papers between you a silent barrier.

Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane, rattling it in its frame.

You don’t know if it’s the case, the tension, or something else entirely, but for the first time in a long while, you feel like there’s something just beyond the edge of your vision—watching, waiting.

With a sharp exhale, Isaac reaches for his phone, his fingers tightening around it as if holding onto something more than just a device. His jaw tenses, eyes flicking toward the door as though already halfway out of the study. Then, without another word, he pushes himself up from the chair, the legs scraping faintly against the polished wood floor. His movements are brisk, controlled—but you can see it, the slight rigidity in his shoulders, the subtle clench of his fist at his side. A tell.

“I need to make a call,” he mutters, voice low and clipped, the weight behind those words pressing heavier than they should.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

He strides toward the door with purpose, his back to you, and before you can fully process the shift in atmosphere, the old wooden doors groan closed with a soft but decisive slam.

The sound shouldn’t make you flinch. But it does.

You let out a slow breath, willing your pulse to steady, but it does little to stop the way unease creeps along your spine. The study is silent now, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock nestled in the far corner—a metronome to the quiet dread settling in the air. The dim light from the storm-streaked windows casts distorted shadows along the bookshelves, stretching and shifting with each flicker of lightning outside. The once-warm glow of the desk lamp now feels weak, swallowed by the growing darkness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That the shift in atmosphere is imagined, a trick of the mind fueled by exhaustion and the weight of the case still heavy in your hands.

And yet.

There’s something about being alone in here that unsettles you. The study, a place that had always been filled with quiet conversation, with Isaac’s presence—a grounding force despite his paranoia—now feels abandoned, hollow. The books stacked on his desk seem untouched, their spines rigid and unmoving. The scent of aged paper and faint cologne lingers, but it does little to chase away the sensation that something unseen lingers just beyond your peripheral vision.

It’s ridiculous. You know that.

And yet the sensation only grows.

Your fingers tighten against the armrests of the chair before you abruptly stand, the movement too sharp, too sudden—as if you’re shaking off an unseen grip. The storm outside howls against the windows, the house settling with a deep groan that sounds too much like something breathing.

You won’t sit here and let your mind twist the shadows into something they’re not.

That would be pathetic.

You roll your shoulders, exhaling slowly through your nose, already forming an excuse in your mind. You aren’t leaving the study because you need more light, because the weight of the silence has begun to feel oppressive. No, of course not. That would be absurd.

You’re leaving because—Isaac needs coffee.

Yes, that’s it. Something warm to steady his nerves, something to distract yourself from whatever this feeling is gnawing at your subconscious.

You turn on your heel, crossing the room with purposeful strides, refusing to acknowledge the way the shadows seem to stretch as you move past them. Your fingers brush against the cold brass of the doorknob, and as you step into the dimly lit hall, the study doors creak shut behind you.

But even as you walk away, each step echoing against the wooden floor, that lingering sense of being watched does not fade.

──

The kitchen had become a sanctuary of sorts—well, a refuge of distraction, at least. It was the one place you could still hide, even if it was only from your own mind. The monotony of cleaning, organizing, slicing fruit, anything really, helped the time slip by. Your hands had found their rhythm, gliding over surfaces, moving jars and spices into place, brushing crumbs off the counters. The act was soothing, though it couldn't stop the creeping sense of dread that lingered in the back of your mind, settling like an unwanted weight on your chest.

The storm had passed, the wind outside dying down, but the atmosphere felt unnervingly still. The sky was an oppressive slate gray, thick with clouds that seemed to press down on the earth as if daring it to break. The air in the estate felt cold, heavy, carrying a damp chill from the rain that had soaked into the stone floors. The silence of the house had changed, too—it wasn't the calm quiet of an empty place but rather a thick, almost suffocating quiet, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

You were almost grateful for the simple task of making Isaac’s coffee. The routine of it was almost comforting in its predictability—black, no sugar, no cream. It was the smallest of rituals, one that Isaac preferred to keep simple. You knew this, of course. You had long learned the subtle ways of his quiet habits. He’d notice if you added anything extra, even the slightest hint of sugar. He'd ask, then raise that brow of his, sharp as a blade, and you'd feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. No need for that today, though.

As you moved around the kitchen, placing the freshly cut fruit into the fridge and organizing the counters again—again—you tried to shake off the gnawing discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach. The thought of Isaac’s sharp eyes on you, his quiet expectations, seemed to make the air feel even heavier. But before you could shake it, before you could push past the unease, the front door knocked.

Three sharp knocks.

Like the beat of a drum, unmistakable and deliberate.

Your pulse kicked up instantly, a cold sweat dotting your skin despite the warmth of the kitchen. The sound echoed far too loud in the vast quiet of the estate. There was a brief, sickening pause in the air, as if the whole house was holding its breath along with you. Who? Who would be knocking at this hour? No one ever did. Not unless they had something they wanted hidden from view, something they didn’t want known.

You froze, your hand lingering on the coffee mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic handle as if to ground yourself.

No one knocks.

You had already begun to hear a faint movement from upstairs—the quick, purposeful rhythm of Isaac’s footsteps descending. But you weren’t sure if you should feel relieved or more unsettled. You knew what that knock meant: danger, a threat, someone arriving uninvited.

But it didn’t make sense. You shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Isaac was here, wasn’t he? Isaac was always here.

Still, there was a tightness in your chest, a flutter of something unsettling twisting in your gut.

You watched as Isaac appeared in the hall from above, his expression unreadable. His phone still clutched in one hand, his fingers tapping against the side as if trying to work out some invisible anxiety. But the moment he set his gaze on the door, everything about him tightened, his jaw stiffening. No words were exchanged before he reached out and pulled the door open.

“Vic.”

Isaac’s voice, cool but clipped, rang out in the silence. The name hit you like a brick, unsettling, unfamiliar despite the fact that you knew the person it belonged to. Though oddly enough it brought comfort, he wasn't a threat—was he?

But it wasn’t just him.

As soon as Isaac stepped back, you could see the outline of a second figure standing just behind Vic. A shadowy shape, a silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the porch. But even that small glimpse sent your pulse into overdrive. Your stomach dropped, nausea flooding your senses like a heavy tide.

It wasn’t just Vic at the door.

It was someone else.

The second figure was standing too still, like they were watching the house just as much as they were waiting for Isaac to acknowledge them. The breeze from outside rustled through the hem of their coat, but they didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to mind the chill. 

Your mind raced. Who?

Could it be Asriel? It seemed unlikely, almost absurd, but the shadow felt like him. Like something unfamiliar yet entirely unsettling.

Or worse—could it be them? The thought made your breath catch. There was something about the way the stranger lingered on the threshold, half-hidden by the doorframe, that reminded you of the most dangerous kind of silence. It was a silence that didn’t care about the noise it left in its wake.

A sudden cold wave of nausea flooded you again, stronger this time. You hadn’t even noticed how your hand had tightened around the edge of the counter until the mug nearly slipped from your grasp.

Isaac, however, didn’t seem to notice your distress. His gaze focused on Vic’s, his eyes sharp, demanding. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he stood. Whatever conversation was about to unfold was already hanging in the balance, an invisible thread ready to snap. The feeling in your gut was only growing stronger, more suffocating. What had they come for?

"He...llo."

The voice was hesitant, the syllables stretched just slightly, like they weren’t entirely sure they belonged. The accent was distinct, the English slightly broken, but that wasn’t what made your stomach knot. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind convinced you that it was them—the voice on the phone given shape, stepping through the doorway like a nightmare made flesh.

But as soon as the thought took root, it crumbled. This wasn’t them. Something was different. And yet, despite that realization, something still felt deeply, inexplicably wrong.

Isaac stood rigid in the doorway, his head tilting just slightly as he looked at the figure. You couldn’t see his face from where you stood in the kitchen, but you knew him well enough to picture his expression—his gaze sharp and assessing, his lips pressed in that firm line he wore when something didn’t sit right with him. Then, his eyes flicked to Vic.

A long, quiet beat passed.

The exchange was silent, yet it carried weight. Isaac studied Vic, who, for once, seemed devoid of his usual playfulness. The easy smirks, the teasing remarks, the knowing glances—none of it was there. Instead, Vic’s face was unreadable, his posture uncharacteristically stiff. The shift unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Isaac turned on his heel, his voice clipped and firm. “Follow me.”

He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge you standing there. He simply started walking, his movements precise, controlled. Vic followed without a word, his usual swagger muted into something far more restrained.

And then, the stranger stepped into view.

Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug, the smooth ceramic pressing into your palm as you finally caught sight of them. At first glance, there was nothing wrong—no visible injuries, no blood, no unnatural distortions in their features. They were composed, their clothing neat, their expression neutral. But the moment your eyes landed on them, something in your gut twisted.

There was something about them that didn’t feel right.

The way they moved was deliberate, calculated, like each step had been measured before their foot even touched the floor. Their presence carried an eerie stillness, the kind that made the air in the room feel heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen force. It was as if they weren’t just walking through the space—they were observing it, memorizing every detail with quiet intent.

Then, just as they were about to disappear up the stairs, they turned.

The movement was smooth, almost too smooth, as if they had expected you to be looking. Their gaze met yours, unwavering, unreadable.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, they raised a hand.

Their fingers shifted into a precise motion—something small, quick. A gesture.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t a greeting. It was something else entirely.

The shape of it tickled the back of your mind, familiar in a way you couldn’t place. A wordless message, a symbol that meant something, though you had no idea what.

Before you could react, before you could even process the unease clawing at your chest, they turned away and vanished up the stairs, swallowed by the dim light of the hallway.

You remained frozen in place, the mug still clutched tightly in your hands, the coffee inside long forgotten. The storm outside had passed, but the weight in the air hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

──

You nearly stumble as you ascend the stairs, the weight of the tray in your hands forcing you to move carefully. Three glasses of whiskey—over ice—rest in a neat row, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the hallway light. A fourth glass, filled with nothing but water, sits beside them. An afterthought, a precaution. You didn’t know this stranger—not their name, not their demeanor, and, worst of all, not their reason for being here.

At the door to Isaac’s study, you hesitate.

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You lived here. You had every right to walk in without a second thought. And yet, a strange discomfort settled in your chest, making you second-guess every movement. The tray balances precariously in one hand as you lift the other to knock.

But before your knuckles can even brush against the wood, the door swings open.

The stranger stands on the other side.

You freeze.

They say nothing, offering no explanation for how they knew you were there, no indication that they’d even heard you approach. Their face remains unreadable, their posture unnervingly still. The only movement comes when their hands reach out, steadying the tray in your grasp before you can fumble it. Their fingers brush against yours—cold, unnaturally so. A sharp contrast to the warmth of the whiskey glasses.

You swallow down the instinctual shiver that tries to crawl up your spine, forcing yourself to nod. “Thank you.” The words feel oddly formal, but it’s all you can manage.

The stranger steps aside, allowing you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you.

The study feels heavier than usual, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Shadows cling to the corners of the room, deepened by the storm-gray light filtering in from the windows. Isaac and Vic sit across from each other in their usual chairs, but something is different. Vic, who usually lounges with an air of careless amusement, sits upright, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling. Isaac, sharp-eyed as ever, watches you place the tray on the low table between them, his gaze lingering for a beat too long.

You shift, unsure of where to position yourself. The stranger moves past you with effortless grace, their presence ghostly as they lower themselves onto the floor—at the foot of Vic’s legs.

That makes you tense.

Your eyes flick to Isaac instinctively, searching for any reaction, any sign of what this means. But his face gives nothing away.

Instead of sitting, you take a step back, resting your hand lightly on the back of Isaac’s chair, hovering near him rather than claiming a space of your own. It feels safer this way, though you avoid looking at anyone directly, focusing instead on the dark wood of the floorboards beneath you.

Vic exhales softly, reaching for one of the whiskey glasses. He lifts it, taking a slow sip before speaking.

"Asriel was busy with… someone. I'd doubt he had time to overhear the matter.”

He swirls the glass idly, watching the ice shift within it. Then, without ceremony, he delivers the next sentence like a casual observation.

"One of his men was found massacred," Isaac says, his voice even, unwavering. There is no hesitation, no trace of surprise—just cold acknowledgment. Because it isn’t a stretch. Not at all.

A silence follows, thick and oppressive. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in inch by inch. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner fills the space between breaths, between the slow rise and fall of Isaac’s chest, between the tightening of Vic’s jaw.

Vic exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. His grip is so firm that for a moment, you wonder if the glass might crack. He doesn’t sip this time. Doesn’t even glance at Isaac. Instead, his gaze flickers—once, briefly—to the figure at his feet.

"Details?" His voice is rougher now, edged with something unreadable.

Isaac shifts, his hand moving toward the stack of documents on the desk. He flips open a folder with careful precision, his fingers gliding over the pages as if the weight of their contents doesn’t bear down on him. But you know better. You see it in the slight press of his lips, in the way his shoulders hold just a fraction more tension than usual.

"Blunt force trauma to the skull," Isaac begins, reading from the report. "Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four fingernails removed. And—" he pauses, only for a second, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine, "the heart was missing."

Vic finally looks at him then, eyes narrowing. The stranger at his feet shifts, their movements fluid but slow, calculated. You still don’t know their name, but you can feel their gaze—measuring, dissecting.

"Let me see the autopsy," Vic says, his tone even but edged with something unreadable.

Isaac doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he turns his gaze to you, saying your name in a way that is both soft and firm, a gentle order. You hesitate only for a moment before moving toward his desk, your fingers grazing the smooth wood as you retrieve the folder. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, the pages thick with something far more sinister than mere ink.

As you walk back to the seating area, you keep your grip firm, careful not to crease the edges. You extend the folder toward Vic, but just as the exchange is about to be made, something cold brushes against your leg.

You freeze.

The touch is fleeting, barely there, but it sends a sharp jolt through you. It isn’t the hesitant brush of fabric or an accidental shift in movement. No, this was deliberate. Calculated.

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain composed. The reaction is subtle—just the briefest hesitation in your step, the smallest intake of breath—but even that feels too much. You glance downward, though not enough to be obvious, catching only the faintest movement from the stranger seated at Vic’s feet.

They’ve already withdrawn their hand, their expression unreadable.

Did they mean to do that?

The question lingers, unwanted and intrusive, yet it burrows into your mind like a splinter. The stranger doesn’t look at you again. Their attention remains fixed elsewhere, their posture relaxed but too controlled, too aware.

If Vic or Isaac noticed, they don’t show it.

Vic takes the folder from your hands, flipping it open with an exhale. His eyes scan the contents, his fingers pressing firmly against the edges of the paper. His jaw tightens as he takes in the details, his expression darkening.

Isaac watches him, but his gaze flickers—just once—toward you.

He saw.

You’re sure of it.

But he says nothing.

You watch in near silence, your breath barely escaping your chest as Vic pours over the autopsy photos, his eyes scanning each gruesome detail. But it’s not just the disturbing images that keep your attention—it’s the figure at his feet, sitting still, too still. They haven’t shifted once since entering the room, their presence as unsettling as the storm now dying outside. The figure remains unnervingly calm, their posture too perfect, their face unreadable.

The figure shifts ever so slightly. A soft tug at Vic’s leg—almost imperceptible—yet, you feel it. Something about it feels like a signal, an invitation to a conversation no one else can hear. They raise their hand, falter, then let it drop like a feather, their movement too deliberate, too careful. There’s a strange kind of precision to them, like everything they do has meaning, like there is a language in their stillness.

Then, they lean in, their face close to Vic’s ear, their lips brushing against his skin. The whisper is low, almost inaudible, but Vic’s brows furrow deeply, his eyes narrowing as he tilts his head towards the photos again. A flicker of tension crosses his face—something in what they said has shifted his focus.

"Who gave you the case?" Vic asks suddenly, his voice low but cutting through the still air like a blade. His eyes don't leave the photos as he speaks, but you feel the question settle in the room like a heavy stone.

Isaac answers without missing a beat, his voice taut, betraying no emotion. "It was an anonymous sender."

Vic’s attention snaps away from the pictures, and he turns to face the figure at his side. His gaze is unwavering, and you can almost hear the unspoken questions between them. “They say it’s a setup,” Vic murmurs, his voice growing darker, more dangerous. He leans forward, studying the photos with a renewed intensity. “The man had at least been dead for three days.”

The words feel like they’re sinking into the air, thickening it with their weight. The implications of them gnaw at you—this wasn’t just a crime scene, wasn’t just a murder. It’s something far more calculated, far more deliberate. The body had been left to be found, yes, but who left it? And why?

Three days. The man had been dead for three days.

The words hang in the room like a bitter taste, and you feel it—the invisible thread of tension that grows tighter with every second. Whoever killed this man didn’t simply leave him to die. They made sure the body was found. Made sure it would be discovered. The meticulousness of it. The planning.

Vic doesn’t speak right away, his mind racing over the new information. He looks back down at the photos, then to the figure beside him, and you notice—just for a split second—the slightest shift in their expression. A flicker of something. Recognition? Concern? It’s too fleeting for you to place, but it’s there, undeniable. And it sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, the figure does something even more unsettling. They lean forward again, their voice a whisper you can’t hear, their words meant only for Vic. You can’t help but strain to catch even a fragment, but nothing. The air feels thick with secrets, suffocating in its quiet.

The room is charged now—silent, expectant, the weight of unanswered questions hanging over all of you. This isn’t just a murder. There’s more beneath the surface, and everyone in this room knows it. The mystery deepens, curling tighter around your throat with every word, every glance exchanged. But it’s the figure—who they are, what they know—that makes your skin crawl the most. They aren’t just here as a passive observer. They’re part of the puzzle, and somehow, you feel they’re the key to unlocking whatever darkness is lurking just out of sight.

But what are they hiding? What is Vic really seeing in those photos? What secrets is he keeping, and how much of it does this figure truly understand? The unsettling quiet that fills the space between them makes your pulse quicken.

Vic stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor with a sharp noise that cuts through the tension hanging in the air. He places the folder back on the table, closing it with a deliberate finality, the sound of the paper pressing together sending an unsettling ripple through the room. The figure rises almost simultaneously, their movements fluid, too coordinated, as if they were anticipating every step of Vic's. Their gaze shifts toward Isaac for a brief moment before they silently follow him towards the door.

"Mail me a copy of the documents," Vic's voice is low, the words measured, deliberate. "I’ll make sure it gets to Asriel as soon as possible." His eyes flicker back to the folder, scanning it one last time, his expression unreadable. The weight of the moment seems to settle around him, and his voice drops even further, carrying a subtle but ominous weight. "As for now, don't directly pursue the case. Keep gathering details. I'll see what I can find on my own. Keep me updated."

Isaac nods sharply, his posture stiff, betraying no emotion as he acknowledges Vic's instructions. His eyes flicker briefly to the figure, who stands unmoving, almost too still, a presence that seems to demand attention even without a word. There’s something about the way they stand there, almost as if waiting for something—waiting for you to react, to move, to understand.

Isaac strides toward Vic, his footsteps heavy and firm, the sense of finality in his actions palpable. The silence that follows his departure towards the door is thick, suffocating. It feels like the entire world is holding its breath.

Vic turns his back to you for a moment, heading toward the door. You can’t help but watch the figure as they stand by the doorframe, not moving, not speaking. The air around them seems to hum with an unnerving energy, something sharp and unfamiliar, like the stillness before a storm. You feel as though there is more to them, more lurking just beneath the surface of their unsettling calm.

As Isaac opens the door, a part of you wishes you could stay in this room, away from whatever lurks beyond it. But Vic doesn’t look back, the figure, though, does. Their gaze lands on you briefly, their eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver crawling down your spine. For a split second, you wonder if they know something you don’t. If they’ve been watching you, all this time, gathering pieces of a puzzle you can’t quite see.

Then, without a word, the figure raises their hand, moving in the same deliberate way they had earlier when they first arrived. The gesture is eerily familiar, as though it holds a hidden meaning, a language you can’t decode. Their fingers twitch and hover in mid-air, an almost imperceptible motion before they drop their hand quickly. Their eyes flicker one more time toward you before they turn and slip through the door behind Vic.

The door shuts softly behind them, and you are left standing in the study, the weight of their departure settling heavily in the pit of your stomach. For a moment, you simply stand there, uncertain, lost in the echo of silence that now hangs in the room.

The storm outside has cleared, but the air inside feels colder than ever.

You are alone now.

But it doesn’t feel like you’ve been left with peace. Something is off. Something is wrong. The case—the body, the figure, the whispered conversations—all of it has the sharp, jagged edge of a trap, waiting to close in around you. And in the back of your mind, you hear it. The question that refuses to fade: What are they really after?

The quiet stretches out before you, as you stare at the closed door, unsure of what to do next. But you know this much—whatever is coming, it’s far from over. And the next step could be the one that unravels everything.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep running from the truth.

──

author's note: i apologize for the spam posting, i've just found my love and motivation for writing again!

tag list :

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[god-of-this-new-blog]

What if the two worst guys in the whole world were madly in love with each other?

[rafescvntyclubgf]

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖: 𝕌𝕟𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕

𝙳𝙸𝙻𝙵!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: age gap, swearing, older!rafe, drinking, reader is a senior in college, choking, unprotected p in v, kissing, handjob, cum play, spit kink, bathtub sex, changing positions, soft!rafe

📖 based on an ask from @starkeysprincess : ooo ok ok for kinkmas what about college!reader who babysits single dilf!rafe’s kids & she’s stressed cause of finals coming up (totally not self indulgent hehe) and he helps her destress 🩷

Masterlist

Reader’s POV:

You sit cross-legged on Rafe’s plush leather couch: textbooks, sticky notes, pens, and crumpled flashcards littered on the marble coffee table. You blink fast, widening your eyes the next moment, trying to stay awake and on task, willing your eyes to stay open.

Your eyes flicker to the baby monitor, watching Mr. Cameron’s daughter, Winnie, fast asleep. The camera pans over to the next bed, Rory doing the same. Throwing your head back, you breathe deeply, soaking in that little win. At least I have the kids under control.

The week before winter break was always brutal, but this semester felt next to impossible between tests and papers. Five finals in three days…

You tear your planner out of your backpack, jotting down a new study schedule, feeling the pen tremble in your hand—watching the ink scribble and stray from the regular pattern.

I haven’t slept well in days… My stomach has been in knots, my muscles aching, and my head pounding. This week can’t end soon enough.

Shit. Your phone glows with a new notification, but the time catches your eye. Midnight… I still have a couple of hours left, at least. You pull your laptop, open the essay that you have been working on, and check the page count. “Fifteen pages… Twenty-page minimum… What the hell,” you whisper, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

A lump forms in the back of your throat. You swallow hard, refusing to let the tears burning in your eyes spill over. It’s just school. It’s only school… Don’t break down. Not here… Not in his house.

The front door clicks open, jarring you from your thoughts. Your body freezes, fingers quickly lifting to your waterline to clear any tears that dare break. Rafe Cameron… Kook King and Kildare royalty. The man who somehow manages to be intimidating, yet incredibly charming. He’s devastatingly handsome… Fuck, he’s so hot.

Your pulse quickens as you hear his designer loafers shuffle down the hall, echoing through the foyer. Mr. Cameron darkens the doorway a moment later, loosening his tie with one hand and checking his phone with the other.

His toffee-colored hair is tousled— not as sleek as when he left. His large biceps are hugged with a crisp white button-down shirt; suit pants snug enough to show you just how fit he is. “Y/n,” he greets you warmly, lighting up at the sight of you. “How were they?”

"They were great," you manage to say, voice wavering slightly with nerves. “Uhh-Umm… They fell asleep right on time. Rory’s jammies are on backward. He said, ‘The buttons push on his tummy.’ I tried, I swear,” you laugh lightly.

“I know you did,” he smiles as he nods and scratches his five o’clock shadow. His gaze lingers a little longer than usual. “What about you? Are you okay? You look…" he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “… a little stressed. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way. You look beautiful, just stressed.”

Your cheeks warm up at his compliment and his attention; Rafe’s focus never falters. Yours does as your heart flips, your gaze taking refuge in the mess before you to ease the tension, embarrassment quickly filling its place. “Just finals,” you say with a weak laugh. “Five exams in three days. I still have to drive back to campus. I need a shower… And, I have to study… a lot, a lot.”

Rafe’s eyebrows pinch together—his muscular arms cross over his strong chest, the man leaning casually into the doorframe. “You goin’ all the way back to campus?”

You bite your lip and nod. “Yeah, I’ll be alright… I babysit for the Thorntons on a date night and always drive back super late…”

He shrugs his shoulders, looking back at you. "You don't have to," he responds. "Drive back, that is. You can stay here if you’d like if you’re more of a morning person. You can stay in one of the guest bedrooms, watch TV, study, and shower. Or, you can just sleep… Fuck, you look like you’ve been workin’ way, way too hard.”

Your lashes flutter at his offer. Stay the night? Here? You replay to his sweet words again. This place was luxurious… Rivaling any resort on Figure Eight—but this was Rafe Cameron’s house.

“I don’t want to impose,” you babble, catching him waiting for your answer.

”You wouldn’t be,” he tilts his head slightly as a smile plays on his pretty lips. “Seriously, I insist.”

Your shoulders unwind, the stress you were feeling lifting slightly just knowing that you could spend that extra time studying instead of driving; you could spend the night in a cozy bed instead of your cramped apartment. "I really appreciate it, Mr. Cameron,” you breathe.

“Please… Call me Rafe,” he encourages as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, heading toward the sink. ”Go on,” he drawls. “S’gettin’ late. There are two rooms at the end of the hall. You can pick whichever one you’d like.”

You gather your things and head upstairs, your heart still racing. Reaching the end of the hall, you look both ways; each room equally stunning. You glance back at the first option, catching a glimpse of a large bathtub in the mirror.

Shutting the door, you discard your belongings on the bed and quickly undress. You stroll over to the tub, running a bath, adding a heavy spoon of lavender-scented bath salts. As soon as it hits the water, the smell swirls with the steam, wafting around you. You sink into the bubbles, letting out a sigh of pure bliss.

Your body relaxes for the first time in days, melting into the tub.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

”Y/n?” Rafe calls for you from behind the door, his voice husky and deep. “Do you need anything to eat? I should have asked earlier. I apologize.”

Your heart pounds in your chest just knowing he’s outside the door. “I’m fine. Thank you,” you respond sweetly, tucking your lip between your teeth, a part of you wishing you would have said ‘yes’ so he would’ve come back.

”A drink?” He asks. “Wine?”

Your cheeks burn from your giddy smile at the offer. “Wine sounds great. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, there’s another knock. Rafe cracks open the door, his large hand wrapped around the glass, setting it gently on the marble counter, his handsome face still hidden behind the door.

“You can come in,” you call. The door moves fast, then slow, creaking open. Rafe steps inside with a bottle of red wine in hand. Maybe he was hoping for this all along? Perhaps he was just going to set it down on the nightstand?

Rafe walks over, his steps smooth and deliberate, resting the glass in your hand. You lift it to your lips, smiling before sipping, relishing the taste for a moment before letting out a dreamy ‘thank you.’

“You work too hard,” he says softly as he walks away, leaning back into the counter. He looks back at you; genuine concern painted all over his face as well as a glow of admiration.

Your lips draw to the side, nodding in reply, but your mind is clouded with Rafe’s praise so that you can think of a reply.

“Feels good?” He asks, and you nod, your wide, doll-like eyes drawn to the devastatingly handsome man. “You like that?” He asks as he steps closer, gesturing to the bath.

“Yeah,” you smile as you look up at him.

“You can stay over anytime you’d like, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you tilt toward him. “I’d like that.”

Rafe leans down, lowering himself eye-level with you, his beautiful blue eyes dancing at the waterline, your gorgeous breasts half-hidden under the suds. “You should take more breaks, princess. “It’d be good for you-” Acting before your mind, you grab his shirt and tie, tugging him closer, his lips finding yours for a deep kiss. Your heart races as he deepens the exchange, pulling you closer, causing the water to slosh out of the tub onto his white shirt.

You gasp in surprise, looking down at his muscular body, the white linen clinging to his skin. You race for his buttons; and Rafe for his tie between messy kisses and panting breaths. Your eyes widen as he takes off more and more clothes, tossing them messily to the floor; the air charged between the two of you sparks flying when your lips meet again.

”This okay, princess?” He pants hungrily between kisses.

“Yeah,” you mumble, sucking on his tongue before swirling yours.

“What do you need from me, baby? Tell me what you need.”

“You… Just you, Rafe,” you whimper, feeling as he smiles against your lips. Your fingers stroke the underside of his thick cock, making him moan into his mouth; his breaths choppy as you wrap your fingers around him, rubbing with the cadence of your kiss. Your fingertips ghost over his swollen tip, making him seethe through his teeth before biting your lip.

“M’gonna make you feel good, sweetheart. Yeah? I’m gonna help you relax. But you need to tell me what you want from me” he groans as your other hand cups his balls, rolling slowly.

His abs muscles flex as you toy with his cock, the older man bucking into your hand as he bites his lip. Your eyes widen at the sight of him—finding yourself at a complete loss for words seeing him like this.

Rafe’s fingers tighten on the tub's edge, knuckles turning white. The blood in his cock starts to pump harder as he moves closer and closer to his climax.

The blues of his eyes start to fall, lids growing heavy as his breathing grows deeper. “Let me see your face, pretty,” Rafe pants, cupping your chin with one hand, fisting his dick with the next. You open your mouth, not sure where he wants it, body buzzing from the low rumbles of his moans and praise. “Fuck,” the word falls from his lips as you feel his warm cum land in ropes on your cheeks, lips, and tongue. “Look at you… Shit,” he groans.

Rafe doesn’t loosen his hold, moving closer instead, gliding his warm tongue along your skin, cleaning up your face, keeping your lips popped open with his grasp, but you wouldn’t dare close it. He spits in your mouth; his climax landing on your tongue. “Swallow it, baby,” he whispers against your lips, gentle yet commanding, sending chills down your spine.

Before you can’t think, Rafe moves you through the water, resting you on his lap to face him, chest to chest. Your hands rest on his broad body, the two of you breathing rapidly together. Rafe reaches for you, wrapping his big arms around your waist—lips latching onto the sensitive spot on your neck.

“Fuck me, Rafe…” Those are the only three words he needed to hear, pulling you exactly where he wants you again. You hold your breath, swathing your arms around his neck, nails clawing into his massive shoulders as you bury yourself in his neck, whimpering as you take every inch.

“Just like that… Just like that, princess,” Rafe huffs, tossing his heavy head back at the feeling of you. You rest your hand on your stomach, feeling him deep. “And look at you takin’ it all, baby,” he drawls as he takes his turn nestling himself in you, taking a hold of your hips to urge you to rock against him.

Water starts to move around you, crashing against the back of the bath; rolling over the edge. "That's a good girl,” he moans as you tighten your walls around him, moving at a slightly quicker pace.

Rafe raises his hand, wrapping his ringed fingers around your throat, squeezing before pulling you to his lips. The two of you start moving with each other as the pressure builds inside, just seconds away from coming undone in each other's arms.

”Bounce for me,” he mumbles as his gaze falls just like before, eyes stealing glances as your plush tits move, soaked in soapy water.

Rafe hands sneak up your back, cupping the tops of your shoulders, shifting himself on top. You cry out in pleasure, voice bouncing off the walls of the bathroom as he fucks his dick deep.

”Cum for me,” he whispers, and you do. Your perfect pussy fluttering around his throbbing dick as he empties himself deep, filling your cunt with his cum. Your body becomes one with the water and him, lips mirroring his as you come down from your highs together.

“Two more nights, princess…” He pants between passionate kisses. “You’re comin’ back here tomorrow night… N’we’re doing this again. Promise me… I just want to take care of you…”

You smile against his lips, living in the afterglow of your pleasure. “I promise.”

[compatiissante]

the mug she had when working with torchwood <3

Leave an object in my ask and my muse will react to it being given to them.

it brings a small smile to her face, however brief it may have lasted. she hasn't seen or used that mug in ages, having misplaced it in the midst of all the . . . chaos of everything. but it holds a special place in her hearts and memories, because it was one that she'd gotten from jack.

seeing it now . . . she holds it close to her chest, her features softening with all her emotion.

[maiamore]

MILE HIGH CLUB

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 3.3k

Summary: Joel has to fly out of state for the first time in his life and his nerves are frayed. Luckily, he finds a good distraction. You.

Tags: m!receiving oral, deep throating, public indecency, mention of drug use, blowjob on a plane basically, alcohol consumption, nervous old man joel 

A/N: maybe i’m just into exhibitionism atp  MASTERLIST

Like every other man, Joel Miller had his kryptonite. 

It wasn’t the idea of never finding someone to settle with, despite countless attempts—he had his fair share of awkward dates and mind-fucking-numbingly repetitive conversations about what his favourite colour was. 

And sure, it could have been having to deal with empty nest syndrome after Sarah moved out of state for college. The loneliness came as a cold wash, but he kept busy enough to avoid spiraling down the rabbit hole of a quiet home. Babysitting for Tommy or tending to work troubles was a rickety solution at best. 

But no, that wasn’t enough to rattle the man. 

It was the very fact that he was hours away from having to sit in a “flying death machine” as he eloquently phrased it, just so he could visit his daughter. 

Joel had successfully gone forty one years of his life dodging air travel. The thought of sitting in a metal contraption, being flung through the skies made his stomach churn. He couldn’t care less about how safe it chalked up to be. A car? He could control. Walking? Reliable. 

A plane? Definitely not. A paper airplane for grown-ups, that’s all it was. 

The glaring fluorescent lights, nauseating sound of suitcases and tearful goodbyes wasn’t doing him any favours. Least of all the sleaze bag at the counter, who hadn’t even spared more than a couple seconds. Being seven hours early was overkill, but he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Can’t let ya in yet. Come back in a few hours.”

A litany of curses left unsaid under his breath about “dumb rules” and “what’s the point of gettin’ here early if yer just gonna make me wait?” 

He shuffles out of the line with the creaky luggage he had with him, finding himself a seat by the waiting lounge next to a girl reading from those gizmos he’d seen Sarah use last Thanksgiving. A scowl crept up his face.

Did they have to invent some gadget for reading, too? Wasn’t that free?

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small black leather bound book. It was worn, the edges were scuffed and the pages slightly dog-eared—a testament to its’ use.

Licking the pad of his thumb, he flips through the pages. There in black ink, lay a list of instructions he prepared prior to coming here. Misspellings here and there—chicken scratch, really. 

1) checkin n’ give bags to airport 

“Already screwed that one up,” he mutters out loud, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the growing aches. 

2) go to gate no. on tikket

Joel peels out the airline pass tucked into his passport and squints at the printed words. “Christ.” He clicks his pen and painstakingly copies the details into his notebook in block letters big enough to read from across the room. “Tiny ass fuckin’...printin’...”

“Don’t travel much?”

Your voice breaks through the haze of uncertainty that had been plaguing him. Joel doesn’t offer more than a quick glance at first, his grip tightening slightly around the pen in his hand.

When he does look at you. You’d made him do a double take. 

Despite the sorry state of his dating life–or maybe because of it–Joel wasn’t immune to the kind of attention a pretty thing like you could command. Even if it was just your attempt to be polite. His gaze then falls in disdain to your kindle laying abandoned in your lap.

“Not really, darlin’,” he says, his voice low and rough, with just enough warmth to take the edge off his typical gruffness.

Joel wasn’t big on small-talk, so when silence settled between you both, he didn’t feel the need to fill it. He wasn’t entirely sure why your presence had eased his nerves, even just a fraction, but it had.

And then you spoke up again, your tone uncertain but laced with quiet hope.

“There’s a lounge in the back with a bar,” you begin, tipping your head towards it. “Might be more your speed.”

Joel follows the motion with his eyes, then huffs a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Man after my own heart,” he tucks his notebook back into his pocket.

Maybe it wasn’t all too bad that your dad dropped you off at the airport hours too early.

When you’d first seen Joel, you’d nearly dropped your kindle. The heavy thud of his boots on the polished floor caught your attention. You slowly pulled your gaze upward–from the worn blue jeans to the faded grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide his strong forearms. His dark brown curls looked like they’d been through more than their fair share of rough mornings, but god did you want to run your fingers through them.

And then there was his scruffy beard–uneven in an endearing way that somehow made him even more pleasing to the eyes. You blinked, forcing yourself to look back at your screen, but the words blurred into nothingness. The way he sat stiffly on the chairs he made seem so small, down to what seemed to be a checklist for his flight.

“I’m pretty sure more people have died on construction sites than flights, Joel.” 

Joel. 

Introductions came easy the second the whiskey infiltrated his system, and damn if he didn’t he love the way his name rolled off your tongue. 

He drags a palm down his jaw, a dry scoff slipping past his lips. “This your idea of makin’ me feel better ’bout all this?” he counters, half-regretting that he’d let slip what he did for a living. 

You weren’t wrong, of course–he’d faced far more dangerous situations on the ground than he’d ever likely encounter in the air.

Still, it didn’t help.

“I ain’t sayin’ m’gonna piss my goddamn pants,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Just makes me feel queasy, s’all.”

Joel sighs into the crystal glass, thumb idly tracing the rim as if the whiskey might’ve given him some courage. When he glanced your way again, you were watching him with that look–the one that made him feel exposed and oddly at ease all at once.

He shot you a faint glare, more bark than bite, and nodded toward your drink.

“Drink your goddamn kiddy juice,” he grumbled.

Your lips curled up into a slight scowl, cupping your glass of bellini defensively. Despite your show of annoyance, you did feel a tinge of empathy for him. For crying out loud, he was hunched over the goddamn bar seat, looking at his empty glass like a kicked puppy like he was about to go for a vasectomy or something.

Gesturing towards the bartender for a refill of his glass, you dragged your bar stool closer to him.

“Look. If you’re up for it. I’ve got a little pick-me-up I take to settle my nerves before a long flight,” you said, fishing a small pill container from your bag. “Works like a charm.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued despite his better judgement. But the second you popped open the lid, his reaction was instant.

“Hard pass.”

“You don’t even know what it–”

“I ain’t about to get drugged up,” he cut in, folding his arms. Your eyes shamelessly trace over the way the sleeves tightened around his biceps. “And besides, I hardly know ya.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line and without missing a beat, you tipped one of the white pills into your palm and dry swallowed it like a pro. Joel’s brow furrowed deeper, his disapproval practically radiating off him. Though that notion had him adjust his jeans discreetly.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” you said with a shrug. Then realizing how that might’ve come across, you raised your hands in mock surrender. “Figuratively speaking! Not literally–”

“Gimmie that damn thing,” Joel huffed, snatching the container from you. He popped the pill into his mouth and chased it with a gulp of whiskey, muttering something under his breath about regrettin’ this already.

You leaned back in your seat, a sly grin tugging at your lips. “You didn’t even ask what it does.”

Joel fixed you with a hard glare, the kind that could silence most people. But you weren’t most people.

“It also gives you a raging erecti–”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s warning tone cut you off, his glare piercing.

You couldn’t help it–you laughed anyway, the sound earning a reluctant lop-sided smirk from him as he shook his head.

In all his years of living, Joel never thought he’d succumb to relying on drugs.

The idea was irresponsible at best. He’d pride himself on staying clear-headed, the occasional joint in his teenage years being the closest he’d come to experimentation. But that was a lifetime ago, a glimpse of a boy who didn’t have responsibilities or a family to think about. His body was a temple now, for at least a semi-respectable contractor.

Yet here he was, in the fluorescent purgatory of a transit hall, deciding that a four hour stint in a “metal coffin” justified drastic measures.

Your vague explanation on what that little white pill of yours was didn’t help either. You both agreed you were in this together now. He had to admit that it was ironic where life took him. Misery loved company, and you, his current “drug buddy,” were far easier on the eyes than his high school crowd had ever been.

And, well, it worked.

Joel could feel the change, his mind easing from the coiled tension it had been gripping since he set foot in the airport. His inhibitions, usually locked tighter than the pentagon, were suddenly looser. Not reckless, but freer.

If you’d thought Joel wasn’t the clingy type before, that illusion was thoroughly shattered now. He shadowed your every move, from hauling your luggage onto the conveyor belt without you even asking to tapping his card at the terminal before you could pay for yourself.

And then…there were his hands.

At first, they lingered tentatively–a brush of his palm at the small of your back, a quick touch to your arm as he gestured to something in the duty-free window. Testing boundaries. Waiting for a sign.

When you looped your arm through his without hesitation, Joel took it as his green light.

After that point on, his touches became a constant presence. Steady, warm & grounding. A hand resting lightly on your hip as you wandered through the departure hall, fingers curling against your wrist as he guided you through the crowds of travellers.

Joel fully blamed the pill for his current lapse of judgment. 

He spit into his palms, smearing the wetness onto the length of his cock. His other hand gripped firmly onto the granite counter. The dull slaps of him fucking his fist filled the small space. Along with his strained grunts. 

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Trying damned hard to focus—he thinks of you. How your body felt under the weight of his hands. The way you’d wet your lips before giving your own witty remark to his rants about shit he found ridiculous about Delta. 

And he jolts, instinctively tightening his grip around his cock when the announcement rings in the speaker above—some bullshit safety reminder. 

“Shit—…shit shit.” He mutters. Willing himself to come so he’d put himself out of his self made torture. 

Joel was rock fucking hard the second he seated himself by the back of the plane. Thoughts of the way you’d smiled up at him & rubbing his arm before heading to your seat up front was enough ammo for him to daydream about you for the next hour. 

He did think you were joking earlier. But this could very well be the side effect of whatever you’d given him. 

Nevertheless, it was pointless. The sterile bathroom was doing nothing but turning him off. 

With an annoyed sigh. He’d shucked his half limp cock back into his jeans. Thoroughly scrubbing his hands clean before he heads back to his seat.

He stops short, brows quirked at the intruder. 

“Howdy. How ya holding up.”

You grinned. Lowering the latest issue of Baseball Digest that Joel was occupied with from where it covered your face. 

“I’m—…what are you…doin’ back here.” He manages. Cursing himself for sounding way off. 

“Flight‘s pretty empty, so…Donna did me a solid.” 

Joel briefly glances up at the flight attendant that you did a little finger wave to before looking back, nudging his head to the vacant seat next to you. “Scoot over.” 

“Jesus. Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Yeah. I was. And I tried to jerk off to you too, not that it worked out. 

“So that I can be tormented for the next three hours?”

You frowned at his words. Flipping through the magazine loudly. “Someone’s panties are in a bunch.”

He exhales as he sinks into his rightful seat. Thankfully, the shock of seeing your face again did a number to deflate Junior Miller. 

The combination of turbulence and drinking two glasses of whiskey earlier was a nasty concoction. He thumbs eases the crease between his brows before finally deciding to speak, ignoring your earlier  comment. 

“Bout’ the side effect you mentioned…”

That causes you to tip your head towards him. You were silent, briefly. 

“What about it?”

“…How long does it…last.”

You looked to the side. “Just for a bit.” Though you sounded unsure of yourself. “Why?”

“Nothin’. Suppose I’m gettin’ one of those weird reactions to it.”

“Weird how.” You pressed. Though Joel looked less than pleased about your probing. “Don’t gotta explain it to ya. S’just weird, darlin’.” 

You get the memo regardless. 

“Well did you try to—“

“I did.”

“And you didn’t—“

“No.”

“You sure you were doing it correctly?”

Joel drags his hand down his face, letting out a muffled, yet pained scoff before he looks at you. He doesn’t speak yet for a couple of seconds. 

“Yes, sweetheart. I know how to fuckin’ jerk off.”

Your lips pressed into a taut line. His words stirred something deep in you, fuck if it didn’t make you want to do something stupid right now. 

“Obviously you don’t. Wouldn’t be sitting here all wound up if you had.”

Joel’s lips part to shoot something snarky your way. 

It’s quickly floored when he feels your fingertips trace past the sides of his thighs. 

You look at him. Offering him an opportunity to pull away. 

He adjusts his hips to shift lower. A firm tug on your wrist ground your palm directly onto the bulge of his jeans. 

A shaky exhale leaves his lips when you knead against his hard on. Tipping his head back onto the headrest. He lets out a soft grunt escaping his lips as you continued your ministrations. 

“Feels…real good.” He manages. Barely being able to look at you. 

Fuck. You were so warm and you smelled so good. He couldn’t remember the last time he had something that he wanted real bad.

“Told ya, not doing it right.” You leaned in close enough for your cheeks to rest against his bicep. Watching how his grip around your wrists began to falter. 

Joel’s breathing became a little more ragged as he started to become more and more pent up with each rub.

With a conspicuous sniffle, you dragged the zipper of his jeans down, earning a jolt from him. He whips his head to look at you as you maneuver his stiffened cock out of his boxers. 

Locking your gaze with his, you provide a calming kiss to the edge of his shoulder before you lower yourself. 

“Christ. Are you crazy?”

Joel lifts his gaze to scan the surroundings. Considering it was an evening flight, the dimmed overhead lighting provided a more intimate and gentle glow. 

The absence of attendants who were likely resting up front, and the emptiness of the last five rows does provide him assurance, even when it shouldn’t have. 

He lets out a hiss at a wet glob of saliva trickle down his shaft, stealing his focus once more. Followed by the softness of a smaller pair of hands pumping the wetness up and down. 

You feel a strong hand gather your hair up loosely, before the fingertips entangles firmly through to hold your head in place. 

He tugs you to meet his gaze momentarily. Eyeing your soft features being reflected with the amber mood lighting. 

“Can I?” 

You bit the insides of your cheeks. Realising what he’d meant. You nod slowly, kissing the tip of his weeping cock. 

“Tap me twice if it’s t’much.”

He mutters with a gentleness that had you rubbing your thighs together, the slick wetness growing in your cunt. 

You take him into his mouth fully this time. Feeling his hips jump up involuntarily. The tug on your head encourages you to continue. 

“Ah..fuck. Fuck.”

Joel grinds his jaw at a painful intensity. The warmth and wetness of your mouth hollowing around his cockhead was intoxicating. He had to physically control himself from thrusting into your mouth too quickly. 

The noises that rumbled from his throat spurs you on. You alternate between deep sucks through your hollowed mouth and stroking his cock. Though the hand holding your head became more of a weak hold than a guide.

You caught the hesitance in his actions. Treating you so damn gently as though you would break. It frustrated you, so you abruptly lowered yourself until you practically swallowed him whole. Nose grinding against the denim. 

It catches the both of you off guard. 

Joel, nearly lets out a fucking groan at the warmth of your throat convulse around his cock. And you, with your thumb digging into your fists to control your gag reflex. 

That was enough for Joel to snap. 

His grip around your hair goes taut. “Tap me.” He reminds, before he properly fucks his cock into your throat at an almost brutal pace. 

You choked for a couple of seconds, the warm tears pricking your eyes as you gripped tightly over his thigh—essentially using your mouth as his personal fleshlight. 

Letting out strained grunts as he quickened his pace, you taste the salty mixture of your tears and saliva. Joel doesn’t let himself go just yet, keeping the rational part of him awake in case you couldn’t take it, which in fairness—most women couldn’t. 

But you? You took it like a fuckin’ champ. 

You pulled away from his cock with a pop, letting a string of saliva follow as you dragged your lips down to his balls, giving one of them a sloppy suck as much as your mouth could fit before taking his cock into your throat. 

Joel shudders at the sensation, It doesn’t take long before his hips stutter, spurting his hot, thick come into your throat. 

He pulls you off him with a gentle tug, catching sight of your tear stricken face, lips pouty and reddened. 

Joel groans at how pretty you looked like this. 

He glances towards the bathroom behind them and back at the serenity of the moonlight illuminating inside the plane as he hastily tucks himself back in. 

With a firm hold, he hoists you up underneath your arms to guide you into the cramped stall with him. 

“You okay, honey?” He practically whispers. Thumb swiping the strands of your hair that stuck to your sweaty cheeks, tucking them behind your ears. 

“Y…eah.” You managed. Voice coming out raspy. His dark brown gaze held nothing but concern for you. 

A lazy smile graces your features. You stabilise yourself with Joel’s arms. He doesn’t hesitate as he leans in to lock his lips with yours. 

“We can go back. Or continue. Whatever you want.” The gentle curve of nose comes to rub against your cheeks, though you could tell by the twitch of his cock that he was far from done. 

You bit down on your lips. Hands travelling lower to let the sharp sound of Joel’s buckle give you the answer he needed. 

As you flip over to lean against the counter with your palms flat on the granite—your cheeks presses against your shoulder to gaze up at him through your lashes. 

“By the way…that pill I gave you? Just Vitamin C.”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 1

Or: a secret Admirer AU

Less than a month into the school year, and Steve’s already making use of the library. If Mrs. Click could see him now, she’d be proud–until she caught sight of the blank notebook page in front of him and the lack of textbooks on the table. 

He feels stupid; he’s hunched over his notebook, trying to make his thoughts transfer onto the page in any coherent form. But, he’s not like Eddie with his impassioned speeches and clever English papers.

Words flow through Eddie in fully-formed, concrete ideas. For Steve, it’s more of a drip. Each word has to be scaffolded onto the previous one with blood, sweat, and tears. Even then, it’s never quite right. Too abrupt, never what he was actually trying to say.

He’s just never been good with words.

By the time he gives up, there’s more crossed out than left written, so he gets a clean page of paper and transcribes it as best he can. He’s left with:

       Your hair is pretty. Do you use conditioner?

Steve tears it from his notebook and lays it flat atop his table in the library, smoothing out any crinkles in the page. It feels like the start to something, sure, but there’s more blank space on the page than words. By a lot.

He leans back over his work, adds a little wonky heart in his blue pen and signs the whole thing—

       ❤ your secret admirer

—the way all the girls who leave notes in his locker do. Their notes are usually on pretty paper, written in sparkly gel pen that smells like strawberries. The i’s are sometimes dotted with little hearts he’ll never admit to finding cute. And there’s envelopes involved, and usually more than eleven measly words.

His looks like something Eddie’ll toss out before opening, mistaking it for trash.

Steve grimaces. How do girls do this? Do they all take some sort of class on how to write pretty letters on pretty enough paper that boys will fall in love with them? Is that what they teach in Home Ec? He should have never let Tommy mock him into switching to shop class.

Should he ask a girl?

Under no conditions will he ever ask Carol. She’d have far too many uncomfortable questions and tell the whole school all of his embarrassing answers. He’d be run out of town within days, Carol holding the sharpest pitchfork.

Steve leans back in his chair with a groan too loud for the library and fists his hands to rub tired eyes.

“Are you okay?” Steve jerks, sending his pen and paper careening to the ground in his attempt to cover the compromising words upon the page. “Oh, sorry!”

Steve watches, horrified, as Chrissy Cunningham bends down to pick his supplies up off the carpet before he’s had time to scramble out of his chair. She’s in her cheer uniform, white zip-up Hawkins hoodie covering her arms. She looks perfect and preppy and just like all the girls who’ve ever left a note in his locker.

She’d be able to write something that Eddie would want to read.

“Steve?” Chrissy’s hovering over him, lips pursed, eyes big and worried. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, sorry,” he replies. She’s got his note clutched to her chest. He curls his fingers against the urge to reach out for it—that’ll just draw her attention, and that’s the last thing Steve wants right now. “Just got lost in my head.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He knows what she’s going to do before it happens. Chrissy’s sweet—if there’s a way to help, she’ll want to. So, she holds out the paper and begins to read, probably expecting an assignment she can tutor him on, and there they are: Steve’s damning words written in still-wet blue ink.

Her brow furrows as she takes an obscene amount of time mouthing out the words before she looks back up to meet his eyes. “Did someone give this to you?”

Her eyes are still big, but they look sad now, like just the thought of someone receiving the note he’d slaved over is enough to distress her. Unable to help himself, Steve snatches it from her hands and crumples it into a ball, damning words hidden in his fist.

Chrissy gasps at his abrupt movement and takes a halting step away.

“I wrote it,” he mutters, no longer able to meet her eyes.

She’s silent for long enough that he’d think she left, except the library’s quiet, and he hasn’t heard her take a step. He stares at the grains of the wood in the table, empty hand rubbing against the smudged top as he waits for her to do something.

“Are you…” she starts, trailing off for a moment before picking her thought back up, “…picking on someone?”

Steve clenches his fist tighter, note crinkling beyond repair beneath his nails as he mutters, “no.”

Chrissy’s quiet again. Steve doesn’t dare to look up, even as he hears the chair across from him pull out, the sound of her weight settling into the wood. The table’s just so interesting. Nothing has ever been as intriguing as the little chip out of its edge, the ring on the wood where someone had let their drink condensate against all the library’s rules.

“Who’s this for?” Chrissy’s voice is soft now, like he’s some sort of horse, prone to bolting when spooked. “Steve?”

Steve looks up. Her eyes aren’t sad anymore; they’re piercing.

He’s always liked Chrissy. She’s the nicest girl in the school, until someone does something she doesn’t like. Then, it’s all disappointed eyes, and pouty lips. It’s like disappointing his Mom, but worse, because his Mom’s never around to stare balefully at him.

The point is, Chrissy’s nice. She’s not like Carol. If he told her, there would be no lynch mob, or fleeing Hawkins in the dead of the night with nothing but the clothes on his back. Probably. Maybe.

Steve tries to smooth out the page, and scowls down at it when the wrinkles refuse to disappear. It’s even worse now, words made illegible by the deep creases his fingers have pressed into the paper. There’s no way Eddie’d ever want a note like this.

So, he says, “Munson,” looking up to try to watch his meaning land on her face.

It doesn’t. Her foreheads all scrunched up as she looks down at the note. Only then does Steve realize he’s caressing the wonky little heart. He pulls his hand back, curling his fingers in so she can’t see the smudge of blue on his pointer finger.

“And you aren’t making fun of him?”

Steve can feel his shoulders drooping. He wants to disappear into the floor, melt into the carpet and become one with all the other mysterious stains upon it. “No.”

“Oh,” Chrissy replies, drawn out and low as she peers down at the crinkled note with a confused frown. But something must click because she straightens, eyes wide beneath her bangs. “Oh!”

It’s loud enough that they both reflexively flinch. But, when no librarians come skulking around any corners, Chrissy turns back to him, gaze uncomfortably intent. Steve wonders, somewhat horrified by the turn his life has taken, if he’s about to get hate-crimed by a cheerleader half his size.

But Chrissy’s nice—always has been, always will be. So, she bites her lip and looks furtively around like she’s only just realized this is a conversation that shouldn’t have any witnesses. “But you like him?” she whispers.

Steve leans forward, matching her energy and pitch as he replies, “yeah,” quiet enough that it’s barely a breath. Chrissy smiles at him, warm and small, just like her hand as she reaches across the table to put it over his and squeeze comfortingly.

The note sits, damningly soiled beneath their linked hands, wrinkled, and smudged, and barely-legible handwriting. The weight that’d lifted with Chrissy’s smile sinks back into his gut.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Steve says, letting go of her hand so he can pull the note closer to himself. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

Steve crinkles the note back up. It’s unsalvageable—a stupid idea executed badly.

He’s in the middle of stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans to keep his keys company until he can toss it out in the comfort of his home when Chrissy says, “maybe I can help?” voice lilting up, like it’s a question.

Steve meets her eyes, hand still half-shoved in his pocket. She’s all earnest now, the way she usually is when there isn’t a sad boy infecting her with his own ineptitude. Eyes shining with conviction, bangs curling sweetly around her face. She’s no Carol, that’s for sure.

“How?” he asks, and when she smiles, it looks a bit like hope.

***

 “I can help you write a better letter,” Chrissy starts. He perks up like a dog the moment its owner gets home. “If you do something for me.”

She feels like scum when he curls back into himself, gaze forlorn.

When she’d caught sight of the note he’d spent what seemed like a full hour pouring over, this isn’t what she’d been expecting. And when she’d finally made out his chicken scratch scrawl, she’d been sure Steve was picking on someone, no matter how unlike him it would have been. But then his shoulders had curled in, and his ears had turned red, and his voice had gone all soft and squishy when he’d said Eddie Munson’s name.

And she’d just wanted to fix it.

So, even as he asks, “what?” all sad and droopy again, she knows she’s going to help him, no matter what he says.

“Date me,” she asserts. It’s only as Steve blinks stupidly at her that she realizes how that came out of her mouth. “No, wait, not really!”

Her hands are waving around wildly and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. In contrast, Steve seems to come back into himself, shoulders shoring up as he smirks across at her with his signature raised brow. The one he’d used while leaning on Nancy Wheeler’s locker last year, or holding her books as they walked to class, and all the other assortment of stereotypical boyfriend activities.

He’d worn it all the time, like it was part of the uniform. 

“I just meant, we could fake it?” His right eyebrow raises to meet his left, forehead scrunching up with his incredulity. “It’s just, Jason and I broke up? And he won’t leave me alone.”

It takes all her strength to keep meeting his eyes as the seconds tick away. But then Steve nods, swings his letterman jacket off, and tosses it across at her. Unprepared for his sudden movement, it hits her in the face and drops into her lap.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says with a cheesy wink that somehow manages to feel more genuine than any of his actual flirting techniques. “Gotta sell it somehow.”

“What a romantic,” she replies, deadpan, but she pulls his jacket on anyway, something that feels an awful lot like relief steadying her heart rate as she smooths down the too-long sleeves.

Jason’s going to freak out. But after that, maybe he’ll stop calling her house, and trying to put his arm around her at lunch, and trying to pick her up for school every morning. She’d do almost anything to get it into his thick skull that she’s not interested.

So, here she is, hashing out the details of a secret admirer letter from Steve Harrington to Eddie Munson, of all the unlikely pairings.

“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Steve whines, running his fingers through his hair until it’s all mussed up and falling into his face.

Chrissy snorts. “It sounds like you’re telling him his hair is frizzy and dry.”

“I said it was pretty!” He throws his hands in the air before crossing them and pouting his lower lip out.

Chrissy can’t help but laugh. She’s always liked Steve. He’s nicer than most of his friends, and he’s easy to talk to. But this is a side she’s never seen of him. She’s not sure anyone has; can’t imagine Carol or Tommy seeing him put his whole heart into something and not tearing it to shreds.

“Do you use conditioner?” she asks, throwing finger quotations around it as she reads it off the crumpled page.

Steve’s blushing again, cheeks all blotchy and red, rather unbecoming for the shoo-in for this year’s prom king. “Well, I thought you said you’d help!” he says, a little too loud for the library.

So, that’s how she ends up spending the next hour painfully turning Steve’s earnest thoughts into words on the pretty baby blue paper she’d carefully removed from the back of her daily planner.

In the end, they’re left with this:

       Eddie –

       I wish I could say this to your face, but I’ve never been good with words, and you’d probably think it was a joke.

       I can’t even get myself to talk to you, you’re so distracting.

       I like how pretty your hair is. How do you get your curls so shiny? I want to run my fingers through them.

       I hope this note brightens up your day. You deserve all the smiles you can get.

       Yours,

       Your Secret Admirer

It’s not what she would write, but still, it’s leagues better than what he’d started with. She slides it across to Steve, and he smiles down at it. He reaches his hand out, fingers almost brushing the page before he pulls his hand back, curling his fingers into a fist.

“What if someone sees me?” he asks, voice so quiet she can barely hear him even in the resounding silence of the library.

They’d managed not to talk about it, the dangers of Steve liking a boy. But it’d been present in the hesitancy by which he shared each of his thoughts, looking up at her like each remark would be the last straw before she recoils in disgust.

If someone finds out that Steve has a crush on a boy, it won’t take long until he’s getting beat up between classes or heckled straight out of school. Heck, even with all the rumors floating around about him, Eddie might be the one to throw the first punch.

“Do you want me to deliver it for you?” she asks.

“You’d do that?” he asks back, because apparently no one ever taught him not to answer a question with a question. “For me?”

“What else are fake girlfriends for?” she asks because they’re all questions now, no answers to be had between the pair of them.

Steve laughs, all tension leaving his shoulders as he throws his head back with amusement, eyes downright twinkling as he beams across at her.

“You’re the best, Chrissy,” Steve says, smiling even brighter as she replies, “I know.”

She leaves school that night after pushing Steve Harrington’s love note through the slats of Eddie’s locker, Steve’s letterman jacket keeping her warm from the cold.

This might be the best relationship she’s ever had, fake or not. Eat your heart out, Jason Carver.

PART 2

Welcome to my new AU! This will be posted in 21 parts. It is complete, so there will be a new update each morning until it's all posted. I've elected not to do a tag list, but it will be added to my pinned post each day as well. If that's not your speed, it will be added to Ao3 once it's all been posted here.

Special shoutout to @queenie-ofthe-void for not only their usual fabulous beta work, but also both the original idea and the writing of some of the secret admirer letters. You not only make me a better writer, but this work literally would not exist without you. <3<3

Title of the fic from the song Eyes in the Sun by Florist

[covenofagatha]

Saw you're taking requests and decided to toss one your way!

Agatha x reader, reader has had a really tough day and Agatha helps put her into subspace to relax. Some soft!dom Agatha with a splash of praise, degradation, mommy and maybe some size kink? And of course some fluffy aftercare after reader has been thoroughly fucked out of her mind❤

Hope you enjoy! (Disclaimer: I've never written subspace before so hopefully I did it justice, along with everything else you wanted)

Bad day

When Agatha comes home to find that you had a bad day, she takes it upon herself to make you feel better

Word count: 2600

Warnings: praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, size kink, mommy kink, oral, strap-on, aftercare, smut, and fluff (I may have missed one)

You’re on your last nerve when you get to your afternoon class on Wednesday. 

Your car didn’t start in the morning so your girlfriend, Agatha, had to drop you off at work, which you’d never complain about, except she had still been asleep when this happened so you were almost late because she had to get ready. 

And then work was awful. You had a shift at the popular retail store in town and it seemed like every customer who came in was on a mission to personally ruin your day. 

From dissatisfaction with the prices to vomit all over the restroom floor, it seemed like nothing could go right. 

Agatha had been at work herself so you had to call one of your college friends to give you a ride after. 

And now you had to sit in a class on Personality Theory for the next three hours and listen to your professor drone off on tangents. You would be getting your tests back from last week though, and you were hoping you had done well. 

“Alright, before we get started, I’ll go ahead and pass out your exams. Once I call your name, you can come up and look at it,” your professor says and you anxiously tap your fingers on the desk while you wait for your turn. 

Finally, he says your name. Butterflies in your stomach, you walk to the front to look and it’s like you’ve been punched in the gut. 

There must be something wrong, you don’t understand how you missed this many. 

Red ink stains the page and you have to clench your jaw together to keep your composure. Tears prick at your eyes as you hand the exam back to your professor and head back to your seat, burning with shame. 

It seems like it’s just one thing after another. 

You barely pay attention for the rest of class, head spinning with thoughts of how bad you did, how everything sucks, how you just want to go home. 

Agatha texts you a few times during the three hour time span, just checking in on you, but you don’t even respond. She always says that you get too wrapped up in your own brain and you know she’s right. You do let her know that you won’t need a ride home, not sure you could take the older woman’s softness right now. 

You just want to take a shower and lie in bed. 

Class finally ends and you order an Uber instead of asking a friend to take you home. When you get in these moods, you don’t want to talk to anyone. 

You grunt in response to the driver’s question of asking how you are and then the rest of the ride is spent in silence. It’s not often you get in such a foul mood, but when it does, it’s tough. 

When you make it through the front door of Agatha’s home, you immediately collapse on the couch and breathe in the blanket that still has her scent. She’ll be home soon and now you just want her to give you a big hug and tell you that everything will be alright. 

You hear keys jingle in the front door maybe ten minutes later and you sit up on the couch expectantly, heartbeat picking up. You’ve been with Agatha for six months now and she still managed to have the same effect on you that she had at the beginning. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls out, seeing the lights on, and she makes her way to the living room to find you swaddled in her favorite blanket on the couch. She frowns, instantly able to tell something is wrong. Usually you get up to give her a kiss. “You okay?” 

And then it’s like a dam breaks. You start sobbing and telling her all the things that have gone wrong that day and she instantly sits down next to you, engulfing you into a hug and whispering that everything will be okay. 

She lets you cry for a bit, hand stroking your hair, making soothing sounds. Eventually, you calm down enough to take slow, shaky breaths. 

“I’m sorry, doll. Sounds like you had a rough day,” she says, pressing a kiss to your head and wiping the tears off your cheeks. You nod in agreement. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

You shrug while you think about it. And then you lean in and chastely kiss her lips. 

When you pull back, she’s smirking. 

“You want mommy to help you?” She coos and instantly, a fire awakens in your belly at the use of your favorite name for her. Your head bobs up and down eagerly but she tuts and grabs your jaw to hold it still. “Words, baby.” 

“Yes please, mommy,” you whisper. No one can make you feel as good as Agatha can. 

“Good girl,” Agatha hums and the fire gets worse. “What do you want?” 

You squirm on the couch, just looking at her, begging with wide eyes. 

“Why don’t you show me what you want?” You whine and grab her hand and bring it down to your shorts. “Oh, do you want me to touch you?” 

“Please,” you force out again. “Touch me, mommy.” 

Her grin is wicked as she lays you back down on the couch, positioning herself so she’s holding her weight above you. Your noses are almost close enough to touch. 

“Does my little baby want me to reward her like the perfect little angel that she is?” Agatha purrs and you gasp, feeling your head start to get fuzzy. She plays with the waistband of your shorts and your hips buck up involuntarily. You make a sort of strangled noise from your throat – all you can do, really – and she shushes you. “Just relax, doll. Let mommy take care of you.” You whimper as she kisses your nose and moves down your body to undress you. 

You feel like you’re on a different planet when Agatha pats your waist so you can lift yourself up for her to take your shorts and underwear off. 

“There we go, so good for me,” she says, leaving kisses against your thighs. You moan, senses heightened. You babble something incoherently and you can hear her chuckling at you. “Baby, you’re absolutely dripping for me.” 

Her fingers move up and down your slit, collecting wetness, and sounds are pulled out of your mouth by her administration. 

“Does that feel good, hon?” 

Your head lulls back on the couch and you try to say something to affirm her question. 

“Aw, is my little baby in subspace right now?” Something in the back of your mind tells you that you must be, but you’re too blissed out to answer. 

And then her tongue is on your pussy and you couldn’t say a word even if you tried. If you didn’t already feel like you were floating then, you sure do now. Your back arches off the couch as she sucks on your clit but her hands come up to hold you down. 

“Be a good girl for me and let mommy do all the work.” 

Your moans get louder as she keeps eating you out and you’ve never felt this good before. It’s like all your worries and stress and frustration that built up over the day are melting away to leave you in a puddle of pleasure. 

“Mommy, so close,” you slur, hands digging into the couch beneath you. Her teeth scrape against your clit and she moans into you and it sends you into an explosive orgasm. 

You’re not sure you’ve ever cum that hard. 

She licks you through it and you have to pull her away after a while because you become sensitive. 

Agatha comes up to kiss you, long and hard, and you can taste yourself on her tongue. 

“Do you want to try something new tonight, baby?” She asks once she pulls away and you nod eagerly before even asking what it is. You trust her more than anyone. “I’ll be right back.” She gives you one last parting kiss and quickly runs upstairs. 

She’s up there for a few minutes while you lay on the couch, still in a trance-like haze. 

And then she comes back down and your mouth falls open. 

Attached to her hips is the biggest strap-on you’ve ever seen. She must have just bought it. You had gotten to where you could take the toys you had pretty easily, but you are certain that this will stretch you out so much more than them. 

“Mommy,” you whisper, eyes widening as she comes back over to the couch. You can see that she’s holding lube in one hand. 

“Mommy wants to see if your tiny, little pussy can fit her big cock,” she says and a thrill runs through you despite yourself. “Might have to work you up to it.” 

Your legs part without thinking and she laughs. 

“So desperate for me, aren’t you? My perfect, little slut.” You gasp at the words, feeling yourself get even more wet. 

While you loved the praise from her, degradation almost turned you on more. 

“You have to relax, baby,” she reminds you, moving to kneel on the couch between your legs and pushing them even more open. She rubs your clit and slides two fingers in easily. You grind up on her fingers, trying to pull them in more. “Look at how well you take my fingers. So good for mommy. You can’t get enough of them, can you?” 

You shake your head and groan when she curls them just right. 

“Such a good whore for mommy,” she sighs. “Can you take another?” 

“Please,” you gasp out, walls clenching around the two already inside you. She pulls them and you feel empty, but that feeling is quickly gone when she pushes three in you. The stretch feels so good and your hips meet her every thrust, the pleasure in you already growing. 

And then it’s gone. Your head flies up to look at her wrapping the hand wet with you around her strap and coating it. And then she opens the bottle of lube and pours a hefty amount in her other hand to also stroke the toy with. 

“Are you ready, baby?” 

“Go slow, mommy,” you tell her, even though you know that she will. “You’re so big.” 

“You’re going to look so pretty, sweetheart, stretched around my big cock,” she says and positions the tip at your entrance. “Like a little, perfect slut. 

The first push steals all the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck,” you groan. You’ve never been so full in your life and you barely have any of it inside you. Agatha doesn’t move, just rubs small circles on your thighs and waits for you to tell her you’re okay. 

It takes a few moments for you to adjust. It’s definitely easier in the headspace that you’re in right now. 

“Okay,” you say and Agatha obeys, slowly moving forward inside you. She stops when your breathing gets strangled and doesn’t move again until you’re back to normal. 

“God, your little pussy looks so good taking my big cock so well,” she grunts once she finally bottoms out. If your mind was clearer, you’d tease her about the size kink she so clearly has. “How are you doing, baby? Can I move?” 

“Please, mommy,” you beg, still feeling euphoric. Every drag of her cock against your walls now feels like heaven. She smirks and starts to move.

She starts slow at first, just short, slow strokes to make sure that you’re still comfortable, and then she starts to really fuck you. 

The pace Agatha sets is rough and bruising and you can hear the wet, squelching sounds that the toy makes as it pushes back inside you every thrust, a mix of your wetness and lube. 

“Mommy,” is all you can pant as she fucks into you over and over again, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on her. 

“So fucking good, sweetheart, you’re taking my cock so well, such a perfect slut for mommy,” Agatha mutters, never slowing down once. If you were already in subspace before, you’re not sure you have a word for what state you’re in right now. There are not even semblances of thoughts in your head, there is only Agatha and the pleasure she is giving you. You can’t even remember what you were in such a bad mood about earlier. 

She reaches down to rub your clit again and you hear someone moan obscenely loudly. 

You think it might have been you. 

All you know is that you’re getting so close again you can taste it. She seems like she can tell because she somehow speeds up, which you didn’t think was possible. Little gasps are forced out of your mouth with every push and your walls are tightening so much around her that it makes it hard for her to thrust. 

“So good, baby, you’re taking me so well,” Agatha chants, a hand reaching up to play with your nipple under your shirt. “So perfect, such a perfect slut, my perfect good girl. Cum for mommy, cum all over mommy’s big cock.” 

She angles her hips just right and rubs your clit hard and you spasm, back bowing off the couch. You’ve never felt pleasure this extreme; it feels like you’re having an out-of-body experience. All the tension in your body is gone and you pant heavily as Agatha pulls out of you. 

“You okay, baby?” She asks and you wheeze a laugh. 

“M’okay,” you say happily, a slow smile spreading onto your face. You can feel your head clearing with the loss of her touch. 

“Let me get a washcloth, alright? I’ll be right back, I promise.” She gives you a kiss on your head and she’s back in what seems like seconds with a warm towel. You wince at the feeling of it between her legs but it helps. “Do you want to move to bed?” 

You nod, but you’re not actually sure if you can stand up based on the jelly feeling in your legs. Agatha seems to understand this without you saying anything and she scoops you off the couch bridal style and carries you up the stairs. 

You giggle and burrow your head into the crook of her neck, breathing her in and feeling her against you. 

“You did so good, baby,” she whispers. 

“Thank you, Agatha. I really needed that.” 

She pauses for a second in the hallway to peck your lips. “I know you did. I’m happy to help, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” 

Once in the bedroom, Agatha helps you into some comfy pajamas and makes you take sips of water from the bottle on her nightstand. You lay down and she pulls the covers over you both, pulling you close to her so she can wrap an arm around you. 

“You’re so perfect, baby, you know that?” She murmurs. “I love you so much.” She kisses you softly, bringing a hand up to stroke your hair. 

“I love you too,” you mumble in-between kisses. No one has ever made you feel more loved than Agatha. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she continues and you blush. “I know you had a hard day today, but tomorrow will be better. You’re so strong. You’re my perfect girl. I love you.” 

And she keeps whispering the sweetest things into your ear, and you drift off to sleep in her arms, feeling like nothing was ever wrong. 

[wheeboo]

"pretty." | yoon jeonghan

SYNOPSIS. in which jeonghan calls you pretty. PAIRING. yoon jeonghan x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, established relationship WARNINGS. one kiss on the cheek, terms of endearment, jeonghan just being down bad and whipped for you lmao WORD COUNT. 1k

notes: because who wouldn't wnt to write something from that clip of him kissing gyu on the cheek cuz he's pretty?? anyway. can u tell that my fav word is pretty...

Jeonghan finds you pretty.

Pretty like... the first rays of dawn painting the sky in streaks of colours. Not like a fiery and blazing sunrise, but a soft, hesitant awakening; the hush before the world truly stirs to life.

His gaze lingers on your quiet form right next to him, eyes tracing the path of sunlight across your cheek peeking in from the shutters of the window, the way it seems to kiss the curve of your jawline and dance in the strands of your hair. A sleepy smile forms at his own lips, head tilting slightly as he lets out the quietest of chuckles.

Pretty like... the way a flower blooms. Each petal peeks out from the bud, hesitant at first, then unfurling with a contented sigh. Like the way you smile, Jeonghan thinks, merely a shy bloom starting at the corners of your lips before blossoming into the radiant sunflower that he always believes that you are.

Your chest rises up and down rhythmically, lips twitching ever so slightly, and Jeonghan wonders what kind of dreams must be playing in your mind𑁋if he should at all try to intervene and chase away the frequent nightmares that sometimes visit, and the clouds that occasionally cast shadows on your peaceful expression.

Pretty like... a book whose cover is worn and flimsy, its pages softened by countless turns and accidental (and intentional) rips, yet the ink still vibrantly tells tales of laughter and tears, of mishaps and misfortunes, of you. But even with this, the spine of the book remains unbroken.

Jeonghan remembers you reading a book last night, an older story if he recalls. He remembers the way your brows furrowed in concentration, hands clutched on the worn paperback, and how your lips moved silently, mouthing words only your heart could hear. He remembers the way your eyes lit up when you turned a page and nudged at his side to get his attention even if he didn't know what the story was about, a flicker of joy to your face like a firefly illuminating the room and the night skies.

Suddenly, a vibration snaps Jeonghan awake at this point, focus darting towards the unwelcomed presence of his phone on the nightstand. The screen casts a harsh light against the gentle morning glow, and Jeonghan reluctantly detaches himself to reach over for it, noting incoming messages from his members about their scheduled practice for later today, the words blurring slightly as sleep clings stubbornly to his eyelids. He quickly types out a message before silencing his phone, and then he shoots a contemplative glance back to you, before slipping out of the sheets and tip-toeing out of the bedroom.

Pretty like... the first sip of morning coffee. Not a jolt of bitter heat, but a warm caress on the tongue, enough to awaken the senses slowly. Jeonghan moves silently throughout your shared space, not wanting to disturb your peace. The aroma of brewing coffee wafts through the air, intertwining with the lingering traces of dawn and the new day ahead.

Carefully pouring a cup for himself, Jeonghan adds a sprinkle of cinnamon on top, the scent swirling like a mini-tornado and playfully tickling his nose. He remembers how you once told him you associate cinnamon with warmth and comfort, and a soft smile graces his lips.

He glides through the rest of his morning routine with practiced ease, mindful not to disturb your slumber, the quietness only punctuated by the occasional soft melody hummed under his breath of one of his songs. As time continues to pass, nearing to when he has to leave, Jeonghan glances at the numbers displayed on his phone, and a tinge of bittersweetness settles in his stomach. A tiny frown creases across his brow as he sets down his empty coffee cup and smooths over the fabric of his shirt with a sigh.

Heading back into the bedroom, he finds you still slumbering on the bed, the streaks of morning light painting over your cheeks. Jeonghan trots over to the window and gently adjusts the shutters, letting in a wider ray of sunlight that dances across your nose.

A creak from the bed tells him you're stirring, and he turns just in time to see your eyes flutter open. Sunlight spills across your face, bathing over your features like honey, and his breath catches in his throat, as if he'd just swallowed a handful of butterflies. You look even more beautiful than the dawn, he thinks.

A sleepy yawn escapes you, stretching your arms above your head, your eyes still closed shut from the light.

"Hannie...?" You mumble out, and Jeonghan is swift to come racing to your side, sitting himself down at the edge of the bed right beside you.

"Morning, angel," he says softly, letting a finger push back a few loose strands of hair flying over your face. "I was about to tell you that I'm leaving."

Your eyes flutter open just slightly, just enough to catch the small curve to your boyfriend's lips, yet mind still cloudy with sleep to even process it. "Hmm... what time is it?"

"Still early. You can go back to sleep," Jeonghan tells you reassuringly. "I just wanted to see your face before I leave."

His words send a faint smile to play across your lips.

"Why do you always have to leave so early?" You ask, voice raspy with sleep.

Jeonghan lets his hand lace with yours on the sheets, the warmth spreading through your fingers and coursing through your body.

"Work calls, love," he says, voice soft but laced with a playful tone. "But you know I wouldn't leave if I didn't have to."

A low groan leaves your mouth as your adjust yourself further into the comfort of the bed while still not letting go of his hand, your eyes fluttering closed again. Jeonghan just chuckles at your sulky antics, and you feel the way his finger caresses lightly over your knuckle.

Pretty like... a diamond ring glinting in the soft morning light, a promise of forever shimmering between them. He knows with a certainty settled deep in his bones that one day he'll slide that very ring onto your finger. But for now, the promise waits beneath the surface, a secret shared only by the gentle stroke of his thumb against your skin and the way his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on your face𑁋hair messy and clinging to the pillow, eyes closed shut once more, yet you've never looked more beautiful to him.

And so, Jeonghan leans down, lips meeting in a feathery kiss at the skin of your cheek just below your eye. He lingers there for a moment, savouring the warmth of your skin against his own, before lowering himself down just next to your ear.

"Pretty," he whispers softly, simply, and irrevocably in love.

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[pullhisteeth]

classified | eddie munson x reader

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello?"

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

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm twenty-three."

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y'still there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

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

Can't argue with that logic.

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

"How do you want to do this?"

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

"What?"

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

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie. Munson."

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

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

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

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

What if you're great?

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

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

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

One hour.

-

He's early.

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

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

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

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

"Eddie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What d'you mean?"

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

"Okay," you sigh.

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

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

"So did you grow up here?"

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

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

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

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

"And you got the job?"

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

"How's that going?"

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

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

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

"Did you grow up here?"

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

"Why'd you move here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, sorry."

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

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

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

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

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

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

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

"That's okay."

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

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

"You alright?"

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

"How so?"

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

"What does that mean?"

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

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

"What the fuck, dude?" 

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

"I didn't-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

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

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

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

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

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

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

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

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

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

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

"Go on."

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

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

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

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

"Can I sit on your lap?"

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

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

"Go for it, baby."

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

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

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

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

"'Course you are, here-"

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

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

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

"Oh, for fu-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

"Shit," he hisses.

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

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

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

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

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

You trace them with gentle fingers.

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Christ, yes, okay."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yeah."

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

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

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

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

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

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," you agree.

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

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

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

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

"Yes."

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

"I, uh…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, yeah, okay."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got condoms?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

"I've got you."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

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

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

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

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

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

"You close?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it a date?"

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

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

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

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can go now, if you want-"

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

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

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

"Yes, please."

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

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

"I'll be here."

-

"Munson! You made it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere self-aware Aemonds—what did you just say about their genitalia?

Yandere Show Aemond who had his interest sparked by how feverishly you watched the show, you consumed so much content around them and around him. You read a lot of literature that could be considered lewd. Many of these 'fanfictions' were hastily written yet entertaining, in his opinion. Some were more poetic than others, but they all gave him an insight into your preferences and fantasies about him.

Yandere Book Aemond, who always brushed the tips of his inked fingers against yours when you turned a page, he enjoyed how startled you were whenever he did such a thing. You'd rub your fingers and wonder why it felt like someone was caressing your hand. You'd shake your head and go back to re-reading the same page over and over again, hoping that that action would be repeated. However, Book Aemond isn't so merciful as to indulge in your desires quite yet.

Yandere Show Aemond always seeks to outshine anyone else in the show. You can always watch the original version on another person's television. You are here for him, not for anyone else, especially not his brother or, god forbid, his uncle. He outshines them with class and indifference. He's always one step ahead, always winking toward you, and spending extra time in the library reading out loud to you. It's confusing. It's as if he really is alive and real and self-aware. You try restarting your television, changing the batteries in your remote, and even using your phone to watch House of the Dragon on there. Nothing changes. Show Aemond makes sure of that.

Yandere Book Aemond who prefers you settle the book near your crotch or your chest. He has strange tastes and speaks even stranger words. Who says he is not as bad as his elder brother when it comes to lust?

Yandere Book Aemond who sees himself as naturally superior to his show version, he is the original. He is Aemond Targaryen. He is a mighty dragon and the man fitting to be your betrothed. This other thing is just a cheap copy to distract you from laying your devotion on him. He would roast this other Aemond alive if he were able to. For now, he must be content with wooing you through the pages within the book.

Yandere Show Aemond who doesn't understand the concept of love. He has truly never felt such a thing. His duty has been imposed upon him since birth, and he had all but failed until he claimed Vhagar. He understands that this feeling for you is akin to love, yet somehow stronger. Neither his family nor the courts understand why he often looks yonder, why he is seen talking to himself more frequently, and why he acts as if he is courting someone. It matters not how much his family presses upon him their worries and judgment. No word of you escapes past his lips. Be it the work of the gods, if they exist, considering he is stuck within some infernal light-up box, or just his intellect, he still has you. He is never willing to give that up.

Yandere Show Aemond who wishes he could reach through the screen and tear that book from your hands. He wishes to destroy every copy in your world, so you must resort to this... this... whatever he is trapped in. You must watch him. You must only watch him. He doesn't wish to be seen as the second Aemond Targaryen or the byproduct of an actor playing a role. He needs to be himself. He needs to be the Aemond Targaryen.

Both ask their respective maesters if there is a way to enter your world. They gather information on this phenomenon and silence anyone who dares utter a word about their ventures. They still care about the Dance, but it is constantly fighting for the position as most urgent within their minds. Just keep your attention on them. Just keep fixating. If you don't, then they may just break through the binds imposed upon them by these realms and make you love them.

[cheriecoke]

when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.

months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.

its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.

inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.

your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.

they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.

you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.

when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.

it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.

this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.

it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.

kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.

there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.

you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.

sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.

you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.

in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.

he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.

he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.

he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.

his name is at the bottom with another little heart.

you let the letter fall from your hands.

[masterfuldoodler]

I went so insane drawing this. I was having the best time ever, I had to pause so often to freak out at my own art xD and then there is the pain. My friends knew everytime I sat down to draw the end (the last five pages) I plagued them dsbknfh

I even made a playlist for specifically this.

The End of All

I've been brainstorming the final confrontation of the keepers. Tehvlar has finished recreating his body into fully chaos and is mostly dead at this point. It starts as Rhyin and Tehvlar's reunion and spirals out of control.

[ladybirdswritings]

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS, FIC — rhysand x reader.

DESCRIPTION: an anonymous journalist exposes the dark secrets of prythian’s elite, but when rhysand, the sharp and relentless owner of the night court gentleman’s club, uncovers her identity, she’s thrust into a dangerous game of blackmail, power, and unexpected attraction. NOTES - i HAD to do an ACOTAR fic. this is a modernish au with the brother’s best friend & enemies to lovers tropes. rhys is a rich playboy, reader hates him. steaminess ensues. leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

one;

“I’m going to tear that wretched bitch limb from limb the moment I find them.”

You flinched as glass slammed against the counter, the sharp sound reverberating through the otherwise quiet house.

Rhysand was never subtle. Even in stillness, he commanded a room like a shadow cursed to expand—endless, suffocating, all-consuming. Tonight, he was a storm unrestrained.

He didn’t look at you. He never did. Then again, no one else did either, not with you tucked behind a fortress of old books. Romances, plenty to keep you sated. Tonight, you sat at the table, half-buried in their pages, your too-large glasses slipping down the bridge of your pointy nose.

And there he was—draped in black silk and leather, his movements precise despite the whiskey in his hand. The veins in his forearm protruded most inhumanly as he gripped his glass, his jaw taut with sparsely-contained frustration. Lucien, ever the diplomat, poured him another drink with the practiced ease of someone who’d been smoothing over Rhysand’s outbursts for years. He had.

“The fine people of Prythian won’t care about whatever drivel this so-called author is printing,” Lucien said smoothly. “The Night Court has been thriving, Rhys. No need to let petty gossip get under your skin.”

Gossip.

You winced at the dismissal, your knuckles tightening around the spine of your book. It wasn’t just gossip. It was your work. Your words. The invisible sister of Lucien Vanserra had finally found her voice—albeit from the shadows. If no one would listen to your words spoken aloud, they’d damn well read them. At first, it had been an act of silent rebellion, a catharsis as much as a challenge.

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

Behind closed doors had spread like wisteria vines through Prythian’s small town and beyond, and the Night Court’s elite. And while they laughed and whispered about the scandalous columns over their evening drinks, you watched from afar, quietly vindicated. No one could suspect the shy, unassuming adoptive sister of Lucien—odd, foreign, and entirely overlooked. It was empowering. It was ironic.

And it was dangerous.

“Trashy gossip?” Rhysand echoed, his voice low and cutting, dragging your thoughts back to the present. He smoothed a sheet of parchment across the counter, your latest piece, the inked words practically searing into his violet eyes. “Do you think the author would call it merely gossip? Or perhaps truth, Lucien?”

He read aloud, mockery dripping from his tone. “‘The pretty ladies of the Night Court have found their respect elsewhere. Swaying hips grow tired of catering to the insatiable demands of Prythian’s elite, their so-called leader no better than the braying beasts who frequent his clubs.’”

Your heart hammered as his voice sliced through the air, cold and unrelenting. Hatred dripped like serpent’s venom from his pearled teeth. Rhys crumpled the paper in one hand and let it fall to the floor, his lips curling into a humorless smile.

“Poetic, isn’t it?” he sneered, downing the last of his whiskey. “Two of my finest dancers fled last month, and suddenly, every fool with a pen thinks they’re the arbiter of truth. Do you think they imagine themselves clever?”

Lucien frowned, pouring himself a drink now. “You’re letting this rubbish get under your skin. I doubt anyone takes it so severely.”

“Oh, they do take it severely,” Rhys said darkly, quickly— running a hand through his perfected raven locks. “Whoever’s writing this isn’t just clever. They’re precise. Calculated. This isn’t some scorned drunkard’s ramblings; it’s surgical. And you—” he jabbed a finger in Lucien’s direction, “—you’re telling me to laugh it off while my name and my life’s work is dragged through filth?”

You sank deeper into your chair, praying they wouldn’t notice you. A silly worry seeing as most times, they never did.

“Whoever wrote this, I imagine they know you well,” Lucien said, his tone light but edged with something sharper. “You think it’s a man?”

Rhys scoffed. “Of course, it’s a man. No woman is that cunning.”

A sour taste filled your mouth, and you finally dared to glance up. His words, so casually spoken, ignited something in your chest. He was dismissing you. Because what, you didn’t hone the same parts as he did? Annoyance surged your posture straighter and your palms to fists. Before you could stop yourself, you muttered under your breath, “I think whoever wrote it doesn’t like you very much, Rhysand.”

The room stilled.

Lucien choked on his drink, half-shocked, half-amused. Rhysand, however, turned slowly, his violet gaze locking onto you with the weight of a predator assessing prey. Bat to bleeding, weak little bug. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow to the space between the two of you. You only dared a blink when his lips curved into a slow, mocking smile.

“And what would you know of such things?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “You hardly seem the literary type.” His sarcasm was a direct mockery of what he’d called “rubbish” on more than one occasion. Your romance novels.

“Works of the devil, himself. Keep reading that rubbish and it will keep you lonesome forever.” He’d said once, one of the only times he’d spared you any words.

Heat flared in your cheeks, but you held his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath it. “Maybe not,” you said, barely above a whisper, “but I know truth when I read it.”

Rhys tilted his head, the smile slipping from his face. His stare lingered, uncomfortably long, as though he were trying to peel back your skin and see what lay beneath. You squirmed in your seat.

Lucien stepped in before the tension could thicken further. “Careful, Rhys. She’s sharper than she looks.” He gave you a fond glance, but his words carried an undertone of warning. Behave.

“Sharper?” Rhys echoed, turning back to his drink. “Hardly. Your sister is as meek as they come.”

You gritted your teeth, your nails digging into the dilapidated cover of your book. Without another word, you stood abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. You gathered your things with deliberate slowness, each movement a silent protest, before stomping toward the stairs.

Behind you, Lucien sighed. “She won’t appreciate your company if you spend the night.”

Rhys’s laugh was low and awfully amused. “Even more reason to stay, then.” There was a gleam in his wicked eyes.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to turn back. But as you ascended the stairs, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Rhysand’s violet eyes lingered on you far longer than they should have.

“She doesn’t like you,” Lucien said once you were out of earshot.

Rhys was silent for a strained moment before he finally spoke, his tone almost… thoughtful. “No,” he murmured, more to himself than his old friend. “She doesn’t.”

The realization hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. And somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, you felt the first flicker of unease. Why had he assessed you, spared you a glance for a moment longer than necessary? It was unlike him. It was for a reason. It had to be.

Though you tried to convince yourself that your mind was only making shadows from things that were not in the light yet— you just couldn’t shake the feeling…

Your secret was no longer safe.

[yutarot]

the forbidden fruit. — req by anon

genre: vampire!jaehyun x reader

warnings: mentions of death

wc: 2.7k

notes; i enjoyed writing this so much, thank u for the request!!

synopsis: your quiet life shatters the night you meet jaehyun—a dark, mysterious stranger who emerges only at dusk. you’re drawn to the intrigue of his haunted character, unaware he’s a centuries-old vampire, burdened by a past he longs to escape. though he tries to keep his distance, jaehyun can’t resist the warmth he finds in you. just as your connection deepens, a even darker rival appears, threatening to reveal jaehyun’s secret and tear you apart. now, you must decide: confront the darkness surrounding you both or risk losing a love that transcends life and death.

you never knew why, but he has always intrigued you. having recently moved back to your hometown to look after your late grandmother’s bookshop, you spend each day stacking books and listening to the crackling wire of her old radio. the weather always seemed to be an abundance of mist, the town nestled between dark forests and ancient mountains. but you never thought you would find love here, especially not with the mysterious, reserved, and almost cold man who lurked between the bookshelves every day before you closed.

at first, it didn’t bother you; you get regulars all the time. but there was something about his quiet intensity, always finding him lurking in the shadows, emerging only when the sun dipped below the horizon. it was strangely magnetic.

so that leads you to now, having to close the store early in order to accommodate some of your grandmother’s old friends. somehow lacking any kind of fear, you walk through the shelves in search of any lingering customers.

that’s where you find him, brooding yet strikingly handsome, holding a copy of twilight in his left hand, gently flicking through the pages with his right. almost immediately, he senses your presence. but he doesn’t look up, instead keeping his eyes trained on the page as he speaks to you.

“you know, i’ve always wondered what the apple on the cover represents,” he says, his voice shockingly gentle. “some say it shows their forbidden love, like the apple from genesis, morally wrong yet intriguingly good.” he puts down the book, slowly lifting his eyes to you. “but i think it’s more than that. i think it shows edward’s desire, his temptation,” he walks towards you, slowly, “his want.”

he stops in front of you, looking down at your expression of confusion.

“what about you? what do you think it shows?”

you’re quiet for a moment. “i think that edward is the forbidden fruit. he’s the bad decision she makes, he’s the sin.”

he smiles at your answer. “i’ve never looked at it that way before.”

gaining confidence, you reply. “meyer quoted genesis in the beginning of the book, but i don’t think it’s the romance that was forbidden. it was him.”

“you really know your stuff,” he replies.

“you’ve read all the books in here?” you say jokingly, but his answer catches you by surprise.

“just about.”

“what?” you laugh, “that would take, like, centuries.”

his eyes darken, jaw clenching. “something like that.”

you didn’t see him for a few weeks after that. he had vanished, completely and utterly removed from your life but, never, from your mind.

he was all you could think about. every passing day you searched for him between the darkness of the bookshelves, his dark hair, his tall frame, but you never found him.

that was until the day you decided to leave the bookshop. you don’t usually leave to go on walks, but amidst the autumn breeze, you needed a break from the essence of old paper and ink.

the leaves crunching beneath your feet and the frost nibbling at your cheeks, you find comfort in the environment around you. it was dusk, your favorite grey color of the sky setting a backdrop for the orange hue of the trees. walking past a frozen lake, you take in the sights, scanning your eyes around to take it all in.

suddenly, you feel a chill arise along your skin.

you aren’t alone.

you turn frantically, feeling the presence of someone moving around you, but your movements quickly betray you as you stumble on your feet, falling backward.

processing what just happened, you stay seated, the urge to get up and leave mysteriously absent.

something—someone—is making you stay.

and that becomes immediately clear the moment you hear his voice.

“yn ln.” it’s the man from the bookshop.

you’re taken aback. “how do you know my name?”

“i’m not stupid.”

“what?”

“you were watching me in that bookstore, ever since the first day i visited, and now your heart aches at my absence. do you wish to explain?”

your heart races as you watch his jaw clench. explain? your mind whirs in circles. in all honesty, you have no idea.

but he’s right. your heart does ache.

he continues, “i was away.” he offers his hand to help you up. “on a trip.” you take his hand.

immediately, the chill you felt before returns. his hand is cold, lacking all and any warmth. it was as if he were sucked dry of life, completely and utterly soulless.

you gain balance on your feet before you speak up.

“who are you?”

that singular question seems to dull his senses, the smile on his face wiped clean.

“who am i?” he repeats, eyes darkening like they did in the bookshop. he thinks for a moment before continuing, “walk with me.”

and so you do. you walk with him. stride after stride, he tells you about his life, about growing up in the neighboring town, about his mother who passed giving birth to him, and about his friends back in his hometown. you listen, not only to his stories but to his voice. it’s soothing, gentle, and something tells you that you’ll wish to hear more of it. but you notice there are important details missing; there’s something he’s not telling you.

when you both reach your bookstore again, he halts, signaling he’s dropping you off.

you walk to the door, but remembering your heartache at his former absence, you call out to him.

“when will i see you again… uh…” you pause, his name unknown to you.

“jaehyun.” he smiles, “and you will see me when you need me. it only takes patience, love.”

with that, you smile back, turning to put the key in the lock. but when you turn back to wave him goodbye, he’s gone, the place where he stood now only a puddle of brown leaves, encased in frost and the scent of the tall, dark stranger you now know as jaehyun.

in the weeks that followed, you saw him more frequently. each time he came into the bookshop, you would pass him a smile, and he would sit, engrossed in the worlds of the books he’s reading. each day you would talk about your shared interests, and each day your curiosity grew. you wanted to know everything about this man. it wasn’t just his looks that intrigued you; there was something aurally magnetic about him. the way he looked at you, like you were something he couldn’t have but desperately wanted. you wished to uncover why.

he had just picked up an edition of crime and punishment by dostoevsky when you come over to him, a warm mug of tea in your hands.

“i brought you this; you must be cold.”

he looks between the tea and you, a polite refusal in his eyes.

“…or not.”

he chuckles at your ability to read him. no one else has ever been able to do that to him. no one, until he met you.

jaehyun doesn’t come back for the books; he’s read every book in this little town bookstore. yet, each night, he finds himself at the front door, hoping for a chance to see you.

he doesn’t want to see you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.

but he needs it.

he folds the book over in one hand, leaning back in the soft, green velvet armchair you’ve placed in the corner of the bookshop.

he speaks, surprising you again with the softness of his voice. “i think it’s interesting.”

your brow twists in confusion before he continues.

“raskolnikov seems alienated from society, no matter what he does or how he does it.”

you listen intently.

“yes, he’s a murderer. but even before then, it was always his pride that separated him. it’s fascinating.”

“you enjoy literature a lot, don’t you?” you say.

he laughs. “a little. why else do you think i’m in here so often?”

a secret part of you was hoping for another reason for him to be here. but your mind was its own fantasy, unrealistic and yet completely tempting.

“you’re different from all the rest of my customers,” you reply.

this makes jaehyun’s face contort into an expression you’ve never seen him wear before: hope.

“how so?”

“i’m not entirely sure.”

your breath catches, caged by the fear of him suspecting the feelings that linger. but it’s almost as if he can hear your heart, beating in your chest. because you’re sure that he knows.

your conversation is abruptly interrupted when you hear the bell to the bookstore door ring, signaling that you’ve got a new customer.

“i should probably go and… yeah… enjoy the book!” you say to jaehyun, who laughs at the way you so easily panic over the tiniest situations. from an outsider, it would seem that someone had walked in with the intention of blowing the place up with the way that you reacted.

as you turn the corner to approach the customer, the chilling feeling you felt at the lake begins to fade into you. it makes you wonder if you were wrong about it, presuming it was just something you felt around jaehyun, but it made no sense. you’re walking away from him.

interrupted again from your thoughts, you arrive at the door, the customers back to you.

you reach up to tap him on the shoulder.

“hello, how can i hel-“

his hand covers your mouth.

“save the talking for when you need it.” the stranger whispers, as you push his hand away.

that was rude, you think to yourself.

the stranger continues. “im looking for… something.”

“what is it? maybe i can help you? it is my store..”

“hmmm. it’s about 300 years old, pretty.. local..”

you furrow your brows. 300 years?

“well, sir that could be anything. gullivers travels, candide, paradise lost?”

his eyes glimmer with amusement. “no, no, none of those. i’ll just have a look around myself.”

confused but albeit very annoyed by the man’s lack of respect, you allow him to look for himself. and you find yourself on your way back to where jaehyun is sitting.

only when you get there.

jaehyun is gone.

but the book remains on the green velvet armchair, open on its final page. you read the words in which had been underlined.

‘They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.’

you threw the book back down, the final sentence echoing over and over in your mind.

your heartache, his cold demeanour. it was as if you both needed each-other for the simple aspect of life.

startling you, you hear a bang across the other side of the bookshop.

you turn on your heel, pushing the thought of jaehyun to the back of your mind as you waver your way through the shelves. but your attempt to disregard your thoughts of him is soon in vain as you find him, holding the stranger by his collar against the shelf. jaehyuns eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them, his skin the palest it’s ever been. and his teeth.

you gasp to yourself, clutching your chest and trying to hold yourself up against the bookshelf.

you don’t recognise him, but he looks more like himself than he ever has.

his head turns in your direction and immediately his visage returns to normal, the stranger he’s holding removing jaehyuns grasp on him, chuckling to himself with a smirk.

your mind is spinning.

“so this is why you haven’t come home.” the stranger says to jaehyun.

his words from before come back to you. ‘hmmm. it’s about 300 years old, pretty.. local..’

he wasn’t talking about a book. he was talking about jaehyun.

you have nothing to say, nothing to feel or even think.

but the unease you felt about him before, seemingly has vanished.

everything you had been questioning. everything you were unsure of, has been answered.

the stranger continues, “i knew there was a reason. but i never would have suspected this.”

jaehyuns fists clench, knowing he can’t do anything with you here.

“your choice.” the stranger says to jaehyun before turning to you. “and by the way, pretty, im jungwoo.” he winks, before walking out the door and vanishing soon after.

you stay completely, and utterly still. jaehyuns eyes are only on you. he can’t tell what your thinking and it drives him utterly insane.

“are you okay?” he asks, stepping closer to you.

you should flinch, you should tell him to get out.

but you can’t.

you nod, slowly and indefinitely.

“i didn’t want this to happen,” he says, walking closer, slowly as to not scare you, “but you..”

you look up at him.

jaehyun holds a hand out to push a strand of hair from your face, gently. “you’ve done something to me.”

your eyes widen. but you can’t help but nod, a silent yet powerful indication of the way your feeling. but you know now that he can hear your heart, he can hear the reaction he has on you. he knows it’s not fear. it’s love.

he looks between both of your eyes, soaking in the feeling of being able to breathe in the same air as you. his hand finds your cheek and he leans down, everything is so slow, so gentle.

but before his lips could find yours. he stops himself, his brows crunching as if he’s in pain, hurt by having to let you go like this.

your eyes are full of questions. “why did you-“

“i can’t.” he says, sternly. “i can’t kiss you.”

“why not?”

his jaw clenches, his hand remaining softly on your face.

“i have a choice to make. this only makes that so much harder.”

“what choice?”

he gulps. you’ve never seen him nervous.

“either, i return to my family.” his hand brushes through your hair, reluctantly, and he pulls it away just as he states his next words. “or he tells my father.”

“what will happen if he told your father?”

he looks down, pain on his features.

“he’ll kill you.”

that’s when you realise. the forbidden fruit. it’s what he feels for you, what you feel for him, thats the sin.

��but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shall surely die.’

he disappears, vanishes into nothing, as you stand, warmth returning to the air around you.

you let him go.

the next few weeks are tiresome. he hasn’t left your mind, and you haven’t left his. pain envelopes you everytime you think of him, soaring through your memories like dust in a cloud of wind.

in attempts to clear your head, you decide to take a walk again. the fog is heavier this evening, weaving through the trees and laying around the lake as if it were a blanket, soft and comforting.

you listen to the birds, melancholically singing away at eachother. but it only reminds you of your loneliness.

you long for him, mind and soul.

riddled by the effects of the winter air, the breeze makes you shiver. but when the cold doesn’t let up, the feeling oddly familiar, you turn.

there he is. standing before you, a tormented expression of a tortured soul, resting on his features.

this time, you walk to him. this time, you’re completely certain.

you stand before him.

“id rather die in the arms of certainty than to live without a chance.” you breathe, watching him intently.

but he only smiles, searching in your eyes. and at last, he presses his lips to yours.

he’s soft, yet firm.

he shouldn’t want you, he shouldn’t need you. but he does.

for if you died, it would be for this moment.

‘even more, i had never meant to love him. one thing i truly knew–knew it in the pit of my stomach, in the center of my bones, knew it from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, knew it deep in my empty chest–was how love gave someone the power to break you.’ — stephenie meyer, twilight.

[impish-baby]

Hey, could I have more HIWTHI content please? Possibly with them finding out reader would write in their journal a lot, possibly hinting towards reader having large amounts of self worth issues, and instead of them leaving because no one notices them, reader left because they feel like a burden?

I’m particularly interested in Marcus and the twins reacting.

Also, please make sure to take care of yourself. I love all of your writing, but no one will ever blame you for taking a break. Also, please stay hydrated.

-🌙

👀 close to something that would happen canonically actually!!

HIWTHI cast's reaction to reader's journal

(Trigger warnings: reader's struggles with self worth, mentioned/referenced suicide)

Marcus feels like a complete and utter failure as a father. No matter how cold or stern he is with his children, he does love all of them with everything in him. So the fact that you feel like a burden? That you felt like a waste of space in your own home? He hangs his head in shame.

Doesn't even bother with asking why you didn't speak up, he's well aware that this is his own shortcoming. It's his fault, that's the simple truth of the matter.

Once you are back home, you're required to start therapy. He'll even let you do in person instead of online if you promise to actually give it a shot, Marcus legitimately wants (needs) you to get better. He has no delusions of their being an overnight change, and so he tries to go at your pace.

There's lots of long conversations, firm reminders that you are loved and of value no matter what. Especially at night, he'll sit at the end of your bed and tell you how much you mean to him. He'd go on until he's blue in the face if that's what it takes for you to believe his words.

Clara refuses to believe what she's read for a long while. She knows it's real, she has the proof held in her hands. Just... her child, her baby, was struggling with almost the same thing she was. And she didn't know. She didn't know and now they're gone.

If she wasn't worried about reader before, she's actually terrified now. The worst outcome is going through her mind, because really, what was stopping you from doing something dangerous? Clara is constantly eyeing the news, fear eating her alive.

The next time she sees you, you're getting the tightest hug. The woman sobbing into your shoulder, thanking whatever higher being that her baby is safe.

You aren't allowed to have sharp objects, unportioned medication, or anything that could be used to harm one's self anymore. Clara doesn't care, she's not leaving a chance. She knows what it's like being in that state of mind. She'll be dammed if she doesn't start acting like a mother should and protecting her child.

Jack is bawling his eyes out right away. The pen ink in your diary smudging as his tears hit the paper. You...oh god..

He feels like the shitiest person on earth, he doesn't deserve to call himself an older brother. He knew Jaiden had his struggles, and now this..

He pockets the journal. Jack reads it as some form of punishment. You suffered with this, he'll suffer with it too. When you're back home, he's trying his best to include you in everything.

Movie nights, board games, he comes up with anything and everything so you can spend time together. See? He has fun with you, he likes hanging out with you, you aren't a burden..

Theo feels bitter, resentful. At your parents, at themselves, at the fact that you felt that way. His resolve to find you becomes ten times stronger, there isn't a single doubt in their mind that you need to come home.

Much like Marcus, they'll affirm how much you're loved and wanted any chance they get. Theo cages you in their arms and mumbles praises for what feels like forever. They'll even go into morbid detail about how everyone fell apart while you were gone just to prove how needed you are.

Jaiden is tempted to rip the pages out. He goes through a rollercoaster of emotions.

At first, he's pissed. That you didn't say anything, that you didn't do anything to get help, that you just sat there and felt fucking miserable for years-

He's ashamed. Deeply, deeply ashamed.

It feels.. awkward between you. Jaiden stares constantly, like he's never seen you before. When he finally breaks down sobbing, he's willing to beg at your feet if you'd forgive him for being such a horrible big brother

[gemissleeping]

Sea Foam | Chapter Three

Theodore Nott x Siren!Reader

Read the other Chapters here.

Summary: It’s been three weeks since Theo found you by the Black Lake, and he’s tried his best to respect your wishes. But it hasn’t done anything to help either of you, and all of your efforts come crashing down in the bathroom at a Slytherin party.

Length: 2.1k

Notes: More of a Theo POV than the usual. Angry Theo. Teenage boys being teenage boys (foul and icky, nsfw language). Overbearing best friend Blaise. Smoking Theo. Slightly intoxicated reader. Soft Theo. Tears. I did not proofread this at all you have been warned, pls do tell me if there are any errors. Listen to Cinnamon Girl by Lana if you’d like to go through it. ily enjoy!

“You’re staring again,” Blaise grumbled under his breath from beside Theo in Divination. It had been three weeks since Theo had found you on the shoreline. Dressed only in your nightgown in the height of the winter frost. That crestfallen look on your face while the wind had bitten at you both. He’d tried his best to respect your wishes since then; making sure to steer clear of you whenever he could, to stop flitting through your mind like it was his favourite novel. He’d tried his best and still he’d failed, over and over.

He knew it was wrong, but he was beyond help. Slipping into your mind was unbearably easy. So much so, that he’d found himself doing it purely by accident on a few occasions, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. He knew you could practice occlumency, had even witnessed you obliterate Malfoy’s attempt at invading your mind in a Defence Against the Dark Arts class last year. Yet you barely even seemed to notice when he did it. Your apparent lack of awareness only made it harder for Theo to stop himself.

“Sorry,” Theo mumbled, blinking his trance away as he glanced over to Blaise with a dull apology. Blaise and Theo had become fast friends in First Year. After Cormack had made a comment about Theo’s Mother on the train, and Blaise had responded by hitting him right between the eyes. Blaise and Theo were close. Though not as close as you, Milli and Blaise were. Everyone knew that the three of you were utterly inseparable. Having met long before the rest of them at Hogwarts.

Unfortunately, it also meant that Blaise had adopted a tendency towards being irritatingly over-protective of you. Likely for good reason; Theo hadn’t made the best of impressions when it came to his relationships with women. They were often fleeting, borne of convenience and nothing more.

Which was exactly why Blaise was currently pissed with him. Blaise spent an awful lot of his time watching people. Regrettably, for Theo that included him, and these days he spent most of his time firmly stuck on you. To say Blaise wasn’t pleased would have been an understatement.

At this point, he may as well have been your damn guard dog, and Theo was tiring of the act quickly. He’d spent years wanting to know you, outside of the occasional class project. Years of pretending you didn’t exist for Blaise’s sake. When really, you were a large part of the reason that he had never settled on anyone to begin with.

Theo turned back to his parchment, huffing as he saw the ink stain leaking across the page. That, along with several half-finished notes, provided rather damning evidence of his distraction.

He stole a glance over at you again, keeping his head low in the hopes Blaise wouldn’t catch him. You were sitting beneath the window, stuck in a daydream of your own as Trelawney prattled on. Eyes misted over, one hand woven through your hair as you rested on it.

You were lovely.

Theo wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had resumed his staring. But as Trelawney brought the lesson to a close, the dull edge of a textbook collided with the side of his head in a singular, harsh thud. Breaking his focus on you as he looked up in bewilderment to Blaise, who stood with his edition of Astrology for the Ungifted raised.

“Git.” He hissed, lowering the book with scathing eyes.

Theo didn’t see you for the rest of the afternoon, not with Blaise practically escorting him to their dorm as soon as Divination concluded. Enzo was already there, lazily slung across his desk chair. Brow raised as Blaise entered in a huff, Theo trailing behind him in defeat. There was supposed to be a party in the Common Room tonight. But right now it wasn’t looking like Theo would be in for a particularly enjoyable evening.

“I know what you’re trying to do. You want to fuck her.”

“I don’t want to fuck her,” Theo winced at his friend’s choice of words.

“You don’t want to fuck her? You don’t want to fuck her?” Blaise rounded, textbook jabbing at Theo’s chest incredulously. Theo groaned, knowing Blaise wouldn’t rest until he knew Theo was being honest with him.

“No, I- fuck, fine. Yes, I want to. Of course I do, but that’s not-”

“Not what? Forgive me for my utter faith in your fucking abysmal track record. But she is my best fucking friend Theo.” Blaise snapped, turning from the boy’s dead-eyed stare and viciously tugging at his tie as he stalked towards his bed. Whipping it from his neck in a surge of anger.

Enzo rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. Watching the display unfold with anxious eyes as Matt cracked the bathroom door open, lighting up with sadistic intrigue. The pair exchanged a glance, the former silently begging the latter not to stick his foot in.

Theo felt his chest tighten at Blaise’s words. His hand running roughly along his jaw, trying to soothe his irritation. Gazing at the ornate wooden panels on the ceiling with a sigh before he attempted to break through to him again. It was out in the open now at least, it likely couldn’t get worse.

“You don’t understand, she-”

“Please, Nott. Tell me what I don’t understand about the girl I’ve known since she was three years old.” Blaise bellowed, reigniting as he swung back to the taller boy. The click of the door interrupted them.

“What’s with all the shouting? I can hear you fools from the hall,” Malfoy droned, bored as he kicked the door shut behind him. Flicking his wand to cast some sort of muffling charm across it.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.” Blaise sneered, not even glancing over to acknowledge his friend’s arrival. The words feeling far more aimed towards Theo than the blonde. Draco only sighed, moving past the both of them.

“None of you ever thank me for anything that I do for you,” He grumbled in response. Throwing a stack of books onto his bed before going to shove Matt out of the bathroom.

“If you even think about fucking touching her-” Blaise continued, steam practically rising from his skin as he narrowed in on Theo again.

“Oh, he has.” Matt interrupted, leaning back against Enzo’s desk with folded arms. Theo shooting him a heavy glare as Matt only smirked back knowingly. An expression Enzo swiftly answered by scolding him with a kick to the shin.

“Look at me, Nott,” Blaise demanded. His voice low, lip curling back in a sneer, “I’ll skin you, understand?”

“Listen, I-” Theo started, his own voice rising as his attention shifted back to Blaise, irritation swelling. But he was impossible to reason with when he was like this, everyone knew it.

“You don’t fuck with her,” Blaise cut in, his voice soaked with finality. Standing before Theo while his chest heaved with anger, book still clutched in his accusatory palm. Theo could feel his own restraint unwrapping. The other’s eyes on them only pushing him further into that corner of himself. He needed air, now. Or else he was going to do something he couldn’t undo. Then you were certain to never speak to him again.

Hands raised in silent surrender, he backed away from Blaise. Jaw set as he plucked his jacket from the end of his bed, turning for the door. Enzo’s tired sigh leaked through the dorm as he pulled it open harshly, likely readying himself to chastise Blaise. Something he’d also likely do to Theo when he caught him later. Though if he had any luck today, maybe Enzo and the others would already be drunk by the time he got back.

He made for the edge of the forest. Rolling a cigarette as he went, trying not to bite down on the filter between his teeth from residual disdain. The icy air was a small mercy, quenching the heat running through him almost immediately. For hours he stood out there, letting the smoke in to empty out all of the things he didn’t want to feel. Watching as the moon chased the sun down to the horizon.

The party would be well underway. God willing you hopefully had yourself tangled in someone else by now. At least then Theo might have been able to give himself a proper reason to stop, smooth things over with Blaise. Though he had begun to doubt if even that would work.

Theo made his way through the tangle of writhing bodies in the heat of the Common Room. No desire to taint himself further with the desperate need to forget that rolled off of the sweaty air. Matt was by the stairs, where the crowd thinned out at its edges. More enticed by the girl whose cigarette he was lighting than by any questions he might’ve had for Theo, as he continued his path to the dorms.

He had meant to go straight there. To take off his jacket, untie his shoelaces. Instead he found himself headed past his door, down to one of the communal bathrooms that lined the dormitory halls. He wasn’t sure why, until something tugged at him. Drawing him to push open the bathroom door; and there you were.

Gaze flitting to his hazily in the mirror. Eyeliner smudged, haloing your eyes. You stilled where you had been standing, as if he had walked straight out of your thoughts. Softening as you took in his wind kissed hair, and he the tremble of your fingers on the countertop. Theo pushed himself away, against the pull of his chest, away from what he wanted. He made for the door again, unsure of why he had allowed himself to be led to you to begin with.

“You weren’t at Dinner,” you called softly, not daring to turn and look at him without a reflection between you. He stilled, one hand on the door as his heart hammered at his ribs.

“You told me to stay away,” he answered simply. Afraid to turn around in case what he saw laying in your eyes only salted the wound some more.

“Not that far.”

You breathed, turning to face him. Eyes aching to touch his cheek, graze across his thoughts, his desires. Theo’s hand dropped from the door, chest swelling from your proclamation. He could feel his breathing falter, hear the force of it. He turned hesitantly, a rasp collecting in his throat.

“Well how far would you like me?”

He saw your breath hitch, didn’t even have to scratch at your mind. You seemed to be leaking into his on your own accord. He could hear just how far you wanted him, and it wasn’t far at all.

Your lips parted, so he made sure to be the first to speak. To save you both the trouble.

“You’re drunk.”

You shook your head, eyes growing glassy with the salt of tears as you moved towards where he leant against the door.

“I’ve been getting your little messages. The ones you keep leaving for me to find,” he murmured. Suddenly enraptured by his hands as his voice creased over his words.

“Theo-”

“It’s unbearable for me. Is it like that for you too?” He cracked, eyes flashing up to yours. Entirely afraid before you, before the possible weight of your answer. Because the truth was he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell which words were real and which you fed him to keep him at arm’s length. He searched you, begging for any kind of answer, but hoping only for one.

“Yes.”

Your tears spilled in an instant, and maybe you were a little drunk, but you were also sure that it didn’t change any of it. He knew as much, taking a tender step towards you to grasp your cheek. Running his thumb along the soft skin to collect your tears.

“This trance you seem to think I’m under,” Theo clarified, eyes lingering on yours as his thumb continued its path. Despite no longer having any need to do so. “It’s lasted five years already,” he breathed, “it’s not going to pass any time soon.”

You paused, smudged eyes widening as you gazed up at him. His confession sucking the air out of your lungs until you could no longer doubt that you needed him. You simply watched him for a moment, as though debating whether to say something you wouldn’t be able to swallow. The one thing that was still holding you back.

“I don’t know how to stop myself.”

“Then don’t,” he whispered, leaning closer to brush a strand of hair from your eyes. “You don’t need to be scared of wanting this.”

Theo drew back slightly, letting his fingertips linger. Brushing through the strands of your hair, behind your ear. His voice gentle, certain, “I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.”

Keep an eye out for Chapter Four here, or comment to be added to the tag list for future updates <3

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