#with a bad temper to boot

[hoggleswart]

LOCATION:      to  be  decided    /    open  for  interpretation. STATUS:      open      (    @startertms    )

"      yeah,    alright,    alright.    i’m  goin’.      "      hand  waves  dismissively  at  the  unfortunate  bar  -  workers  tasked  with  the  challenge  of  escorting  ezekiel  off  the  premises.    there’s  no  real  force  involved  in  their  removal;      just  stern      (    and  possibly  slightly  weary    )      expressions  that  look  more  hopeful  than  threatening,    as  if  they’re  silently  pleading  with  him  to  please  go  quietly    /    they  aren’t  paid  enough  to  take  on  retired  hit  wizards.    he  does.    his  ejection  is  his  own  fault  after  all.    that’s  what  he  gets  for  interfering  in  an  altercation  instead  of  minding  his  own  business;      how  quick  peacekeeper  becomes  troublemaker  when  shoved.    he  can  almost  hear  his  mother’s  disapproving  tuts  of  temper,  temper.    now  there’s  a  light  bruising  forming  on  knuckles,    and  another  temporary  pub  ban  against  the  burke  name.    hand  pushes  thick  hair  away  face,    thumb  swiping  at  split  lip  while  eyes  settle  on  another  figure  present  outside.      "      i’d  say  you  should  see  the  other  guy,    but  that’s  a  little  cliche.      "

[queers-gambit]

What Goes Around, Comes Around

prompt: ( requested ) Billy's known for his temper and being obsessed with his pretty little girlfriend - which gets her severely injured by his past transgressions.

pairing: Billy Hargrove x female!cheerleader!reader reader and Billy are both 18+, seniors in high school

word count: 6.7k+

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

note: you're a liar if you didn't immediately start singing Justin Timberlake's "What Goes Around... Comes Around".

warnings: remember there are different responses to trauma! some people shut down, stop talking; others jabber and chatter nervously. reader is the latter. we got angst, we got literal hurt and comfort, established relationship. term "going postal" is used, cursing, technically underage drinking, not edited, author mildly gave up at the end. triggering content: depictions of physical violence, depictions of injury and blood, depiction of abuse, violent plots, Billy's girl gets physically assaulted (but it's minimally detailed).

DO NOT read if this content can potentially trigger you. you are NOT missing anything, you will miss NOTHING by skipping this, but i do try to keep the details as neutral as possible. again, prioritize yourself, mental health, and emotional state - this ain't worth the read if it's gonna upset you, i promise. author loves you all

"That's fucking her, I swear to God."

"You sure?"

"100%. That's Billy's little bitch he's obsessed with."

The three guys smirked at one another, eyeing you across the living room as you giggled and drank with a few friends in adorable, fashion forward outfits. Someone started a game of beer pong, you on the sidelines to cheer, giving them a full-show of your form.

"She's hot," Jake mused. "I can see why he keeps her so close."

"Nah, not tonight," Lawrence frowned, "heard they got in some huge fight at school. Like, she walked home and he sped off in his car."

"Hm, heard he's ridiculously protective of her... She must've really pissed him off," the third boy, Steven, nodded. "So, he's not here tonight?"

"Doubt it," Jake nodded.

"Go find out," Steven advised. "There, the basketball bros - one of them would know. Or a cheerleader," he eyed the crowd. "Chrissy's over there, Brittany's beside her - they'd be the best bet in my mind."

"We seriously considering this?" Lawrence asked with a small, nervous chuckle. "I mean, it's kinda crazy, isn't it? We're gonna send Billy Hargrove a message by roughing up his girl? There's not some better way?"

"I'd love to hear it," Steven scoffed. "Billy's too comfortable at the top of the school, broke my fucking nose and deviated Jake's septum. Didn't he fuck your sister the first week he was here, Lawrence?"

"I mean - "

"Broke her fucking heart, didn't he?" Jake tacked on.

"Well, yeah," Lawrence sighed, shrugging.

"You tell me, dude, was that shit fair?"

"No," Lawrence looked down.

"So, yeah, I know, it's bad to hit a lady - but what about my boot? Huh?" Steven smirked, nodding. "Go find out what you can. Last thing we need is Billy walkin' in the party, right?"

Jake nodded with enthusiasm, leaving Lawrence behind. He hesistated but then did as Steven asked; asking the present basketball team members if Billy gave indication he was coming. The cheerleaders assured he wouldn't dare show up when you were there after a very public fight, and if he did, it would be to cause another scene.

So, after reporting back to Steven, a plan was formed. Lawrence didn't seem fully on board, but in an effort to save his own skin, he went along with what Jake and Steven were plotting - even if that meant roughing up a woman. Something his mama and grandmama vehemently taught him not to do...

Something churned in his stomach when he heard how the two lads were nearly foaming at the mouth to get their revenge. So, he casually went to grab another drink - pausing where a few of your friends were. "Oi," he whispered, earning their attention.

"Hey, Law," Chrissy smiled.

"Hey, Chris," he sniffled, glancing around. "Listen, uh, you seen Billy 'round?"

"No? Why?"

"Hmm, just, uh... Heard his girl was all upset, thought maybe her drinking all that much was a bad idea without him around."

"Oh," Chrissy blinked, looking up at her boyfriend, Jason, as he approached the group with two drinks in hand. "I didn't think about it like that, Law."

"What's wrong?" Jason asked.

"No, nothing, Lawrence just pointed out how shitty it is to drink without someone watching your back," she pouted.

He nodded, "You lose your friends, man?"

"No, just tryna look out," Lawrence shrugged. "Few girls here drinking a lot, not a lot of defenses 'round them."

Jason frowned, "That's kinda their man's job, isn't it?"

"What if their man isn't here?"

"I'm gonna be right back," Chrissy smiled, parting ways with her girlfriend in tow - and when Law looked, they were using the kitchen telephone. He prayed they were phoning the Hargrove residence.

Lawrence sighed in slight relief and nodded to Jason; the white boy just nodding back silently and letting the other athlete pass him by to head back for Jake and Steven. He grabbed an unopened beer on his way to maintain appearances.

"Hey, we got it," Jake smirked at the third boy, "she just went outside, we should move now."

"Huh?" Law mumbled.

"C'mon," Steven growled, pushing off the mantle and stalking for the backdoors to follow your retreating form.

"Wait, what're we doing?" Law asked, trying to keep up with the drunken, elongated strides of the two dickheads he called 'friends'. "Hey! Guys, c'mon - what's going on?"

"Just - shut up, pussy boy, let's go, fuckin' keep up," Steven sneered, shoving the glass door out of his way and nearly cracking it.

Outside, the in-ground pool was alight with multicolored lights. There were teenagers littered all around the pool deck; some lounging and some standing, all drinking. There was a kegstand in play, ping pong table hosting another game of Beer Pong, and the thick stench of cigarette smoke in the air.

"She's over there," Jake pointed, their sights turning to see you leaning over to huff on your cigarette while Tammy May Flipsen lit the end of it. Your smile was genuine as you thanked her, just stepping two feet away to gaze up at the stars - a perfect time to strike.

The alcohol in everyone's system made them slow, vulnerable, and downright stupid; leaving Steven and Jake the opportunity to seize either of your arms and literally rush you around the corner of the house without anyone intervening.

Once in the remote side yard, the sickening plan commenced.

Lawrence could barely approach, managing to watch with tears in his eyes as the noises of the party masked the noises of pain you emitted; two nearly full-grown men took out their anger towards your boyfriend on you. You cried, begged for reprieve, sounded so confused and broken that it shattered Lawrence's heart - briefly thinking what if someone did this to his sister...

That made him spring into action. "Hey! No! No, this ain't right! Get off her!" Lawrence barked, shoving the two away from your body on the ground. "That's enough - back off - fuck is wrong with you!?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" Steven demanded.

"Bitch has it coming!"

"What? You fuckin' her, too? Got you pussy whipped like Billy Boy?"

"Just fuck off, beating on a girl!" Lawrence snapped, but it was a huge mistake. Jake and Steven shared a single look before launching at the third boy, beating him as they had you - but much harder. He swore he earned a concussion, their heels stomping his neck, collarbones, wrists, ribs, ankles; exactly the same as they did to you.

"Tryna defend her now!?" Jake heaved, giving a swift kick to Lawrence's kidney. "Huh? You're so scared of Billy but you're gonna mess with his girl?" He laughed. "She must have a magic cunt or something!"

"You're so fucking pathetic, you have to beat up a girl!?" Law shot right back, earning a swift kick to the jaw from the lad that used to play soccer (or American fútbol). "Huh? Two on one? Such big men, aren't yah?" He sneered again, spitting blood to the side.

"Leave it," Steven halted Jake when he charged again, "they're both pretty fucked."

"Well, that dumbass should learn a lesson 'bout interfering!"

"Law's learned - he has, bro, and if he wants, he can learn again," Steven spat on Lawrence's form, Jake doing the same to you - both eventually stalking away like bored toddlers walking away from broken toys.

Slowly, Lawrence grunted as he pulled himself up to sit against the side of the house. "Fuck's sake," he whispered, wiping his eyes and wincing when he felt the sore skin - trailing a finger up, wincing again when he discovered split skin above his eyebrow. "Ohhhh, fuuuuck," Law drawled when you slowly peaked up from your fetal position on the ground. "Hey, hey, you all right? Stupid question," he hissed in pain when he moved to try and assist you.

You cried out when his grip laid on you, but powered through to let him help you sit against the house, too. "Holy shit," you whispered, blood dribbling from your mouth; teeth feeling loose, a headache already assaulting you, and cuts stinging in the bitter night.

"I'm so sorry."

"N-No, you - it would've been so much worse if you hadn't..." You trailed off, sniffling, "You didn't have t'jump in, you got hurt 'cause of me."

"You got hurt 'cause of Billy," Lawrence frowned.

"Huh?"

"That's why they're so pissed off," Lawrence explained, spitting more blood to the side; his jeans stained with mud, blood, and grass. "Billy got their asses few weeks ago, they're still pissed... I heard them," he deflected smoothly, "talkin' about teaching Billy a lesson through you. Didn't feel right, but I should've stopped them so much sooner. I-I'm sorry I didn't do more, Y/N."

"You did more than anyone else," you whimpered, drawing your knees into your chest to lock your arms around them. "I don't even know them, they go to our school?"

"We're all in AP History with Snyder."

You paused to nod absently, not even bothering to try and recall any interactions you might've had with Steven and Jake. Instead, you eyed your savior, mumbling, "You're Lawrence, right?"

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Your sister's... Cara? Sarah? No, no," you paused to think, his frown deepening as you seemed so nice and authentic. "Your sister's name is Natalie, right?"

"Yeah," he half-smiled. "You know her?"

"She's a sweetheart, has those cute glasses? Yeah, I like her; she just joined cheer, right?"

"Yeah, that's her."

You eyed him for a moment, ignoring the blood dripping off you both from the beat down; then whispered with a sniffle, "Is that why you helped? 'Cause your sister's on the cheer squad, too?"

"No," he replied instantly, sounding quiet (like you), "I'd like to believe if I saw something I know is wrong... I'd be the type of person to step in, try to stop it."

"You did tonight."

"I should've done more a lot sooner."

"You could've been really hurt, Law."

"Like you?"

"I'm just - look, two guys? Beatin' on me? Yeah," you scoffed, wiping blood from your split lip, "like I ever stood a chance. But you didn't have t'do all that, they wanted Billy, found me instead. You could've walked away, but instead, you jumped in, and you could've been really hurt. That wouldn't help anyone."

"I'm still sorry..."

You sniffled, but before you could respond, you heard footsteps thundering over the lawn; a voice shouting your name in frantic, panicked little outbursts. Looking up, you caught sight of a black leather jacket and unruly blonde curls, frowning deeper. "Oh, fuck," you whispered, withdrawing into yourself, "oh, no, no, not now. Not now, Goddamnit. Think I can make a run for it to the street before he sees me?" You asked Law quietly, nearly hissing your whisper.

"Ain't that Billy?" Law asked, finger pointed.

"He can't see me," you rushed in a panic, eyes wide and tears welling. "Lawrence, he can't!"

"Why?"

"He'll go on a fucking rampage, Lawrence! Ever heard going postal? Yeah, Bee gives that shit new meaning."

"They'd deserve whatever Billy wants t'do," Law frowned, tensing up when Billy had turned, caught sight of you two, and made an angry beeline for you in the grass. "U-Uh, Billy's approaching," he warned you as your boyfriend arrived, trying to pull back to give privacy, but wincing in pain that made him stop.

"The fuck is going - ? Oh, my fuckin' God," Billy trailed off, then whispered when he saw you huddled on the ground; your dress in tatters. Your head was bowed, knees drawn in, refusing to meet his eyes; making your leather-clad boyfriend lower himself to a knee. "Baby? Hey, look at me, sweet girl, lemme see... C'mon, baby, please, look at me."

You only sniffled.

"It was Jake and Steven," Lawrence told Billy, trying to find his feet; falling over and just giving up.

"Hell happened to you, man?"

Lawrence frowned, looking nervous, but your voice answered, "He saved me, Bee. Jumped in, took some of the beating."

Billy looked between you and Lawrence, but focused on you - seeing the injuries to your face and chest in full light. "Oh, my God," he breathed, looking you over in shock. Those pink, pillowy lips you adored licking and sucking on were parted in shock.

You half-smiled, "Think you pissed a few of the wrong guys off."

"Jesus Christ, sweet girl. What happened? Tell me, please, before I start making assumptions," he demanded, reaching for your cheek - making you recoil hard enough that your head banged on the house supporting your exhausted body. "Hey, hey," he whispered, looking physically wounded by your action, "'s just me, baby, it's just me, it's Bee, I'm not gonna hurt you. C'mon, sweetheart, lemme help you."

You sniffled, letting him reach for you again and caress your cheek so he could direct your head left and right; giving him a full view of your injuries that continued to weep. He stiffened as he took note of a new cut or bruise upon every new sweep of his eyes, his anger skyrocketing with every passing moment.

"It hurts," you whimpered. "Apparently, you beat the shit outta those guys weeks ago - guess they were waiting for an opening to strike back."

"You don't deserve this," he growled angrily. "Fuck - look at you! Goddamnit, I'm so sorry, princess, this is my fault. All my fucking fault, shit," he hissed, looking close to tears, "I put you here, I'm so sorry, baby."

"Got Lawrence his ass beat, too," you pouted.

"Sorry about this, man," Billy instantly offered the other boy, who was practically slumped over in the grass. He still managed to give a thumbs up. "But, uh, thank you for stepping in. You know, not a whole lotta people would."

"Nah, it was the right thing to do," Law frowned, waving him off.

"You said Jake and Steven did this?"

"Mhm," Law nodded. "Jake Chastain and Steven Barton."

"Yeah, I know 'em," Billy shook his head, "and I'll fuckin' kill 'em - "

"Can we get cleaned up first? Before we go murdering high school jocks?" You pouted in pain.

"Hey, man. You got a friend here or something? Someone to help us?" Billy asked Lawrence, still caressing your face with his thumb sweeping the apple of your cheek.

"My sister's 'round, yeah..."

"Want me to grab her?" Billy offered awkwardly.

"I'd actually appreciate it," Law whispered. "Gotta get home, yeah?"

"Yeah, man. Stay here, I'll grab her," Billy agreed. "What's her name?"

"Natalie, she's a cheerleader. Um... Y-You dated her beginning of the year?"

"I remember," he sighed, standing to his feet. He told you earnestly, almost sweetly, "I'll be fast."

But the thing is, you knew Billy all too well by now. "Wait, no," you gasped, trying to stand, "Bee, don't!" It was too late, he was already gone by the time you and Lawrence stumbled out from hiding; just in time to watch Billy point Natalie towards where you and her brother were. Then, he turned and surged up to an unsuspecting Jake and Steven; launching an all-out brawl against the two.

Neither of them stood a chance when Billy was THIS angry. Nobody did. In fact, if Jason, Tommy H., and two other guys hadn't pulled him back, surely, there'd be a lot more than a couple of broken bones. However, when Billy told the other basketball players in a spit-flying rage that these two cowards had attacked his girlfriend (a few turning back to get a look at you), it launched a new, mutual anger. Chrissy and a few other cheerleaders wanted to step in when the "fight" (more like attack) started again, but when they saw you, Lawrence, and Natalie, nobody said a single word. Nobody interfered. Nobody interrupted, and luckily, nobody else joined in...

Before Jake and Steven could lose their lives or sustain serious injury that would result in any arrests, Billy was pulled back by Lawrence - of all people. "Hey, hey," the beaten boy barked, "hey, man, chill - chill! These guys deserve it, yeah, I fucking know, but look, hey!" He grabbed Billy's shoulders to prevent him from turning back for the fray. "Hey! Your girl needs you, man. She needs you more than these bozos. C'mon, you can't go to jail over this shit, right? Right? How mad you gonna be if you get bagged 'cause of these jackasses?"

This seemed to force Billy back to reality and out of his homicidal rage. A few dudes who played football stepped in to hoist the unconscious jocks over their shoulders just to leave them on the curb a couple houses down the street.

Billy raced back to you.

Chrissy and Natalie were helping wipe blood from your skin and hair; clothes damaged, ripped, stained, beyond repair, and another cheerleader was holding a bag of frozen peas to your head as you leaned on her stomach. He slid his jacket from his shoulders, easing you off the girl's belly to leave it around your trembling form and then taking the girl's spot, supporting your body as you were tended to.

Eventually, Chrissy sighed, "I think that's the best we're gonna get you, honey. You want us to come over in the mornings? Help you get dressed and do your make-up?"

"No offense, but I don't think that's necessary... It's not like what happened is a secret," Natalie whispered, looking you over.

"Make-up might irritate the injuries," the other girl offered softly. "But it might cover some of those bruises, I just would avoid the cuts."

"I'm okay, girls, but thank you," you assured softly. "Bee's here t'help."

"Yeah, taking you straight to the hospital," he decided stiffly from behind you.

"What?"

"Think I'm not gonna get you checked out after this? Two men attacked you, I gotta make sure ain't shit's seriously wrong, baby. Don't fight me on this, please."

Billy's mind was warped with memories of sitting in ER's and other clinics with his mother nursing a broken wrist or damaged eye socket. His father's anger had always been a temperamental switch, something Billy felt he always had to outdo. Being in the hospital with you felt too similar, another bolt of rage zinging through his blood; hating the idea that you were the victim, and like his mother, he wasn't able to protect you.

Unlike his mother, this situation was directly his fault. He didn't even remember why he beat the shit outta Steven and Jake all those weeks ago, but whatever the reason, it cost him now. Cost you both.

The party continued inside the house, but Billy walked around the side yard, down to the front, then towards the street full of parked cars with you secure in his arms. After getting you settled safely in the passenger seat of his Camaro, Billy rightened and shut the door; seeing Lawrence and Natalie approaching their own car, the bag of peas now held to his jaw and cheek.

His sister was under his arm, helping him hobble. Billy gulped, realizing Lawrence was beat to hell, too, and if he hadn't jumped in, Lord only knew what state you'd be in now. When the two men caught one another's eye, Billy offered a nod of respect and thanks; the other lad returning it as if to say he was welcome. Billy raced for the driver's door, sliding in, and without turning any music on, drove off towards the hospital.

You were grumpy to be there, but one look at you had the medical staff moving at a quickened pace to help you; offering speedy aid. You were cleaned and cared for; questions regarding the level of assault making you nervous, but you answered honestly that two classmates had jumped you at a party. This meant the police were called; tears in your eyes and down your cheeks when you had to tell Chief Hopper (a close family friend) exactly what happened.

Billy provided their assailant’s full names and promised they wouldn't be in the best shape when (slash if) the two were found.

After hearing your story and writing the names down from Billy, Hopper sighed in empathy, "Kid... Don't admit t'anything."

"I'm not, I'm just making a casual note," Billy countered. "You know, people don't take too kindly to people hittin' a woman. Less so when she's drunk, alone, and they fuckin' stomp on her - "

"All right," Hopper tried to halt his built up anger. "Let's just take a breath here - "

"Uh, Chief?" His deputy interrupted. "Them boys? Uh, a... Jake Chastain and Steven Barton? They were just wheeled in from an ambulance."

"Interesting," Hopper noted, sparing Billy a small look. "From where?"

"A neighbor called them in, said there's a party few houses from her on Hawthorne."

Jim Hopper sighed and turned to you and Billy with his hands on his hips. His face was passively angry. "Sound familiar?" He asked, tongue sweeping over his teeth.

"Yes," you answered for you both, "that's where it happened, Chief."

His eyes softened when he looked back at you. "All right," he nodded, looking to his partner. "Go stand by their room, keep an eye - I'll be there in a second, but the victims made a positive ID. Doc's will treat 'em and we'll book 'em." When left alone, Hopper took a suspicious look around the hospital floor before sliding the curtains shut around your bed; moving to your other side, removing his hat, and kneeling. "Listen, kid," he whispered, taking your hand softly, "I got a daughter at home, too, and if anyone - and I mean, anyone - laid a hand on her the way you were tonight, I'd burn this town to the fucking ground."

Billy snorted in amusement, "Know the feeling."

Hopper nodded, "So believe me when I say, I need to know, off the record, what really happened tonight. Your father will need to know that I am doing everything to help - but I need to know the truth."

"I don't know what to tell you, Hopper," you frowned, matching his quiet tone, "I've told you what I know. I was a few drinks in, stepped outside t'smoke, and that's when they grabbed me, took me t'the side yard, and started wailing on me. I dropped, they kept goin', that's when this other boy stepped in. He got beat up pretty good, too, but he helped get them away. Billy showed up, we came here - "

"I hit them," Billy interrupted, making you squeak lightly. Hopper just laid his other hand over yours so he cocooned it; glancing around the under skirts of the curtains to make sure you remained alone.

Then he asked, "When?"

"After I made sure Y/N was okay," Billy explained, petting a hand over the back of your head; never looking away from Hopper. "I found her friend's sister, made sure someone knew where they were, and then I hit them... And I didn't stop hitting them."

"Kid - "

"Some teammates pulled me off, don't worry - it could've been so much worse. But when the others found out what they did to my girl?" He hissed quietly, "They took matters into their own hands by themselves, sir. My girl was attacked, I couldn't let that just slide, Chief, I hope you understand."

Hopper sighed, "Well, I can't condone the violence, but since it was a group effort, be a helluva lot more paperwork bringing you in versus those two who started it."

Billy nodded absently, your free hand laying over Hopper's to stack. "Did you call my dad?" You asked nervously.

"Not yet," he frowned. "I gotta check on the suspects, but I can after."

"Could you not? For me, please?" You sniffled. "He'll just worry and would get all pissy 'cause his trip has to be cut - "

"He's not home?" Hopper asked in earnest confusion with knitted brows.

Your head shook, "Chicago for the week."

"He left eight days ago," Billy snipped.

"Bee," you reprimanded sharply.

"Hey," Hopper squeezed your hand, "it's okay, you're over 18, I don't have to call him. But El and I are gonna drop by later with dinners and to check on you, her little friend, too, probably. You know, the, uh... The little red head?"

"Max?" You asked.

"Yeah, her. Nice girl."

"She's Billy's step-sister," you snickered, wincing when your broken ribs protested.

"You should rest," Hopper bid, "and thank you for being honest," he stood to his feet while nodding at Billy. "Tell you what, I won't report you starting the fight - technically... It'll be reported as a randomized group effort after they were caught assaulting Y/N."

Billy nodded, too shocked for words as Hopper patted your hand, placed his hat on, and exited the little curtained room. "Wow," your boyfriend breathed. "Since when are you friends with the Chief of Police?"

"He and my dad go way back," you eased.

"All cops like him?"

"Fuck no, you know that." After a beat, you reached for his hand to lace your fingers with him, "Hey," you bid, "I-I'm really sorry."

"Baby, just - don't even start - "

"No, for earlier, for our fight," you interrupted, "and for feeling petty enough to go to the party alone when I know you don't like that... For drinking, not being more aware like you taught me. I didn't use the buddy-system when I went t'smoke, it was a major fuck-up, I know, but I'm just sorry. I feel like I've disappointed you or something - "

"No, hey, sweet girl," he rushed, sitting on the edge of the gurney to stare at you directly, "don't you ever feel that way - you didn't do nothing wrong. Hear me? You didn't put yourself in this position, you didn't deserve what happened, you didn't - no, just," he sighed deeply, "you didn't do any of this, sweetheart. Okay? If anything... If anything, this is my fucking fault and I'm the one who is so sorry."

Your head shook, but Billy continued,

"They did this to you because of me." Tears filled those sweet baby blues. "Because I don't have a hold of my temper - I fucked them up, so, they fucked you up. This is my fault, I'm so sorry. But look, hey, I'll fix this, okay? I swear to God - I'm gonna fix this."

"The cops got 'em, we don't have t'do anything else," you mumbled. "You don't have to do anything else, Billy."

"Maybe not, but I can't let this go - look at you," a single tear dripped. "Fucking look at you, my sweet girl. In the fucking hospital 'cause of me - I can't - this ain't right. I gotta make it right."

You couldn't answer because a technician was arriving to take you for a CT, MRI, and X-Ray - all of those scans that would tell them what was going on internally. Hopper was seen outside the two boy's rooms - Billy following your bed closely as you where wheeled away. Every scan or test he could remain close for, he was; stepping back when needed, but being sucked right back to your side when able.

By the end of the night, you were released into Billy's care because all patients with head injuries had to have some kind of chaperone, and a few floors up, Steven and Jake were being handcuffed to their hospital beds by Hopper.

"Real lucky I wasn't there when you hit her," Jim Hopper seethed quietly, tightening the cuff on Jake to an uncomfortable grip. "Your parents would need money for your funerals - not bail," he offered one single more glare before leaving the next shift of deputies on duty. He sped all the way home and held Eleven in a suffocating hug.

Turns out, you sustained decent injuries from that night.

A (cleanly) broken ankle. Six different broken ribs. Split lip that required two stitches. Stitched earlobes from where piercings were ripped out. Severely bruised collarbones, bordering on broken. One blackened eye. Along with other generic bruises and cuts, more seemingly discovered as the days drug by slowly.

Billy was ready to mow down anyone in his way at any point, but his only ability to get through the school day was that he saw you everyday afterward. He dropped whatever sport and / or club that held his interest, collecting coursework you missed, then driving Max and "Jane" Hopper to your place. He would've lashed out if this was any other situation, but because you asked him to behave and bring you the materials you needed, he did. He played nice.

The two assailants, Steven and Jake, had been arrested by Jim Hopper. They apparently had a rough ride to the station, but that wasn't here or there. What they did to you was far worse that nobody batted a single lash when the two were brought in the station for booking, looking freshly beat up and bloodied. A judge also rejected their bail.

Billy brought you whatever work you missed during your recovery at home, most teachers shocked to see him so diligent in showing up and making the collections. He didn't understand whatever the teachers told him about the work, but you did - and it was fascinating to him, watching you work or study. He usually sat by your window to smoke, but on the occasion, you asked for a toke and wouldn't care about where the smoke blew. So, as weeks passed, he stopped specifically going over to your window; just leaving it open for ventilation so he could remain at your side.

Anything you needed, he got. He did. He gave you. Guilt was one helluva motivator and Billy was chalked-full; so, he did the only thing he knew he could, being acts of service.

You were laid up, it made sense. He could bring you into the shower, get naked himself and help you bathe. He could carry you downstairs, cook for you, help out around the house by keeping it clean because he knew it stressed you out. He would collect the mail, water plants, do dishes, just turned into a househusband that made your stomach and cheeks feel all warm and fuzzy. Never did you think Billy had the ability to be domestic, but here he was, in your great-grandmother's kitchen, wearing a stained apron while trying to bake cookies while you worked on a physics project.

"Hey, Bee?"

"What's wrong?" He asked instantly, setting the hot tray to the stove.

"No, hey, calm down," you smiled with a small laugh. "I was just wondering... You know, like... What's gotten into you?"

"Huh?"

"You know what I mean," you huffed, setting your pencil down. "You literally haven't let me out of your sight except when you're at school."

He shrugged, "You need help."

"You don't ask if I do."

"I don't need to ask when I can just see it."

"Billy."

He sighed and begrudgingly scraped cookies off the hot tray to rest on the cooling sheets. "Your dad asked me to stay close," he offered.

"Bullshit."

"No, really," Billy insisted. "He's in and out with work, so, he asked me to stick around, just in case."

"Okay, fine, but it's more than that. Billy, tell me the truth, baby, please. It's not a bad thing, I'm just curious what's really going on."

"I'm just... I'm just nervous, you know?"

Your head cocked, "Why's that?"

"Look what happened to you," he chuckled ruefully. "All fucked up, can't even go t'school until your ribs are healed - all 'cause of me. 'Cause I fucked up and went too far - "

"William," you snapped, making his wide, shocked eyes meet yours. "I'm not gonna listen to this anymore. Okay? I know you're sorry, you tell me everyday, andI know you're feeling guilty, but this isn't your fault, you're not the one who put hands on me - "

You flinched when he lobbed the cookie tray into the sink, causing a ruckus, his voice yelling over the noise, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

"William!"

"I'm trying to protect you!" He yelled, tears swelling when he whipped around to face you. "I-I don't know what else to do! Look, okay, say what you fucking want, but the truth is, those two assholes came at you 'cause of me. Okay? 'Cause I had to be myself and beat the shit outta them 3 months ago, they never forgave - they didn't forget. I put you in this situation, that now? Now, yeah!" He laughed without humor. "Yeah! I'm fucking nervous leaving you alone! Fuck knows what could happen to you, and who's to say there aren't more people out there just waiting for this kinda opportunity! Baby!" He rushed for you at the kitchen table, your mouth sewn shut in shock as he found his knees in front of you and took both your hands in his. "Baby, listen to me. You're the only thing - no, I'm serious!" He insisted when you looked ready to protest this sentiment you've heard before. "You're the only thing I fucking care about, that I want to protect, and they all know it - I don't exactly hide it. I love you so fucking much, they'd do this again - they'd fucking hurt you to get to me and that idea just..." He sighed, looking lost.

You pulled a hand free to instantly caress his cheek, turning his attention upward until his eyes met yours. "Billy," you whispered, "baby, nobody's after us. This was just a freak accident, this was a fluke, okay? You're worried anyone else is gonna come at me, at us, but I know nobody else is that fucking stupid. They wouldn't test you, and Jake and Steven took advantage of an already bad situation. Okay? We had a fight - which was pretty public. So, people knew we were at odds, and when I showed up at that party alone, started drinking, it was their perfect opportunity to strike."

"You can't say that, we don't know if anyone else is gonna test us," he sniffled. "I've made a lot of mistakes... Pissed a lot of people off. One of them might've grown a pair."

"Okay," you relented, "then I guess we're gonna have to stick together, you know... So you can keep me safe, right?"

He chuckled dryly, "I'm trying, princess."

"Well, we can work out a better way - one that doesn't run you into the fucking ground, Billy, Jesus," you searched his face. "Are you sleeping? At all?"

"'Course I am - "

"Don't lie to me."

He sighed, deflating a little, "I sleep... Only when I stay here."

"Billy, you stay only a couple nights a week when Daddy's home."

"I know."

"So, you basically only sleep when Daddy's out of town and you stay here?" You squeaked, watching him nod; pouting and feeling your own guilt brew. "Baby... Look, can we just agree that this isn't either of our faults? Right? Yeah? If I'm not allowed to think this was my fault, you aren't either."

"I was the one they wanted t'hurt," he shook his head. "They did this 'cause of me, sweetheart, how can you be so - so - fuck! So fucking understanding a-and forgiving?"

"Because I love you," you answered like it was common knowledge, even giving a small giggle.

"That doesn't... But that doesn't even - "

"What? Mean anything? Bee, it means everything," you smiled at him. "I love you, so, when you make mistakes, I forgive you - even though there's nothing you've done. I mean," you winced slightly, "sure, maybe we could reduce the kids you bully or beat up, you know, limit the enemies we might make. And this is something that can be redeemed, can't it?"

He stared at you from the floor, slowly deflating, "Can it? I've fucked up so much, doll, I don't think I deserve whatever forgiveness you wanna give me."

"You can't keep beating yourself up," you snipped. "Hey? Hear me? Look, it happened - it fucking sucked, but it happened and it's fucking over. We both need one another to help move on, okay? So, I need you back, Bee, I need my man back because we need to get through this together. You don't get to sulk in your guilt, I don't get to stew in my regret, we need to help each other out of this."

Billy sniffled, "How? How do we move on when you've still got stitches in your lip?"

"They'll dissolve in a few days," you shrugged meekly. "We move on together, okay? Maybe you pick up basketball again, try to distract yourself. Billy, we need some normalcy again, right? You know?"

"Doll, being away from you makes me feel like my lungs are gonna pop," he shook his head. "I'm afraid something might happen if I'm not there, it's fucking scary after finding you in your own blood."

"Then I'll be at every practice," you eased. "You can drive me to and from school, then you know where I am - you'll know I'm safe."

Billy stared at you a moment, fully dropping to the floor as his energy finally drained. He ran a hand through his hair, rustling the curls, admitting in a soft voice, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to not feel so guilty, how to move forward."

"There's no playbook," you agreed. "Guess it means we gotta figure it out ourselves, but again, we do it together. C'mere," you sighed, lowering yourself to the floor with your booted ankle held out.

"No, don't - "

"Fuck off, I'm not totally unable to do shit," you grunted, adjusting yourself and reaching for him. "Come here, please, I wanna hold you! Been cuddling me this whole time, lemme be the big spoon, please."

"Just told me to fuck off, sweetheart, kinda sending some mixed signals, aren't'cha?" He chuckled, turning so his back was to your chest; leaning so you supported him in his slump. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he muttered, holding the arm around his collarbones. "I really - if I knew this was gonna happen, I'd never of fought them."

"I know, and I forgive you," you whispered in his ear. "But we can't keep doing this back and forth, okay? I forgive you, Billy, no more apologies."

He sighed, "Yeah... All right..."

"Steven and Jake are arrested, we won't have t'see them again. Hopper will make sure of that," you smirked against the shell of his ear. "And the doctors said I should be good to return to school next week, but I'm out of cheer and everything."

He groaned, "Just something else I've fucked up for you."

"Oh, please, I love the time off," you teased. "Gives me all the time I need to watch my man on the court, huh?" He half-chuckled at your words. "You know I'm ahead in all my classes now, too? Teaching myself at home is far superior than the teacher's bitching at us for eight hours."

"You're gonna love college, baby," he chuckled, the two of you lulling into a comfortable silence. You held him tightly, nuzzled into his neck; both sitting in your emotions, trying to navigate a way out.

"We good?" You whispered.

"We're good," Billy agreed, just as soft. "No more apologies... Try to have less guilt. But you're gonna let me stay close, right?"

"I want you clinging to me so hard, I can't fucking breathe," you smirked. "And if Daddy really asked you to stick around, then you're welcome to stay here longer, even if he's here... Where I can have you close to me," you whispered, licking the skin under his ear. He stiffened.

"No - you better not," he squirmed when you licked again, adding a little teeth in a scrape.

"Billy," you pouted. "It's been weeks!"

"You're still hurt," he argued, turning on the floor to look at you. "I'm not gonna be responsible for breaking another of your ribs 'cause we were horny."

"I'm doing so much better, though!"

"Tell you what," he smirked. "Next business trip of your dad's, I'll fuck you all weekend - wherever you want, however you want."

"He has one in two weeks."

"Mhm, and you have a check up before he leaves."

You eyed him for a moment, "When did you become responsible?"

"I've always been."

"No, this is new. You're remembering dates and my doctor appointments and my dad's work schedule."

"Maybe I just like taking care of you," he whispered against your lips with a growing smirk. After pecking you lips, he quipped, "So, shut up and let me."

"Yes, sir."

requesting rules and masterlist

Stranger Things masterlist

[munsonsmixtapes]

Save a Horse

Tyler Owens x fem!reader

summary: you and your best friend, Tyler decided to test the waters and take your friendship to the next level, unbeknownst to the both of you that you’re in love with each other.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

The bar was hazy when Tyler walked into it, a line dance already in formation. He didn’t even want to be there, but he was trying to make himself actually get out there again. He hadn’t been on a date in what felt like ages, so he was a little rusty, but a few beers should have fixed that. Despite his looks, he wasn’t very good with the ladies. Any time he would try to flirt, it came off offensive or borderline sexist because he got a little too cocky. But this was his night. He was desperate to get laid, his hand no longer doing the job.

He made a beeline for the bar and ordered a beer, surveying the area for whoever he was going to take home for the night. There were a lot of pretty women and he was trying not to be picky. This was just to get him back out there. The sex didn’t have to be good and it certainly didn’t have to mean anything.

His eyes locked on a pretty blonde that was on the other side of the bar, barely visible through all of the dancing bodies. She was already staring him down, sipping on a drink with a straw and Tyler was wondering what else she was willing to suck on. He downed half of his beer and made a beeline for her, trying to go around the dancing crowd so as to not get caught in it.

But then he heard something, someone who stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head to the left and sure enough, there you were, arguing with someone like you always seemed to be doing.

You were beautiful. So much so that he couldn’t help but stare. You were dressed in a black tank top that was tucked into a pair of very short denim shorts and a pair of black cowboy boots were on your feet. Before he could stop himself, his feet were gaining a mind of their own as they carried him over to you.

He finally stood at your side, but you were paying him no attention, your argument with the stranger still going strong. You looked seconds away from pulling out your earrings and hitting the man. And as much as Tyler knew he should have stopped you, he kind of wanted to see you do it. You had a bad temper you never took out on anyone who didn’t deserve it.

“I don’t understand why you won’t just give me a chance,” the man said. That seemed to unleash something in you because you stepped closer to him, nothing but fire in your eyes. Tyler wasn’t a fan of how he still found you so hot when you got angry. The way your eyes would be filled with fire and your nose would twitch and your mouth would twist as you were trying to decide what you were going to say next.

There were so many times where he wanted to kiss you when he had done something to upset you. Clearly nothing had changed since he was staring directly at your mouth, watching your lips move. They were painted with a red gloss, making them even more inviting. But nothing was coming out of them. The place was loud but not loud enough to where he couldn’t hear what you were saying when you were only like a foot away from him.

“Maybe because you slapped my ass?” You replied, surely seconds away from beating this guy up. Tyler’s eyes widened, hurrying to stand beside you before he could stop himself.

“You did what?” He asked in shock.

“You bent over to grab a pool ball that fell off the table and you’re saying I wasn’t supposed to smack it?” Tyler cracked his knuckles, wanting to hit the guy himself.

“Yes,” you and Tyler replied in unison. You turned to him and he looked good. Almost too good. The scruff on his face did him well and the cowboy hat on top of his head looked far better than it should have. His white t-shirt clung to his body and you hated how much his jeans hugged his waist.

You wanted him, and bad. So much so that the man had been the starring lead in your fantasies that you had come up with every night before you went to bed. You had been in love with him for years, wondering why you hadn’t asked him out when you had the chance. He was so sweet and caring and you wished that you had been the one he had flirted with when he had a few drinks in him.

“And who are you?” Tyler asked, draping an arm over your shoulder. You loved when he got like this, all authoritative, taking control of the situation. If it had been up to you, you would have taken him right then and there.

“Who are you?” The man replied as it he had the right to be angry with either of you. Tyler felt the need to protect you, even though he knew you didn’t need saving. He just wanted to drape his arm over your shoulder to let everyone know you were his.

Well, that was what he wanted you to be. You had never gotten to that point and it was all his fault. He had been too afraid to make your friendship something more. He was stuck in the friendzone where he had put himself for years, kicking himself for not asking you out the first night he met you.

“I’m her boyfriend so I suggest you move along before I have Enrique throw you out.” You could take care of yourself just fine, but something about Tyler always jumping in to protect you always made you feel a little wet in your panties.

The man just muttered something under his breath before turning away, not wanting to get kicked out again. With him gone, you turned on your heel, heading back to the bar to order a much needed shot with Tyler hot on your heels.

Tyler couldn’t help but let his eyes drop to your ass, and watching it move as you walked in your tight shorts was torture to the man. He always found himself wanting to get a handful for himself, sliding his hands into your back pockets as he kissed you until you were breathless, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You’d let out a loud moan and he’d grab you by the backs of your legs, helping you wrap them around him-

You stopped at the bar and ordered a drink before turning to face Tyler as shots of tequila were set on the bar, as if the bartender could read your mind. You reached for both and handed one of them to your best friend.

“Drink up, Owens,” you nudged him and you both downed the shots, feeling it burn all the way down. You both slammed the empty glasses down on the bar and you eyed him, wondering what he would have said if you had invited him to the bathroom right that second.

There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite make out. A look that you didn’t recognize in any way, shape or form. They were soft and sweet, just like you remembered. In that moment, you could feel your anger towards him falling away. You could never be mad at him for too long, especially not when you looked into those beautiful green eyes and this time, you could tell that he wasn’t trying to use that to his advantage.

“Thank you for that,” you said, nodding your head towards where you both had just been. “And to thank you, I’m adding your drinks to my tab.”

“That’s real sweet, darlin’, but you don’t need to thank me.” That nickname always managed to make you absolutely melt, loving the way it fell from his lips so naturally. “Just your friendship is enough,” he winked.

“Oh, shut up,” you went to shove his shoulder, but he was quick to grab your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to it.

“Alright,” he took another sip of his beer. “Dance with me,” he said, tilting his head up a little.

“Dance with you?” You had no idea what he was talking about, wondering if he was expecting you to read his mind. If you had been able to do that, you definitely wouldn’t have been working at the bar part-time.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Dance with me as your thank you.” He couldn’t be serious.

“Yeah, not happening,” you shook your head. One thing you didn’t do under any circumstances was dance. A ballet recital gone wrong when you were ten made you swear off the activity entirely, never wanting to be embarrassed like that again.

“No way.”

“Fine,” he took another sip of his beer. “Then I’ll just dance by myself.” He slowly headed to the dancefloor, giving you every opportunity to back out if you didn’t want to do it. His hand moved back, his palm facing you as he continued to head to the dance floor, wiggling his digits to get your attention.

You rolled your eyes even though his back was to you and reluctantly put your hand in his. Tyler pulled you out onto the makeshift dance floor and the two of you somehow ended up directly in the center. He was able to quickly pick up the routine while you were left to flounder, moving awkwardly because of your hands that were still attached.

You watched him move so effortlessly, feeling odd being right next to him since you were always there on the sidelines when he was a part of it. He’d smile at you as you sat at the bar, waving you over, but you always shook your head. But now that you were finally dancing with him, he was hoping that it could become a regular thing.

He liked the way your shoulders would brush when you moved the wrong way and the way you’d squeeze his hand to communicate that you were nervous. You turned the way that you thought you were supposed to go but ended up bumping into Tyler, nothing but a chuckle falling from his lips as he looked down at you.

“Follow me, okay?” He asked and you nodded. “Turn around.” You did as he asked and turned around, your back facing him. His hands slowly moved up to your waist, letting them make a home there. He had touched you there multiple times when he had hugged you, but this was entirely different. So close to the way you had wanted him to touch you, but not nearly enough.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, his lips right by the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. Of course you trusted him. Maybe more than you should have.

“Of course,” you responded with a nod.

“Follow my lead, darlin’.” It was as if he was trying to drive you crazy. Like he knew the exact effect he had on you. But he had too, right? This was all an elaborate way to get you to admit that you had feelings for him. Well, two could play that game.

You kept in rhythm with him, slowly but surely backing up to him, your ass right up against his crotch. You gingerly began to grind on the spot, resisting the urge to turn and see his reaction. You could tell he was enjoying it just by the way his fingers were digging into your waist.

You moved the two of you out of the way of the dancers and continued to grind on Tyler, your movements still slow, but harder now. You could hear his breathing pick up, feeling his nose brush your jaw, his breath on your neck sending another chill up your spin.

He never thought the two of you would be dancing like this, the movements so sensual and sexy. You knew exactly what you were doing and it was fucking unfair. He could feel his cock hardening and pretty soon, he wouldn’t be able to hide it anymore.

“This isn’t the right dance,” he chuckled.

“I know,” you nodded. “But don’t you like this more, Owens? I can feel you getting hard.” Just when you were going to really take it home, you were suddenly turned around, a gasp leaving your mouth at the sudden movement. Your hands landed on his chest and Tyler’s hands rested on your lower back, pulling you as close to him as possible.

You leaned closer to him, your lips brushing his and the man was convinced he was a goner. He could feel your gloss that had transferred to his own lips and wanted it other places, anywhere you could get your lips. He loved the idea of being covered in your kisses, the prints leaving your mark behind.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sugar,” he said, his voice low, raspy. And it was doing wonders for you. He was so hot and you were having a hard time not making a move anymore.

“Oh, I fully intend on finishing,” you responded, finally pressing your lips to his. His eyes widened at your actions, but he was quick to melt into you, his lips catching yours slowly.

His arms wrapped around your waist even tighter, pulling you as close to him as possible. Yours wrapped around his neck, your hands running through his hair at the back of his head.

Your head felt like it was swimming, his lips more soft than you could have ever imagined. He tasted like the beer he had been drinking, mixed with something else you couldn’t quite make out. It was sweet and sour.

You pulled away before it could get too heated and Tyler admired the lip gloss that had smeared across your face, very tempted to go back in for more. His thumb swiped across your cheek to help get rid of it, but that didn’t seem to help, only smearing it further.

The weight of what you had done was catching up to you. You had just kissed your best friend. You had just kissed your best friend and you liked it. You had only gotten a taste but now you wanted more. All of him. You wanted to finally make your fantasies a reality.

And you couldn’t. You couldn’t do that without completely complicating your friendship and you really liked what the two of you had. It was really nice at first, to have a friend without all of the “feelings” bullshit, but now you had actually fallen for him. And hard.

“Fuck,” the word fell from Tyler’s lips, his voice somehow getting even more raspy, making you even more wet. God, you really were fucked, and not in the way you wanted to be.

“Do you wanna take this out to my truck?” You asked, your hands lazily moving up and down his back.

“I’d love to take this out to your truck,” he replied, pressing his lips to yours before paying your bills and leading you out of the bar, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist.

You rifled through your purse, looking for your keys and found them before unlocking your truck. Tyler opened the driver’s seat door for you before helping you into it. He then closed the door and rounded the hood before getting into his own seat.

You peeled out of the parking lot and sped down the road, thankful for how late it was so there was little traffic. Your heart pounded as you pulled into what looked like an abandoned parking lot.

Why you were scared of what you were about to do, you didn’t know. Tyler was sweet and you knew that he would do whatever he could to make you comfortable. He was nothing but a sweetheart and would make you feel good, stopping at nothing to do so.

You put the car in park and turned it off before turning toward Tyler. You stared at each other, the only thing that could be heard was the radio playing a soft country song. You turned the volume up to attempt to drown out your thoughts. What the hell were you doing? You didn’t know, but you were fully prepared to dive right in.

Tyler reached out, placing a hand on your cheek before pulling your face closer to his, his lips ghosting over yours, almost as if he was afraid to go for it. That confidence from the bar completely evaporated into the air.

You took the lead, pressing your lips to his, your movements more rushed and rough as you nipped at his bottom lip. He let out a little whine and that was enough to make you absolutely soaked.

Rain pattered against the car as you slotted your lips together once more before pulling away. You climbed over the center console and placed yourself into his lap, straddling him.

Tyler looked up at you, his pupils blown and his lips smeared with your lipgloss. It was an adorable sight and you hated how good he looked in that goddamn hat. You took the hat off of his head and put it on your own, moving your head this way and that, modeling it for him.

“How do I look?” You asked, turning your head to the side and he just laughed.

“You look good,” he nodded.

“As good as you?”

“Even better,” he replied, pulling you in for another kiss, removing the hat from your head and setting it on the driver’s seat.

He slipped his tongue into your mouth, letting it swirl around yours and a moan fell from your lips at the sensation. His hands slipped into your back pockets, giving your ass a squeeze and you gasped into his mouth which only made him do it again.

You began to grind against him as your tongues tangled together and you could hear a groan in the back of his throat. The whole thing was overstimulating for him, there was no way he was going to ask you to stop any time soon.

Your hands rested on his chest as you kissed him, this one slow and gentle, as if you two had all the time in the world, and right there, in that abandoned parking lot, you did. Your tongues tangled as you continued to grind into him, your underwear getting soaked as you felt his dick forming a tent in his pants.

Tyler’s hands moved to your shorts as you reached down on the side of the seat in search of the lever that leaned it back. You found it with ease and leaned the chair back as far as it would go as you let Tyler take what he wanted from you, you pliant to his every move.

You both struggled to pull down your shorts, laughing because of how small the space was. Maybe there was a reason why neither of you ever did this kind of thing. He got them down to your ankles and you moved so he could take off his jeans, his belt buckle making a clattering noise as it hit the tops of his boots.

You both removed your shirts and Tyler eyed the black lacy number you were wearing. His hand moved up to run over the fabric of the tops of the cups, his fingers brushing your skin every so slightly.

“Like what you see?” You asked, leaning down a little so he could get a better look at your cleavage. And you had him right where you wanted him, catching him staring right at it. You scooted up so that they were right in front of his face and he brought his lips to the skin, pressing a soft to it.

He then moved up, his lips now connected with your neck, his tongue swiping back and forth as he began to suck. You moved your head to give him more access and that caused him to nip at your skin, another gasp falling from your lips.

“So good,” you moaned, your eyes shutting. He continued to work, having every intention of creating a hickey right there underneath your ear. He licked and sucked, pulling the most delicious moans from your mouth.

To test the water, he grazed the skin with his teeth and you moaned loudly, reaching your orgasm. God, you were so fucking hot, the way you were able to make the most pretty sounds and look pretty while doing it. The sweat already forming on your skin, making you look absolutely irresistible.

You helped him get his underwear down and realized there was no going back as he cock sprang free from it. It was hard as a rock and probably the biggest you had ever seen. Who knew that your best friend was packing so much? Clearly you didn’t.

You pulled a condom from your purse and rolled it onto his cock before placing yourself on top of it, both of you moving awkwardly as you got used to each other in that way. Your hands rested on his shoulder as his head went to your waist, helping you move, riding him slowly.

You picked up the pace, and Tyler couldn’t help but watch you, feeling himself getting close just by looking at you. The cause of his wet dreams right on top of him, almost convincing him that he had been in one.

He let out a moan of his own and you looked down at him, your eyes darkening as you did so. You had barely even done anything as he already looked blissed out. This had to be a record. Knowing that you could do that to someone gave you so much power and you got more confident, moving as fast and as hard as you could.

Tyler let out another moan, his own scream climbing up his throat, his fingers digging into your waist, surely forming bruises. His head was back against the headrest, his eyes shut tight as another scream ripped through him, his breathing labored.

His hands moved up your back, his nails gliding down it, leaving scratches and your back arched at the movement, reaching your own orgasm. But you stayed there, seeing if you could get one more from him before taking a break before going for round two.

“Holy shit,” he moaned. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said through breaths.

His hands scratched up your back as you watched him, seeing that he was close again. A final loud moan fell from his lips and you slowed down your pace but kept moving, another orgasm rolling through you.

You sat there, staring at each other, your chests rising and falling as you did so. You never thought you would have ever gotten to that place with Tyler, but there you were, sitting on top of his dick, having just had the best sex of your life. And it hadn't even lasted that long.

“I have an idea. And hear me out, okay?” He asked, his hands moving up and down your arms lazily.

“Okay.”

“What if-what I want you to be the only one I sleep with?” Your eyes widened at his words, but you had to admit that you loved the idea. There was no way you could fuck anyone else after that. He had ruined you for any other man.

“Oh, so like friends with benefits?” So you didn’t understand. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. He wanted you to be his. Solely exclusive with him. His girlfriend. The one he went to bed with every night and woke up to every morning.

“I love you, y/n,” he said, sitting up, taking you into his arms, looking you in the eyes so you knew he was serious. This wasn’t exactly how he had planned on telling you, but he supposed that this was a good a time as any.

“I love you too, Tyler,” you replied, pressing your lips to his, this kiss sweeter than the others, both of you smiling into it. “Be mine?”

“Oh, darlin’,” he let out a chuckle, pressing another kiss to your lips. “I always was.”

[thesongoficeandfir3]

The wolf, the raven and the arrow

Benjicot ‘Davos’ Blackwood x Fem Stark reader

Au, after the war and the blacks won

Warning: I don’t think so lest you count my bad writing ahahah 😔

You currently stood in the training yard of Riverrun, shooting arrows at the target up ahead. You and your elder brother Cregan, were on your way back to Winterfell from queen Rhaenyra’s coronation. The journey from King’s landing to the North was a extremely long one, so it was decided to stop at the Riverlands for a few days for rest and the opportunity to not have to sleep in a tent another day.

As you continued to shoot the arrows, at the corrnor of your eye you noticed the young formidable lord of Raventree Hall looking at you. He was leaning against the fence of the training ring,snacking on an apple while his men roughhouse around him. When your eyes locked with his dark ones, you rolled your eyes and continued to shoot. From the very first day you stepped foot in Riverrun, Benjicot Blackwood eyes would always be on you.

When you were breaking your fast or having dinner in the great hall with others you would always notice him looking at you, moments as this one when you were in the training yard, he never failed to be at some corner his eyes taking in your figure. If you pass him briefly in the halls, he was always looking at you and would only look away when your figure finally disappeared out of his sight. You two had yet to hold any real conversation as your brother was always accompanying you nearly every where you went. This time however, Cregan was busy in the company of Alysanne, something you will for sure tease him for later, alas leaving you by yourself.

Benjicot knew he’d be a fool to not use this opportunity of you finally being all alone, without your intimidating brother trailing next to you like a guard dog. As you tried to keep your attention on the task at hand, you heard the men suddenly whistle and cheer, though you didn’t turn around you just knew it was directed towards you.

You then heard the sound of a large amount of them walking away from the training yard and one walking towards you, their boots causing a squelching sound in the mud. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Lord Blackwood.” You greeted him formally though there was no warmth and friendliness in your tone not even bothering to look at him instead shooting another arrow.

“Lady Stark” he greets you back in an equally formal tone of voice, but the smirk on his face showed that he had little to no respect for formality. It was simply to mock yours. After the greeting it goes quiet, save for the sound of you readying another arrow to shoot at the target.

He snickers as you miss your shot, the arrow straying a few feet away from the target. He may not have been there for long but judging by the looks of it, you had yet to hit a bullseye.

“You really are a terrible archer, aren’t you?” He says as he takes another bite of his apple before throwing it off to the side.

“Clever of you to say that to someone who still holds the bow and arrow.” you bark back immediately.

This causes the young lord to chuckle again not feeling offended or threatened in the slightest. He still stood behind you, and little to your knowledge his eyes never left your figure and occasionally analyzing it from head to toe. He found your fiery temper amusing and couldn’t help but wonder if he could push you any more.

“I’ve never seen someone shoot this poorly… and that is saying something considering I’ve seen five year olds train with bows.” He replies nothing but pure mockery in his tone.

His words caused your blood to boil, and you quickly shoot another arrow to try and prove him wrong however, this time the arrow doesn’t even make it remotely close to the target but shoots to the forest behind.

He let out a bark of laughter, making no effort to conceal his amusement at your failure. “Are you trying to be a bad shot, or does it come naturally to you?”

You knew deep down this….he wasn’t worth it….you knew proving him wrong was a waste of time yet, your pride got the better of you. Again you took another arrow, changing your stance and ready to shoot. though you already set yourself up for failure as your stance was all wrong but you did not know it.

To be fair on your part, you were still relatively new to archery and your brother was in the process of teaching you, so you had a lot to learn. That being said, it should be another reason as to why you shouldn’t bother to try and prove to the Blackwood lord you’re not good when in fact… it mayhaps have been the truth.

As you were so focused ready to hit the target, you didn't even notice Benjicot had left his previous position, till he was directly behind you. Your breath hitched as you felt his chest pressed on your back. You could feel his heat radiating off of you, providing a comfortable warmth in contrast to the slight cold and wet environment as it had rained a few hours prior.

“What are you-“ you say with a shallow breath .

“Relax, I’m just trying to help,” He whispers, his lips hovering just over your ear. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in response. “First, your hips don’t need to be pushed so forward.” He says as he slowly moved your hips with his hand, guiding your body to the correct position for the shot.

Then he moves up and places his hands over your own as you held the bow. “Second you don’t need to be so tense,” he says as he leans his face even closer to yours. If you had turned your face even in the slightest you were sure your lips would meet his. You do as you’re told and with a shaky breath you relax. “That’s it, just like that. Good girl… now shoot.”

You felt a strange twist at the pit of your stomach at his words, and it took everything inside of you to not react. You finally release, the arrow goes flying and hits the target square in the center, right in the bullseye.

You gasp in shock and a smile spreads across your lips. While your eyes never leave the target, Benjicot’s eyes never left you.

He immediately noticed the soft smile on your face and found himself surprised by it. This was the first time he saw you without a scowl or frown on your face around him. He can't help but feel a bit pleased that he has managed to provoke such a reaction from you. As much as he enjoyed annoying you,he enjoyed making you smile more.

“So you are capable of smiling.” he says whispering in your ear, breaking the moment of bliss between you two.

You then realized that he was still very much hovering over you and his hands found their way to your hips keeping you close to him. You quickly elbowed him in the stomach shoving him away from you,and creating a good distance between you two in the process. Though there was a small part if you that missed the warmth.

He let out a small noise as your elbow connects with his stomach, the blow knocking a bit of the wind out of him, but despite the pain smirks. “And the she wolf is back,” he chuckles extremely amused at how fast your mood changed. “though I’d be lying if I didn’t say I liked your fiery side a bit more than your soft one.” he said as he straightened up himself from the blow.

“You want a woman with fire... go marry a Targaryen.”you say with a scoff as you leaned the bow and arrows against a post near you.

“Tempting as it is to have a dragon for a wife, I think I prefer wolves.” Even though you had assaulted him last time he was near you, he began to take steps towards you.

“Wolves eat ravens.” you said with your arms folded and stared at him as he walked towards you.

“That's what makes it fun…. the danger.” He flashes you a toothy grin, swiping his tongue along his teeth.

He continues to walk towards you, his steps slow and measured like a predator, his eyes never leaving yours.

“By the seven- you're psychotic and relentless.“

He chuckles as you comment on his behavior, not like he hasn’t heard that before. He is now standing right in front of you again, that grin still on his face as his eyes look into yours. He reaches a hand up and brush some of your hair away from your face, his touch gentle.

“And you've not seen anything yet.” He spoke out in a low tone

The way he looks at you and his gentle touch made you feel that same pool of excitement in your stomach as when he was fixing your position. To be honest you had really nothing against him , hell you don’t even know why there was ‘rivalry’ between you two but at the same time you couldn’t give in that easily.

“You don't give up do you?” You say not pulling away

“Never, not when I want something.” He leans his face closer, his lips mere inches away from yours.

“And what is it that you want?” you say relishing in the moment you get to mock him.

He continues to speak in a low, suggestive tone.

“I think you know the answer to that.” He says with a grin his eyes analyzing and drinking in all your features, as this was the first time he got to be so close to you.

And what makes you think I want the same?” You say continuing to tease him. “I'm a lady of one of the seven great kingdoms... the only daughter of the late lord stark, what do you have that other lords don’t?

“Would you like a list?” He quips back, his voice dripping with confidence.

For the first time you laugh from his words. “humor me, Blackwood”

“I’d worship your body every night and make sure to leave you breathless. I’d be loyal to you, and would kill anyone that dare to cross you. I’d give you all my attention,” he then runs his thumb on the bottom of your lip and his voice going lower “I may be a lord but a woman like you deserves to be a Queen, and I’d make you my Queen in all but name.”

You would have caved in right then and there if you hadn’t noticed your brother in the distance walking into the castle bringing you right back to reality. Your eyes flicker right back to Benjicot.

“That’s very tempting lord Blackwood but I’m not so easy to tame with mere words” you say as you leaned up and gave him a quick kiss at the side of his lips before walking to Cregan.

“I’m not ready to stop running Blackwood” you say with a laugh as you walk away.

“And I’m not ready to stop chasing you lady Stark” he replied back, his eyes again never leaving your figure. He didn’t see this as defeat but as courage to work harder.

[teaboot]

As someone who learnt english as a second language via textbook, I have to say "flying by the seat of my pants" is a hilarious idiom xD

It's the first time I've seen/heard it.

Could you share another one you like using?

Idk about idioms specifically, but there's a bunch of phrases I learned from my mom!

Lord love a duck! (Incredulous, like 'oh my god')

Lord suffer in sheep dip! (Sheep dip meaning sheep poop. Incredulous, but for annoying things- like 'are you kidding me?')

Is there a piano tied to your ass? ('Don't be lazy, do it yourself')

Someone's cruising for a bruising. (You're picking a fight.)

I don't give a rat's rip. ('I don't care'- a rat's 'rip' is it's butt crack.)

Pull up a stump! (Get yourself a chair, sit down.)

Everybody out of the pool! (Get out of the car)

I'm flying by the seat of my pants. (I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it.)

Don't go blowing smoke up my ass. (Don't over-compliment me, don't flatter me, don't stroke my ego, don't tell me positive lies)

Looks like it's gonna rain on our parade. (A storm is coming.)

Sorry to rain on your parade. (I've given you bad news- can be used sincerely or sarcastically to denote sympathy for incurring a bad mood.)

Better button that lip. (Stop talking.)

Someone's gonna stick a boot up your ass. ('Stick a boot up your ass'- fight you, beat you, kick your ass.)

Stick that lip out any further, and a pigeon'll shit on it. (Stop whining.)

Suck it up, buttercup. (Stop whining.)

Dumber than a fence post. (Very stupid.)

The back forty. (The wild or forested area behind a rural home. The 'forty' being forty acres, or farmland.)

Don't go begging for a fat lip. (Whatever you're saying or doing is going to bother people and get you in trouble.)

What on God's green earth (What the fuck)

I'm sweating like a pig in a porta-potty (like a pig in a plastic outhouse- I'm very warm, it's hot here)

He thinks the universe flew out of his ass. (He thinks he's more impressive than he is.)

Your mouth wrote a cheque your ass couldn't cash. (You promised more than you were capable of providing.)

You've got a horseshoe up your ass. (You're very, very lucky.)

Taking a dirt nap. (Dead.)

Pushing (up) daisies. (Dead.)

Give me forty acres to turn this rig around. (I need time and space to move this large, heavy, or unwieldy thing. Usually about navigating a vehicle. Taken from a song lyric.)

Jesus take the wheel. (God help me, I can't handle this, I give up.)

Gone belly-up. (Has died.)

We've got a floater. (This one is dead.)

Herding cats. (Trying to organize chaos, managing an impossibly complicated situation.)

I've got a black thumb. (I am bad at growing plants, all my plants die- reference to having a 'green thumb', or being good at growing plants.)

Stop trackin' floor cookies. (Floor cookies are bits of animal shit that fall off your work boots- 'tracking floor cookies' means wearing your boots in the house; take your shoes off at the door.)

Running around like a headless chicken. (Frantic, disorganized, stressed out by many tasks or panicked by a big situation.)

Spinning my wheels. (Waiting around for something to happen, getting nowhere, frustrated by inactivity, not making any progress towards a goal.)

He's gonna blow a gasket. (He's going to lose his temper, he's going to be angry.)

They'll tan your hide. (They'll punish you severely; usually through violence. Specifically in reference to a spanking.)

He's a few bricks short a load. (He's not clever / he doesn't think things through / he's crazy)

Not the sharpest tool in the shed. (Not the smartest person. Very dumb, clumsy, or absent-minded.)

I'm not going to bail you out. (Not going to save your sinking boat- not going to help you out of your bad situation.)

Looks like things are going south. (The situation is growing worse.)

I'll start making tracks. (I'll leave now, I'll start working, I'll get going.)

He's fucking the dog. (He's not being productive, he's doing a bad job, he's made things worse, he's screwing around.)

He's making puppies. (Less graphic version of 'fucking the dog'.)

Plant your ass. (Sit.)

Playing grab-ass. (Procrastinating- accomplishing nothing, slowing people down.)

He couldn't find his ass in the dark. (He's stupid, ineffective, underqualified, or incompetent.)

He couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel. (He is unbelievably, comically dumb or ineffective. He can't do anything right.)

One foot in the ground. (Dying, or half-dead.)

I'm kicking rocks. (I'm not doing anything productive.)

I'm hauling ass. (I'm running away.)

Madder than a wet hen. (Very, very angry.)

Like I said I'm not sure that these are all idioms but they're all the phrases and sayings from my childhood that I can remember right now

EDIT: Cannot BELIEVE I forgot my mom's favourite

52. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which gets filled first. (Wishes don't come true by themselves)

Plus some more I forgot:

53. You make a better door than a window. (You're in the way of my view.)

54. You can take a long walk off a short pier. (Go fuck yourself.)

55. He's about as sharp as a bowling ball. (He's stupid.)

56. Scoot your poot. (Move over.)

57. Not my first rodeo. (I know what I'm doing.)

58. He's built like a brick shithouse. (He's broad and sturdy and very strong, solid.)

59. I smell bacon. (I saw a cop nearby.)

60. I don't want to hear a peep. (Stop talking.)

61. You're thinking with the wrong head. (You're making bad decisions because you're horny.)

62. I'd lose my ass/head if it wasn't tied on. (I'm very absent-minded, forgetful.)

63. That went down like a lead balloon. (That situation was bad.)

[rambling-at-midnight]

Nightlight

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason comes home to find the reader dealing with an ocular migraine as they finish an assignment due at midnight. He takes care of you.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: non-graphic references to past injuries.

Jason tumbled through the apartment window with a black eye and a newfound appreciation for Duke. Fewer criminals tried their luck during the day, yes, but those that did were arguably crazier than the ones that used darkness to hide.

Speaking of using darkness to hide…

Jason squinted. Every light in the apartment had been turned off. Had you gone to sleep? It wasn’t that late.

He called your name, vigilante-honed instincts prickling as he clomped further into the living room. “You here?”

“Yeah,” came your voice from inside the bedroom. You sounded annoyed, though Jason couldn’t figure out why. When he’d left in the morning, you’d been perfectly cheerful, assuring him that you would spend the day catching up on homework so the two of you could have an interruption-free Saturday. He’d only patrolled today because Duke offered to look over Crime Alley while Jason was gone. All the other little shits Bruce adopted wouldn’t do it.

Jason cautiously pushed open the bedroom door. You sat on the bed, the only source of light in the room your glowing laptop screen. It lit up your face and the thick glasses perched on the bridge of your nose.

Ah.

Jason was pretty sure he knew what was going on. Still, just to make sure: “Your head hurt, honey?”

You just grunted.

Jason’s lips twisted. He never liked seeing you in pain, of course, but it was sometimes… ironic how a headache could put you in such a bad attitude when you could handle other kinds of pain without batting an eye. He hated seeing you in pain, of course, went out of his way to make sure that you stayed safe and happy and healthy, but an unavoidable part of life was discomfort.

After scalding your hand on the side of a pan on the hot stove, you’d asked him for assistance making the rest of dinner, with only your white-pressed lips an indication of the pain. Dinner went unfinished, of course, when Jason saw the burn and took you to Leslie, despite your loud and vocal protests that all would be fine. Then when your hand slipped while chopping cucumbers for a midday snack and the knife drove deep into two fingers, almost to the bone, you just called to Jason that you would be back in a little while. He’d been occupied with a book on the couch, and it wasn’t until your absence made him twitchy that he checked your location to see you at the hospital.

That had been a heart attack and a half. He checked over you every time you left the apartment now.

Hmm. There was a common theme with your injuries, actually. Maybe Jason should just keep you out of the kitchen.

Through all that pain, you kept on a good face and a better attitude, more focused on calming Jason than yourself. But as soon as a migraine came on, you scowled at him for opening the door. For talking. For breathing too loudly. Heaven forbid he shut a door with more than the quietest of clicks, for fear of a loud and exaggerated huff from you.

“It would hurt less if you turned off that laptop,” he pointed out.

You scowled. Migraines shorten your temper. “I have to finish this essay.”

“Couldn’t you take a nap and finish it in a couple hours?”

“It’s due in a couple hours,” you snapped. “Do you even know what time it is?”

Jason checked his watch and, shit, he’d stayed out a lot longer than he’d meant to. It was nearly nine, and this essay was due at midnight. Taking a nap wasn’t really an option.

He slipped off his boots, then padded further into the room until he could peer over your shoulder at the screen of your laptop. “You’re nearly there,” he said encouragingly. It had to be five pages, and you were at the end of four.

“I know,” you said, then sniffed and wrinkled your nose. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, well, the Gotham sewers aren’t known for their—”

You let out a little shriek and pushed off the knee he’d propped up on the bed. “You were in the sewers today and you got into our bed without changing?”

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Jason said hastily. “No, I didn’t go into the sewers.”

You eyed him with no small amount of suspicion, but evidently love and trust and everything else that people felt when they dated, yada, yada, won out. “Well, go shower anyway.”

He pointed at you faux-sternly. “You better have that finished by the time I’m done.”

You pretended to snap at the tip of his finger, but he didn’t flinch. You rolled your eyes, which obviously hurt, judging by your flinch and that you immediately closed them. “Yes, yes,” you said. “Glad you’re home safely and all.”

“Oh, my beautiful love, your cup doth overflow with affection,” Jason said drily.

“May yours overflow with poison,” you muttered.

The bed dipped when Jason leaned back over to you, propping himself with his hands and one knee; you sat in the very middle of the mattress, just slightly out of reach from the sides. He pressed his lips to the side of your head, both to kiss and to judge your temperature. No fever. It was just a migraine. It didn’t stop him from worrying. “Should I be worried the next time you bring me a cup of coffee, darling mine?”

“Just go shower,” you muttered. When Jason shuffled back, one finger crooked in the collar of his jacket, and a pair of soft lips pressed into the corner of his mouth. Jason blinked at the not-quite kiss. “Love you and all that.”

“I love you too.” He tried for a real kiss, but you swatted him away, informing him sternly that you had to submit the essay on time and couldn’t have him distracting you. “Did you take any meds?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“What about water?”

Again no response.

“Well, no wonder,” Jason muttered under his breath, slipping out of the bedroom and into the kitchen for a cup, and then into the bathroom for the painkillers kept in the cabinet. You took what he offered with little complaint, focused on typing.

Jason showered quickly. He always had. You were the opposite. He had no idea what you even did when you stood under the stream of water for forty-five minutes. He emerged from the bathroom with a gust of steam—while neither of you agreed about the optimal length of a shower, you both agreed about the best temperature. Hot water was a valuable commodity growing up. Jason would never forget to appreciate it.

The room was entirely dark, your laptop discarded. Jason flipped the switch for the bathroom light and squinted as his eyes adjusted. You were back on your side of the bed, not curled on your side as you usually slept, but rather on your back with an arm thrown over your eyes. It took you much longer than that to fall asleep, but Jason made sure to move silently. He pulled aside the covers and slipped in as gently as possible, but you still let out a sound, drowsy-soft and innocent in the way Jason could never be. He wiggled under the covers until his shoulder brushed yours, then turned onto his side. The pillowcase was already growing damp from his wet hair, but he didn’t care. With his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Jason could make out the angles and planes that made up the face he loved.

Your mouth twitched. “I can feel you staring,” you murmured.

“Can’t help it,” Jason whispered. “I ever tell you you’re pretty?”

“Mm. Maybe a couple times?”

“Let me do it once more.” Jason lifted the arm over your eyes to kiss your temple. “You’re so pretty sometimes I look at you and think I’m just going to die.”

“I think that’s the poison affecting you, actually.”

You rubbed your eyes, wincing. When you had migraines, you’d told him, it felt like sandpaper rubbing in your eye sockets and a hammer beating from the inside of your skull. Jason didn’t really understand when you described your vision going staticky, but it made him nervous. Unfortunately, despite his many requests, Bruce refused to investigate whether summoning a humanoid form of the concept of migraines and killing it was possible. Probably because it probably wasn’t.

“I’d ask you how patrol went, but I really don’t want to hear anything right now,” you whispered.

“If you really want to hear about it, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“I do,” you said, more a sigh than any actual words. “You’re warm.” You scooted closer and Jason hummed, dipped down to press his lips to your shoulder, then rested his cheek against it. Your legs tangled with his. An eternal question: how were your feet always so frigid?

“No more talking,” he said gently. “Just sleep.” It was the only cure he’d figured out for the headaches.

Instead of a response, your other arm wedged beneath Jason so he could use it as a pillow. He slung an arm over your waist; your fingers drifted along his scalp. “Ugh. Your hair’s wet.”

Jason smiled. “Yeah, I just showered. Now shh.”

Never a good sleeper, it took the better part of an hour for your hands to still in Jason’s hair—it would look ridiculous come morning—and your breathing to even out. When he was reasonably confident that you were asleep, he lifted his head. Yep. Your face finally looked relaxed.

Jason allowed himself to follow after you into sleep.

He woke to the sound of a toaster beeping and the smell of coffee. Bleary-eyed, he rolled over to see you standing in the doorway with two mugs. “Morning,” he grunted.

“Morning,” you said, obviously recovered and in a much better mood. “Here.”

“Wow, what did I do to get the breakfast-in-bed treatment?” Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really trying to poison me, honey?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” After Jason took a sip, you pressed a kiss to his lips, morning breath and all. “If I was going to poison you, it wouldn’t be with something in your drink. That’s too obvious.”

Jason chuckled and tried to sit up, the movement of which slopped coffee over the edge of his mug and onto his shirt. He hissed. “You’re hilarious.”

“You certainly think so,” you pointed out, one eyebrow raised.

He took another sip of the coffee and asked, “Feeling better today?”

“Yes.”

“And you finished your essay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Jason flushed when you just kept looking at him. “What? I got something on my shirt—besides the coffee?”

“Nothing,” you hummed, drinking from your own cup. “Just thinking I’m lucky to have you, I guess.”

Jason tried to hide the color in his cheeks with the coffee mug by taking a generous gulp, but he was pretty sure it didn’t work, judging by the way you took it, set them both on the stand by the bed, and cupped his face with your hands. You squeezed his cheeks together, making him give you the ‘pufferfish face,’ or so you called it. “Thanks for taking care of me,” you said, then kissed his puckered lips. “Now, tell me how patrol was.”

“Before or after you set our kitchen on fire?”

“What do you—oh, shit!”

You scrambled out of the room to get to the smoking toaster before it set off the fire alarm in the whole building. A terrible thought crossed Jason’s mind, and he threw the blankets off his legs and chased after you. “Whatever you do, Y/N, do not try to get that toast out with a fork!”

He really needed to keep you out of the kitchen.

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@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe

My requests are open! Feel free to shoot me an idea or just stop by to say hi!

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.1k w.count- boothill needs a lil tune up [...y'all should've seen this one comin' honestly]

you're not sure why you bother setting an alarm every time you go to sleep. you don't even know when you'll be sleeping for one; it could be in the afternoon, it could be in the morning, it could be for ten minutes at your workbench, and on the rare occasion, you can even go to bed at night like everyone else. although, that last option when blessed upon you, never lasted the whole night.

as for the original dilemma of alarm clocks? who needs 'em! the critters getting into your shop and wrecking your tools around were a surefire way to get your blood pumping with a wild chase around the shop with a hefty, swinging wrench. kids stopping by to see the newest hunk-of-junk thing you've been tinkering with or maybe even bringing you some toy to fix with whimpering chins are always sure to keep you awake- you couldn't send them away with smashed hopes. perhaps it was a good natured older lady or gentlemen just stretching their legs one fine morning after you had pulled an all nighter, but now you have to entertain their gossip well into the morning past the ass-crack of dawn because you can't be a bad host!

this instance, however, just so happens to be the familiar sound of heavy, metal boots clanking their way through the shop's public entrance. the sound of the stomping reverberates around your small little rest room at the back of your shop through the camera feed you keep running at all hours (mostly for those critters previously mentioned). having just fallen asleep on top of being hyperaware of sounds from the feed, your eyes fly open. with a well-overdramatic, one-person show worthy groan evolved to frustrated yell, you were throwing your shabby blanket off your legs.

"wakey, wakey!" the synthetic voice of an overly familiar man projects into your room.

you stomp across the room in two short strides. slamming your palm down on a button attached to a small table with all sorts of other switches and knobs, the small indicator that audio is feeding from your microphone kicks on as red as your temper.

"the hell do you want?" you growl, voice muffled at the end of your exhausted question by your free hand running down your face. you hear his voice chuckle on the other end. peering through your fingers into the video screen, he had moved to stand away from your shop door. his arms are crossed across his metallic chest, chin tilted up so his one eye can gaze into the camera that follows his movements.

"now, now, sugar," he chuckles, "just open the door, would ya'? i could use some fixin' up." as if trying to coax you into letting him in, he waves one of his arms around by the elbow.

you're not sure if he heard you click your tongue before you lifted your hand off the audio feed button, but he chuckles nonetheless as the soft click of disconnection echoes on his end. he knew you'd come racing to the door... well, at the very least you wouldn't leave him out to dry.

the cowboy dips his chin and chuckles under his breath as the brim of his hat shadows his face. he could hear you stomping your way towards him and just imagining your irritated face with a possibly twitching brow was highly amusing to him.

the door in front of his toes swings open inwards and the rush of air as it did so flutters his long bangs that always covered the right side of his face. his chin rises a fraction, and he was right. your face was assuming.

standing in a wrinkled shirt that you no doubt had been trying to sleep in, arms crossed and a crease so deep in your brows he was tempted to push his thumb between them.

"well," he starts, swaying his hunk of metal bodyweight to one of his equally metal legs, "ain't you a sight for sore eyes."

"what. do you want." you hiss. before he gives you a verbal answer, his arm swings down and swipes something from his pocket before presenting it in front of your face. your eyes nearly go crossed to examine it. then you're looking back up at him, not any more amused than before. "is this supposed to be a bribe?"

the cowboy shrugs playfully, twisting the covered candied sucker between his fingers.

"do ya' want it to be?"

you roll your eyes, bringing your arm up to snatch the small boost of sugar from him. "just get in here, boothill." you sigh, free hand coming to rub your forehead. turning your body to retreat back into your home, the clanking of him following behind echoes at your back.

boothill whistles at the state of the familiar shop he'll find himself in from time to time for quick fix-ups. a workbench loaded with heaps of scrap metal, tools, random bobbles, and screws all littered on top of pages and printed blueprints of projects or repairs. it's even more of a chaotic mess than last time. he sits on the stool he normally snags as his when he's here and, without speaking, you're hooking up a small machine attached to the wall next to the bench and offering him the end of a circular cord.

"need a charge?" you ask with a small lisp from the candy you had already unwrapped and placed in your mouth against your cheek.

"well, why not," he entertains. taking the thick, extendable cord from your hand and plugging it into the port on his lower back.

you flit around a few other places before your snagging a stoll for yourself and placing it in front of his knees. you push some estranged tools around with your forearm and, while moving your sucker from one cheek to the other, you begin to maneuver your hair out of your face.

boothill enjoys watching you in this way. it felt familiar- just seeing someone move around in rather mundane ways. this small sense of domesticity was familiar and comfortable. it calmed him; reminding him of home.

"what's the problem?" you finally ask, looking a tad bit more awake and more or less ready to work on whatever issue he had to present.

his right arm moves to cross his lap and his palm bangs twice on his opposing forearm where his internal revolver barrel is.

"i got myself in quite a fuss with this dang thing. forkin' bullet got jammed in the goose-dud thing and i can't even pop the barrel open to reload it."

you stare at him like he just said the dumbest thing you've ever heard. "you came all the way here. because your arm got jammed by a bullet." the way you spoke sounded exactly how you looked at him.

"this ain't no one-handed fix, sugar." you stay quiet, not willing to admit he had a point. using both hands to not only try and pop open the jam, but also tinker around with what was essentially his whole arm's motion control- that did require a bit more finesse than just slamming his arm on a wall until it gave way... which is precisely what you could imagine him doing.

"fine," you yield. "take off that sorry excuse of a 'jacket' unless you want that sleeve covered in oil."

you twist away from him, half-standing at a strange angle to reach across your workbench for something as the satisfying sound of the bottom of his small zipper unlatches. shrugging it off, he tosses it onto your bench, covering a few loose tools and scribblings of paper.

you fully get out of your stool and trot over to the other side of the shop to roll over a smaller table with a metal tub. you wheel it to his left and, without instruction, boothill lays his arm over it.

as you begin to tinker around with his arm, picks, pliers, oil and all working on trying to dislodge the stray bullet that had caused such an issue, boothill has taken to lounging comfortably as he watches.

his right arm, free of any issues or problem fixing, was propped up on the corner of your workbench at his side with his forearm resting along the edge. his metal fingers had snagged a stray nail from the workspace and had been twirling it absent-mindedly between his knuckles like a bullet.

the only words spoken between you both as you worked was the occasional quick apology if something you did prods against a wire that sent a shock up his arm or made his fingers twitch.

"easy. last thing we need ya' doin' is settin' my gun off, sugar," he had told you. just because his arm machinery wasn't properly loaded- ain't nothing was stopping you from accidentally relodging the bullet and sending it through your wall. the sudden discharge coupled with his exposed wires could easily kick his arm back with enough recoil to knock you clean out with how close you were leaning in to see what you were doing.

"okay..!" you whisper to yourself before the sound of something sliding down in his arm is followed by a sensation; one he was almost familiar with. "give me a wrench. heavy," you instruct. on hand was spread across his forearm just at the start of the revolver barrel, the other outstretched towards your bench. grabbing the nearest one, he slaps it into your palm.

with a two, heavy whacks using your newly acquired wrench, you slam the barrel shut and boothill lets out a small breath.

"now, that feels a heck of a lot better," he chuckles. you reach around his forearm, release the tension latch and the barrel swings out successfully. with your pliers, you easily remove one problematic, greasy bullet. "knew i could count on you to get the job done."

"and thanks to you, my hands are gross," you chide. fingers greased in oil. boothill grabs a rag from your workbench drawer and tosses it over your sullied hands. you start working the cloth between your fingers the moment it hits your skin. "i recommend you stick around and charge up before heading out on whatever you got lined up next."

"shucks, you mean it?" you can't tell if he's genuinely thankful you'd allow him to stay or if he was just being facetious. once your hands were at least dry, you start using it to wipe down his arm next.

"course i do. i'll have to give you a quick check again before you go. i'll mess around and try and make it so it doesn't jam like that again. whatever tech-doc you worked with before really needed to focus on the finer details." boothill wondered if you knew that you had lifted his newly repaired limb and started rotating and twisting it like you were admiring your work. like you were admiring him.

"they don't matter no more," he tells you. "i got ya' now, don't i? who needs some random rear shirt-bag, when i got the best in the forkin' business right here?"

"careful now. flattery will get your everywhere."

"no shirt?"

"watch your mouth," you tease before you stand. "i mean it though. stay put and charge."

"i ain't no stupid electronic," he clicks. his body moves and twists so both of his arms are now leaning on the workbench behind him. both elbows supporting him as his arms dangle off the ledge. "but I hear ya'." his eye shuts under the shadow of his hat.

his eye reopened no sooner than it shut when the shadow caused by the brim of his cowboy hat disappeared and the light of your shop flitered through his eyelids. with a clear, open eye, he lifts his chin to see you standing in front of him.

you had pinched the brim of his hat between your fingers, snatching it off his head and revealing the fullness of his long, dual-colored hair and cross-hair-infused eye. you take his hat and nonchalantly toss it behind his right shoulder to avoid getting any residual oil from his left arm on it.

"take your damn hat off inside my shop will you? you don't need it." you turn away from him as he continues to stare at your back, slack jawed. you mutter something about washing your hands and arms before you disappear behind a doorway and around the corner of the wall. he'd been in the entirety of your shop before, so he knows where you went but all he could think about was you flicking his hat off him.

the cowboy let his head fall backward, the hair on the backside of his skull tangling with screws and pencils as his right hand comes to rest over his face. he can hear the water running in the other room.

"ah, son of a nice lady...!"

boothill has really got to tell you not to mess with his hat.

a/n: one day i'll write a flirty hat rule fic. *sigh* one day.

[suugarbabe]

omg ok ok ok, I love your Sirius, so, I'm wondering if you could write a sirius x fem!reader who is maybe the grumpy to his sunshine? he's the one who is always super flirty and outgoing and the life of the party, and she would sort of rather die but begrudgingly puts up with it for him? OH but maybe one day she has a bad day and he gets to see a softer side of her 🥹 IDK idk I'm too excited to request this is so bad sorry my love xoxoxoxo kisses for youuuu

I am *living* for this okay. l i v i n g. because Sirius is my sunshine to my grumpy. I am the grumpy reader. okay let’s do this baby. kiss kiss kiss yoooou <3

Opposites attract right? At least that’s what others seemed to deem as the explanation for your relationship. Sirius was in a category all his own as far as you were concerned, but that category was nearly the opposite of where people would place you. Sirius was a people person, it came so easily to him it was like he never even had to try. It annoyed you to no fucking end when you first met him.

Being a descendent of the most noble and ancient House of Black had its advantages. Like incredibly sharp cheekbones, beautiful alabaster skin that contrasted perfectly with onyx locks and eyes so deep and blue you could drown in them. Sirius exuded this energy that seemed to pull people towards him; like he had his own force field. He could walk into a room and everything shifted, like he breathed extra life into the area and everyone was desperate to live.

Most people when asked about you would say you were…short-tempered. Your housemates tended to steer clear of your presence. Which was fine with you because you were easily annoyed by most of them. Ravenclaws were known for being know-it-alls and truthfully you found it rather repugnant. Thankfully you had Pandora as company. Usually her overly sweet demeanor would drive you insane, but you knew more than the rest. Being a Rosier sorted into Ravenclaw essentially meant she was the black sheep of her family. But that seemed to be your soft spot.

Pandora would tease that this was why you started falling for Sirius. Despite your more grumpy demeanor, you were never quite as grumpy when it came to Sirius. Hearing the ins and outs of what was going on over breaks from Pan made you want to take care of him.

The first time Sirius brought you around the rest of the marauders it was not without sideways glances. “Er, Pads, you seemed to have picked up a shadow,” James nodded towards your frame just behind Sirius. “Sod off, Potter,” you’d grumbled, Sirius’s palm big and flat against your back moving in slow circles. “S’alright love, he’s just teasing. Be nice, Prongs or she’ll hex you into next week and I won’t be able to stop her.”

“Not that you’d try to stop her, would ya mate. I’m Remus, but all these miserable gits call me Moony,” Remus gave a small fingered wave as he plopped onto the couch ceremoniously. He would eventually turn into the one that’d help you gang up on Sirius, if ever needed.

On this particular night, though, you were feeling just…down. It wasn’t often you felt like this, despite outward appearances. However when this feeling did hit you, there was only one person that could fully get you out of it. You knew that the Gryffindors were having their annual Halloween party. Which meant if you wanted to find Sirius that’s where he’d be.

You had of course agreed to come to the party ages ago; much to do with Sirius begging and pouting his pretty pink lips and sucking you in with his pretty blue eyes. Sirius had insisted that costumes were required, “Even for an angel like yourself” which earned him a particularly large eye roll. Thus, you threw on some fishnet tights and a black minidress with your signature black boots. Atop your head a small pair of black cat ears, thanks to Pandoras charm work.

She was dressed as an actual angel, charmed halo floating above her nearly white blonde locks. Any muggle would think they were truly hallucinating if they would have seen her. You greeted the fat lady with the password, “Hiddlypunks,” and she swung open. Within the first few steps one would be none the wiser. But two steps into the commonroom and the barrier was broken, music and singing and murmuring filling the room.

“Drinks yes? Please yes,” you nodded at Pandora who found her way to to the drink table to create what you were hoping were very strong concoctions. You didn’t need to look around in order to find him. That magnetic pull leading you closer and closer until you heard the boisterous laugh of Sirius Black. You were quiet in your approach, not drawing any attention to yourself on purpose. Even though you yearned for his touch you knew how much he enjoyed entertaining and didn’t want to interrupt.

Remus spots you of course, the observant bastard. He throws a playful wink in your direction; you responding with a middle finger and a forced smile. Sirius is in the middle of recalling “a truly amazing play, great play” from the last quidditch match, but Remus’s low chuckle from your display of affection towards him causes your boyfriend to turn around in search of who could have possibly pulled attention away from him.

His furrowed brows disperse as you catch his sights and smile lights his face, “Well, hello there, Kitten.” You give a weak smile in response, “Hi Siri.” His brows are furrowed once more. The others try to greet you but immediately you’re swept away to a farther corner of the room. Sirius swirls his wand around you both, muttering a quick muffliato, coating you both in silence. “Okay, out with it what’s wrong?” Sirius’s hands were laid gently on your waist, head dipped down to force your avoidant eyes to keep contact with his. “Come now, pet. You know I can’t do anything without knowing what’s wrong,” he urged, giving your waist a small squeeze.

You met his eyes and yours immediately began to brim with tears. In an instant Sirius has engulfed you, one hand grasping your head and holding you close to his chest while the other wraps around your back, squeezing you as close to him as possible and hoping the pressure of his pull is soothing. His heart breaks ever so slightly at the muffled sobs against him. Your emotions seem to be everywhere but embarrassment is toping the list as you begin to pull away, aggressively wiping your face with the heel of your palms, hoping no one but Sirius is noticing you in this state.

"I-I'm sorry Siri, 've just..." you trailed off, choked breaths causing your intake of air to stutter. Sirius's touch has yet to cease, one hand cupping your cheek gently while the other finds solace in the dip of your waist, "Rough day, love?" You nod once, looking to the ceiling and willing any tears to fall back into your head instead of trailing down your face. "Alright, let's go," his head tilts towards the spiral staircase that would lead to his dorm.

You sniffle quickly, shaking your head, "N-no, I'll be okay. I'm not going to take you away from the party, Siri. Not gonna steal you from your friends like that." Sirius can't help but scoff, "Fuck my friends." You laugh a little at his brashness and the sound makes Sirius grin again, "There you are, love." He takes a quick peek over his shoulder, "Now. Let's just go tell the others we're going up, Remus will make sure we're left alone for a good few hours then, hmm?"

You nod, agreeing, knowing that there's no use in arguing with Sirius when he's made up his mind. His fingers laced with yours and the cool feeling of his rings are such a contrast the the heat in your body that it's calming. He gives your hand an extra squeeze as you approach the group. You decide to try and stay hidden behind Sirius, almost burying your face against his shoulder blade, barely peeking one eye out to see the others.

Sirius explains that he's feeling tired and wants to go back to the room with you. James does not look convinced in the slightest. He looks even more confused by your seemingly shy and reserved demeanor. He doesn't think he's ever seen you look so...vulnerable. Remus is the only person you make eye contact with and he gives you a simple wink and a nod. The reassurance from the smallest action making you sigh in relief.

It's almost like Sirius can feel you relax slightly, turning to you and asking if you're ready to go. You give a feeble nod and a shy wave to the others, most of which look a little skeptical but say no protests in return.

When you make it to his dorm Sirius immediately goes to his trunk, pulling out his favorite concert tee and handing it to you. You take off your outfit slowly, pulling his shirt over your head and letting it consume you, the additional scent of Sirius now enveloping your body and adding to your relief. Sirius changes himself and then pulls back the duvet, "In you go, pet."

You oblige, going and getting comfortable on your back. Sirius climbs in after you, crawling over your form and placing two soft kisses on either apple of your cheek before giving you the most gentle yet firm kiss. He rests his head against yours, asking you almost in a whisper, "D'you wanna talk about it?"

"No," your response so soft it would've been missed had it not been only you two in the room, "Will you just...lay on me?" Sirius kissed you softly once more, scooching down just enough to lay his head on your chest. He wrapped his arms around you, relaxing himself and allowing his full weight to now lay on top of you. The weight of your boyfriend was the grounding you needed, your breathing now finally able to even out.

[wearywinchester]

Wrong Turn

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When a fight with Dean leads you to take a breather, what was supposed to be a quick walk turns into something more.

Requested by Anonymous: “Hi <3 Can you write a Dean x Reader, they are in a relationship but they have a nasty fight one night, reader goes outside for a walk to take a breath but there is a storm and it's raining bad and she just gets lost and Dean freaks out when she doesn't come back? Angst and fluff please.”

Warnings: angst, arguing, swearing, mentions of blood, injury, anxiety, fluff

Tempers were well beyond their limit, a seemingly ongoing theme of the entirety of that day, stretching all the way through to that evening. Dean’s anger was never a surprise, not when it came to those that he held closest to himself. He can’t help it, never could. He gets himself so tightly wound with the ever growing desire to keep everyone safe, to keep everyone no further than arms length. He gets himself so worked up that he bursts, let’s that anger gush out of him in bouts of swearing and strings of words he almost always regrets later.

Tonight was no exception, not even close. It just might’ve been the worst fight the two of you have had in quite some time.

“I can’t believe you,” Dean says behind you, the motel door slamming shut faster than you can turn around to see him shove it closed with his boot.

“Believe what, that I did my job?” You say.

He was fuming, you could hear it in his voice. It was gruff and his words were sharp, an edge to it that wasn’t present most of the time. There was no humor, voice of that sweeter side you’ve always loved. It was filled with anger and frustration, deepened with irritation.

He chuckled, empty and humorless at the words that fell from your mouth and into the tense space. Did your job. To him, that was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing you could’ve ever said in your life given the context. The stupidest even.

That chuckle was so beyond bitter as he looked at you with a narrowed stare, those beautiful green eyes the angriest you’d ever seen them. Not at all soft as they most often were, not at all gazing at you with an adoration you can never ever fathom comes from looking at you. That loving gaze is replaced with the utmost of frustration as he stares you down, brows knit together.

“Doing your job? That’s what you’re calling it?” He says, laughter in his words as he tosses his duffel bag on the bed harshly, some of its contents spilling out of the half zippered opening. “Since when is putting your ass on the line to lore a damn monster a ten times stronger than you doing your job?”

You roll your eyes at his words, at the way he raised his voice. You wanted to say you couldn’t believe what you were hearing but that’d be a lie. It was Dean Winchester after all, you expected it.

“We hunt monsters for a living, Dean. Did you think I was just going to sit back and watch it kill somebody else? You would’ve done the same thing if I didn’t beat you to it,” you argue.

His cheeks were tinged a soft shade of pink, only making the freckles spattered on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose all the more noticeable. Dean doesn’t flush, not unless he’s angry, not unless he’s pissed. And there he stands, pink and rosy with his jaw tensed as tight as ever as he looks at you, looks at you till he can’t anymore in an effort to calm himself down.

“I wouldn’t do something that damn stupid,” he says, his gaze returning to you.

“You would and you have, Dean, don’t give me that,” you say, watching his top lip quiver in anger. “Every hunt you do something reckless and stupid and everyone’s supposed to be okay with your self sacrificing way of handling things because you think you’re doing what’s best. You always put your ass on the line in a million and one different ways, but when I do it it’s stupid? That’s a load of crap and you know it, Dean.”

You’ve raised your own voice now, watching his chest rise and fall heavier and heavier as he wipes his hand over his mouth.

“Y/n—”

“No, tell me, Dean. How is that fair?”

“You don’t—”

“How is it fair, Dean?” You’re damn near yelling, body tense and the pit of your stomach filled with a heat that travels to your cheeks, burning hot as you swim in your anger.

“You can’t just go running around painting yourself as bait every chance you get. You don’t know what the hell you’re getting into, and you damn sure don’t know what you’re doing,” he counters, his gaze unwavering.

“Don’t know what I’m doing? I’ve been in this nightmare of a gig just as long as you have, and I’m still swingin’. Don’t you dare say that I don’t know what I’m doing,” you say.

You’re livid, cheeks on fire as you stare him down, finally thinking to release the handles of your duffel bag that’d been trapped within the tightness of your grasp long enough for your hand to be sweaty, long enough that your fingernails left crescent shaped indentations on your palm.

“God, do you even hear yourself when you talk, Y/n?” There’s that bitter laugh again, humorless as he rubs his hand down his face.

Now it’s your turn to laugh, an action that pulls his gaze back to you.

“Then maybe you should look in the mirror, Dean. Tempting your own fate and looking death right in the face seems to be your thing,” you retort, watching his brows scrunch even tighter together.

His lips part, finger raising to point at you with a slight tremble before it drops back to his side and he’s almost at a loss for words. Almost, as he shakes his head.

“You know what, Y/n? I’m not the one with a damn gash on my forehead. I’m not the one walking around with a torn off piece of my flannel tied around my hand to stop the bleeding. I’m not the one walking around, doing a piss poor job hiding a freaking limp because I’m too damn proud to admit I did something stupid. So tell me, Y/n, is it really just my thing?”

Your chest was heaving at this point, whole body trembling with adrenaline as you stare up at him with as much anger as you could muster. You could feel that strain in your throat, that horrid soreness that came with the ever difficult battle to keep that lump from rising and allowing your voice to break. That stupid lump that accompanied the tears that pressed so adamantly behind your eyes that it burned, that it stung.

He had you angry, blood boiling as you stood there in front of him. He was no different, standing there with a jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth would damn near crack. He had a certain anger in his eyes, anger mixed with something you couldn’t quite place as you stared him down for as long as you could muster.

He always knew how to poke and prod, get under your skin. He was stubborn more than anyone you’d ever known, probably more than anyone that could exist. He was Dean Winchester.

“You’re a dick, Dean,” you say, all the venom and hurt you can muster in those four words. As much as you could even though it felt like your throat was on fire. Felt as though barbed wire was woven around it from all the built up pressure of the tears you’re trying to hold back to keep him from seeing.

There’s that laugh again, that same bitter laugh as he hears your words.

“Yeah? You act like you’re so tough, Y/n, like you’re the best damn hotshot hunter there is. You act like you know everything and you sure as hell don’t so get off your damn high horse before you do something even more stupid and get yourself dead.”

He was shouting by this point, brows knit and eyes narrowed as he stared at you with twice the anger than a minute ago and he was only met with the same look. The very same apart from the welled up tears and the wobbly lip you sunk your teeth into to try and hide it the very best you could. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t keep your facade up, not in front of him. You never could. It was damn near impossible as you stood there until you couldn’t anymore, spinning on your heel. You brushed past him, shoulder bumping him and nearly throwing you off balance as you head for the motel door.

“Where are you going?” He asks, his tone incredulous.

“Away from you. What’s it look like?”

You grab the door handle and can hear him scoff as you swing it open and at first he doesn’t think you’re serious, not as he chuckles and shakes his head, maybe to egg you on even.

He doesn’t think you’re serious even as you slam the door shut behind you, and maybe not even for a few minutes after that. But after that few minutes it doesn’t seem so funny anymore, it never did, especially not when you didn’t walk right back in. He doesn’t think it’s funny when he swings that motel door right back open to find the parking lot empty, the Impala void of your presence—to find you nowhere to be seen.

He stands there for a moment with a clenched jaw, anger pulsing through him that’s rapidly redirecting towards himself. But he simply steps back into the room and slams the door shut behind him so hard it rattled. Ran his hands through his hair and drug them down his face.

But he doesn’t move, too steeped in his own anger to go on after you as you walked along by yourself in an effort to cool yourself down.

It was cold out, that steady drizzle still coming down but bearable enough to keep on walking away from that motel and away from the man that’s got you all fired up.

Your cheeks were heated and your heart was still pounding. That horrible pressure behind your eyes of unshed tears had finally broken loose, hot tears rolling and mixing with chilly raindrops on your skin. Your face was scrunched in a way you couldn’t help even if you tried as you let them out, frustratedly wiping them away as if there was still a chance of the older Winchester seeing them.

You loved him, but god, you hated him sometimes. He was too protective for his own good, too angry. He’s got you so wound up you don’t know whether to scream, cry, or never turn back to that motel room again. Or perhaps all three. But you know you’d never actually run off. That may be exactly what you’re doing right now but you’d always find your way back to him.

He’s got a heart of gold but you’re too damn pissed to want to think about that right now.

He’s in that room by himself, Sam in the room next door. He’s in that room stewing in anger and regret for the things he’d said out of that anger. He’s beating himself up for that unshakable habit of saying things he comes to regret. He wants to rip that motel room apart, wants to go looking for you. He wants to do it all but instead he sits on the edge of that squeaky motel bed for a matter of seconds before he gets right back up again, splashing his face off with cool water in the bathroom sink. But instead he stays in that motel room, his remaining anger leaving him spiteful before that guilt trickles in.

It’s cold, damn it’s cold as you walk along the tattered sidewalk. The pavement is cracked and crumbling away at the edges, gravel spilling over from old parking lots you pass by. You’ve got no idea where you’re going, and no idea where you are. Of course you don’t, you’ve never been to this town in your entire life and it’s near in the middle of nowhere.

You were wandering around this little town and it quickly began to feel not so little as you continued on in a direction that surely wasn’t towards that motel.

Your heart was beating a mile a minute and you were almost too angry to care about your surroundings. So worked up that you felt damn near invincible, didn’t really care about any threats because that anger was enough of a driving force to keep you safe.

But that couldn’t be farther from the truth, not even a little. Because deep down, under all that anger, you realized maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

He’s an idiot. He’s such a damn idiot that you almost couldn’t bear it. He always did this. He always tried to bench you, to hold you back on hunts. He always tried to jump in and save the day, always stole your thunder. He treated you like some rookie hunter that constantly needs a watchful eye, that constantly needs to be supervised like you don’t know what your doing. He acts like you’re some rookie hunter that couldn’t go two seconds on their own without getting into some life threatening situation.

He acts like it’s the end of the world when you step in, when you do something risky for the sake of keeping people safe. He blows it so far out of proportion, makes it seem like you couldn’t possibly do anything more stupid when he does the same and more. He does the very same every single time without second thought, but when you do it, there’s no greater crime to commit than doing your job.

He was so hypocritical it drove you insane.

You were a mess of emotions, fury and upset knotted in the pit of your stomach. It burned and it sat heavy, made you want to scream till your throat was sore. But you decided against it, didn’t want to draw attention to yourself more than you already felt you were as you walked alone through the empty street.

Your chest felt tight, your frustration having you ready to burst and that even felt like it wouldn’t be relieving enough. It felt like your emotions were too big for you to handle.

You were angry, you were pissed. You felt everything all at once, all of it as the wind picked up. It was more than noticeable as the gusts took your breath away for a moment, distracting you for just a second.

You knew the weather was bound to worsen, you saw the flashes of lightning beyond the street lights. You heard the low rumble of the thunder that followed it. It wasn’t until the drizzle of rain picked up to a steady pour that the storm you knew was brewing was fully there. You were caught outside and damn near lost in the middle of a freaking storm.

Unbeknownst to you, Dean was worried, of course he was. He’d be worried even if there wasn’t a stupid storm letting loose.

God, you hated him sometimes, but you loved him too.

You were stubborn as hell, stubborn enough to let yourself walk along a bit further and doom yourself even more. To keep on going and getting yourself even more lost and upset as the tears on your cheeks mixed with the rain. You walked until you wore yourself down and it took some doing, your anger took some work to wear away as you stomped along.

You walked until you gave in, till you caved.

It’d been who knows how long as you ducked under the overhang of a small store, digging in your pocket for your phone.

12:47 am.

It’d been forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes of stubborn spite and being far too angry for your own good. Of being so stuck in your own head you didn’t stop yourself from getting into danger, but maybe that’s just what you do.

You held your phone with a shaky, wet hand, scrolling through your contacts before highlighting Dean’s name. Just the sight of it had your stomach churning, that burst of emotions flooding through you but you hit call anyway, pressing the phone to your ear.

It rang once, twice…

“Hello?”

No matter how angry you were, you couldn’t deny the rush of relief that washed over you at the sound of his voice.

You didn’t answer right away, a few quiet moments passing.

“Dean—”

“Y/n, where the hell are you?”

“Hello to you too,” you say, and you didn’t even need to see him to know he wasn’t amused.

“Now’s not the time for games,” he says.

“Like you care,” you mutter, more to yourself than anything but he still heard it.

“I called you seven freaking times, Y/n. Don’t tell me that crap,” he says, and you can hear the sheer anger and frustration in his voice, a little impatience mixed in there too.

You pull the phone away for a second, catching that number seven right beside his name. Dammit.

You simply sigh, get all quiet for a moment or two as you stand there with your free arm wrapped around yourself, foot tapping against the wet ground.

“Y/n, where are you?” He reiterates.

You’re still quiet for a second, biting your cheek.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly, swallowing.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” He says incredulously.

“I mean I don’t know, Dean. We’re in a town we’ve never been before in the freaking boonies, what do you think?” You say louder, quieting back down and shrinking back against the wall at your outburst, trying to hide from any unwanted attention.

“Landmarks, Y/n, gimme landmarks,” he says, tone a little softer.

You hum softly as your eyes dart around, searching for the most helpful piece of information you could find.

“Dave’s. Dave’s Bar. Uh…a diner across from it too,” you say, wincing at the sudden crack of thunder.

“I’m on the way. And please, for the love of god, stay put. Don’t go wanderin’ around or I swear I’m gonna freakin’ lose my damn mind,” he says.

“Dean, I—”

There were those three beeps, those familiar three beeps followed by the stupid dead battery symbol. That fear in the pit of your stomach heightened, and you’re banking on Dean’s ability to find his way around because there’s no way in hell you’re stepping foot into that bar to use the phone. That just might be the stupidest thing you could do second to walking out here in anger by yourself in the first place.

That familiar sense of panic settles deep within you, heavy as you bite the inside of your cheek. In a matter of seconds you quickly find that you no longer wanted to storm off and go wherever your feet take you. You no longer wanted to walk farther away, not even a single step. You wanted to do none of that.

You wanted to be inside that Impala where you know it’s safe, hell, you wanted to be in his arms because that’s even safer. But instead you’re stuck outside in dodgy weather all by yourself, with no one to blame but yourself.

You had entirely no idea how far you were from that motel room, let alone where exactly you were. It could have been a much shorter drive for Dean than it was a walk for you, it had to be. But then again, you guys were in a town you’ve never been to, and he could only guess based off the information you gave him.

Worry ran circles in your mind, lap after lap that he wouldn’t find you, not for a while. Or even worse, that by the time he did, you’d have been snatched up by a crazy monster or an even crazier human being.

It made that dizzying feeling send waves through your chest, quickening your heart beat as you paced in the same spot. He told you not to move, so you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t, but you felt like a moving target the more you lingered in the same area. You felt like eyes were on you and you just couldn’t see them. It was unnerving.

He told you not to move, so you shouldn’t.

You sat on the nearby bench before realizing how soaked it was, not that it really mattered. But you stood back up in a huff, lifting your hands to your face and brushing away your wet hair.

You did something stupid, of course you did, but you’d never tell him that. Sure, getting some fresh air was always a good idea when arguing, gives a chance to cool off and clear your head. But not in the middle of the night when a damn thunderstorm is about to break loose.

You were being reckless, thinking in the heat of the moment and acting on it as people so often do. As Dean so often does. You dug your own grave and now you have to lay in it as you stand there with chattering teeth and your arms wrapped around yourself to maintain the non existent warmth you had in your body.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like damn decades until you saw headlights. You didn’t dare draw attention to yourself in the event that it wasn’t Dean—he was incredibly observant, he’d see you without it.

But you heard a distinct three honks of a familiar horn, and that relief settles over you once more. He pulls a u-turn in the middle of the wide road, stopping along the curb right in front of you as he leans over the bench seat to look at you.

He sees that look on your face, he sees your stance, he knows you’re not going to make this easy for him, he knows. You’re stubborn as hell and he loved it and hated it all the same. Hated it in moments like this.

He knows, so he does himself a favor and gets out of the car and into the pouring rain.

“Well I’ll be damned, looks like you actually listened to me,” he says, looking at his surroundings, the very same ones you’d mentioned to him on that phone call.

You hadn’t strayed too far just like he’d asked you to, you stayed put.

You roll your eyes, exhaling a larger than life huff. “Don’t get used to it.”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, and that expression he’s got is far less than humored as he narrows his eyes at you. He could tell you’d still be difficult, no matter how scared or upset or truly bothered you were, you’d always be difficult first because being stubborn is what you know best. Didn’t want to show how vulnerable you were, how vulnerable you are.

“You gonna stand there all night or are you gonna get in the car, sweetheart? It’s cold and this storm ain’t going anywhere,” he says, a hint of demanding in his voice.

“Then go back to the motel if you’re so uncomfortable. I’m sure can find my way back,” you counter, brows knit together.

“Like hell you can,” he nearly yells, his frustration evident. “Don’t be stupid, Y/n.”

“I’m not being stupid, Dean,” you say, equal anger in your tone.

“Yeah, you are, Y/n. You went wandering off in the dinky town we know nothing about in the middle of the night, and you got yourself lost in a storm. You’re damn lucky I found you before some monster, or even worse, some creep, got their hands on you. So yes, Y/n, you’re being stupid,” he shouts, that vein in his neck bulging and his chest heaving lightly.

“Go away, Dean.”

That’s all you could manage to say, all you could muster. You meant absolutely none of it, not at all, but that stubbornness in you was hard to resist.

“Y/n, just get in the damn car before I make you do it myself, and you know I will,” he says, a clear warning in his words.

You simply stare at him, you stand there and stare at him across the roof of the Impala as the rain continues to pour all around you, the wind making everything all the more intense.

You stood there and watched the crease between his brows, one created from your stubbornness and his frustration. You watched as the rain had his hair sticking to his forehead, no longer spiked up or disheveled from the sheer amount of times he’s run his fingers through it in the past two hours.

You stand there as the wind and the rain sends chills over you, cold and constant. He looks like his last fuse is about to blow, and he knows what you’re doing. He doesn’t give a damn about the weather, couldn’t care less now that he knows you’re in one piece, not lost in the middle of a storm. But he knows what you’re doing.

You’re so damn stubborn, so angry at him that you don’t want to listen, even if it’s inconveniencing you. You’re so frustrated, the last thing you want to do is sit a mere two feet away from him for who knows how long. It’s the last thing you want but yet it’s the only thing you want.

Not just because you were cold and wet and miserable. Not just because you were tired and in the midst of a freaking storm. He made you so damn pissed but you could deny the comfort that settled over you. Hell, is washed through you, rushed.

You didn’t want to listen to him, purely out of spite, not as you stand there and look at that expression he’s got. But yet that’s all you want to do.

After another passing moment, you exhale a short huff and open the door, getting in the car without a word.

The leather seats squeaked as you did, as Dean did, your soaked clothing making it inevitably so. The heat you felt from the vents was immediate, comforting in contrast to the cold weather just outside. And it wasn’t long before he sped off.

You sat pressed up against the door and he very much noticed, was about ready to say something but he decided against it for this moment. Kept his tight, white knuckled grip on the wheel instead. But that didn’t keep him from glancing over at you more often than not.

He could feel you shivering, even if you insisted on sitting as far from him as you could. In reality, you wanted nothing more than to tuck yourself against him, but that spite you’ve got going on was still going.

You looked ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous sitting there like that acting as if he had the damn plague. Acting like you didn’t absolutely love the idiot sitting 3 feet away when it really could have been just one or two. You looked stupid and you knew it, you knew he knew it too.

“You gonna glue yourself to the door the whole way back to Bobby’s too?” He asks.

Exhibit A.

You exhale a huff, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Maybe,” you say, stubborn as ever.

You hear his quiet scoff, you know he’s shaking his head without even seeing him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/n,” he says, glancing over at you briefly to see just how tightly your brows were scrunched.

“Shut up, Dean,” you say, quiet but he very much heard it.

He only shook his head, chuckling to himself quietly but this time it wasn’t completely void of humor. You were ridiculous.

You noticed how he turned the vent towards you, then you noticed how all of them were. Never mind the fact that he may have been cold. He pointed all the damn things towards you and that alone had you wavering.

No, you couldn’t. Couldn’t just give in so easily to that green eyed fool because he’d get all smug, let it go to his head. No matter how your heart skipped a beat, no matter how sweet the gestures were, one’s he did without second thought because he would always put you first.

No matter the cause, no matter the situation, he put you first every single time without hesitation. Doesn’t matter if it’s walking closest to the street when walking, or giving you the last beer. No matter if it’s giving you his jacket in the cold or ripping a damn piece of his flannel off to bandage you, even if it was his favorite one. He always put you first.

But you couldn’t think about that right now, you’d give in too easily. Couldn’t let him have that satisfaction because you may be ridiculous, but you you stubborn too.

What you could do, however, was scoot a little closer. Just a little bit, then a little more, and maybe you’d be damn near pressed to his side until you finally are.

“Think better of it?” He asks, and you hear that amusement in his tone.

You simply huff, displeasure on your expression as you glare up at him.

“Just cold, don’t get too excited,” you grumble, resting your head back on his shoulder as you cross your arms around yourself.

Just cold.

You were quiet the rest of the drive back to the motel, the drive that wound up being twenty minutes. Seemed like nothing, like a quick trip in a vehicle. But to walk, it felt like it was infinitely longer.

That familiar motel came into view as Dean slowed down, swinging into the small lot and right back into the same parking spot as he’d been in just hours prior.

It was still raining, still heard rumbles of thunder after flashes of lightning. The wind still blew against the car and swayed it faintly, the culmination of all three proving to be less than inviting for you to want to get out of the warmth and safety of the car and into the elements, even if it was just for a few fleeting seconds.

You scooted away from Dean as he dug in his pocket, fishing around for the motel key. He pulled it out with a smal a-ha, something that had you rolling your eyes as you push open the door.

It was quite a cold shock, actually, the weather a sharp contrast to the warmth of the Impala. But luckily Dean was just as urgent with getting inside the room as you were, though you still released your exhale just as loudly.

You can tell he’s not a fan of that action, not one bit as his jaw tenses momentarily and maybe even an eye roll. But it’s a matter of seconds before he pushes open the door.

It looks just as you left it, duffel bag on the bed, a few clothing items strewn about it in an effort to find something to wear. Though you were mid argument at the time, the action proving to be pointless and it showed.

Dean’s bag was in the same spot, unzipped and rifled through as it sat on the floor next to the bed still.

It was much warmer and much more dry than the inclement weather just on the outside of that door. But it was still tense. It was still tense and moody and damn near suffocating just as it was in the car, just as it was out in the storm. That was something that motel room couldn’t take away.

You brush past him in a huff, feeling his eyes on you as you made your way to the bathroom. You don’t care—he can look at you all he wants. He can glare, can furrow his brows, he can look as moody as he’d like but you don’t care. You most certainly do, but you’re stubborn enough to not want that to show.

You switch on the light, it’s yellow glow illuminating the small room. This is the first time you’d really seen yourself since this morning. The gash on your face, how tired you looked. How swollen your eyes were from crying, how rain soaked you were.

You looked exactly how you felt, and your reflection only made you more upset.

You were so worked up, so out of sorts, you left the bathroom all together in the huff that you entered it in. Just as upset as a few minutes ago, passing by Dean in the very same way as the first time.

He didn’t say anything, not at first. He didn’t say anything as he stood there and watched you, hands paused from what they were doing digging around in his bag. It wasn’t until you began digging in yours that he spoke up.

“What are you doing?” He asks, something more than curiosity in his tone. Something that sparked your frustration.

“Getting ready for bed, what’s it look like, Dean?” You counter, discontent in your tone as you speak.

“So you’re just gonna neglect your wounds like it didn’t happen and go to bed?” He says.

“Yes, Dean, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

You continue to rummage through your belongings, not fully knowing what you were looking for in your anger until you spotted a shirt to sleep in. Of course it was one of Deans—you haven’t worn your own clothes to bed for quite a long while. It wasn’t going to change just because you were fighting like cats and dogs.

You dug around some more in search of your toothbrush, snagging your hand on something sharp enough to make you recoil as it brushes over your wound. You knew he saw it, of course he did. He saw most everything.

“Y/n,” he says.

You don’t respond, instead shrugging off your coat, letting it fall to the floor in a rain soaked pile, you shirt soon to follow. You could tell he was growing impatient again.

You sat on the edge of the bed and began to untie your boots, careless and rough with your actions. So careless that you gripped them with your frustration to toss them inside rather than kick them off like you normally do, the action sending jolt through your palm once more. It was a crippling wave of pain, one that had you sucking a sharp gasp through your teeth as you jerked your hand back

“Y/n,” he said, louder this time.

“What?” You ask, your annoyance evident in your tone.

“Would you calm down for a second?” He says.

“I am calm, Dean.”

He laughs again, the humor far from it once again as he looks at you.

“No, you’re not. You’re too damn busy huffing and puffing that you’re bangin’ yourself up even more than you already are!” He all but shouts.

“I’m fine, okay? It’s just a freaking scratch, Dean,” you yell, holding up your hand. It wasn’t until you looked at it, saw the fresh staining of blood on the scrap piece of flannel that you knew you were in for it. “Son of a bitch.”

“Bathroom. Now,” he says.

You look back at him.

“I can handle it.”

“I wasn’t asking, sweetheart. Bathroom,” he says.

You simply look at him for a moment or two, the very same way you did earlier when he asked you to get in the car. You look at him and see he’s not backing down, that he’s not kidding. So you roll your eyes and get up from the bed, brushing past him again and bumping him with your shoulder.

You can be pissed at him all you want, he didn’t care. He was patching you up no matter how much you fought him on it because he always did, and he always will.

You walk back in the bathroom with a short huff, the older Winchester right behind you.

“Have a seat.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to tell me what to do, Dean.”

“Apparently you do.”

You glare at him, hopping up onto the counter anyway. You could tell another comment was sitting on the tip of his tongue but he chose against saying anything further on the subject.

He set the first aid kit down, flipping open its lid. His hand hovered over it for a few passing moments, as he looked over everything, pulling out the roll of bandage and the antiseptic, grabbing a moderate stack of gauze from its compartment.

He set everything down and laid it out on the counter before returning his focus to you. He grabbed your hand gently, so very gentle in contrast to his temper. He held your hand in his and turned it so your palm faced upwards. He let go momentarily to untie the knot in the fabric around it, requiring a little extra work from how tight he’d fastened it earlier. But soon enough he got it, loosening it up.

When he pulled away the fabric to reveal a nasty scratch that’d been plenty smudged with crimson, you lifted your gaze to see his expression. You saw the tension in his jaw, saw the way his brows pulled together in displeasure. You saw it all while you felt the gentle caress of his thumb over the heel of your hand.

He got caught up in staring for a few more moments, noticeably so, and he cleared his throat. He snagged some gauze and the bottle of antiseptic, opening the plastic cap with a flick of his thumb. He tipped the bottle over and squirted the clear liquid on the gauze, grabbing your hand once more.

He looked at you briefly, long enough to make sure you met his gaze as if to offer a wordless warning. He drizzled some of it directly on your hand, the sensation cold and stinging almost immediately and you half make an attempt to pull from his grasp but he tightens around your wrist gently, just enough to let you know he wouldn’t let you recoil.

He waited a few moments before taking the dampening gauze and dabbing away the excess liquid, tossing the dirtied material aside in favor of grabbing fresh ones.

Your hand was tender as he wiped away the blood, making sense of what he was working with ones he got it more cleaned up. It was red and irritated, hand throbbing from all the fuss and handling of it that you so desperately wanted to be over. So much so you began to squirm and continue to try and recoil.

It was no use.

You were relieved to see he’d been done with the liquid torment, for now at least, grabbing the roll of bandage. He’d laid down fresh, dry gauze first, peeling back the edge of the roll before he began wrapping it around your hand. He was gentle throughout the process, gentle despite being so horribly the opposite just hours earlier. He’d always take care of you.

His thumb brushed over the fresh bandage for a few moments, his gaze shifting to your cheek. You knew what was coming next.

“Dean, I can take care of the rest,” you interject, watching him nearly roll his eyes.

“I’m sure you can, but I didn’t ask you to either.”

You huff once again and roll your eyes, looking the other way when he grabbed more dampened gauze from the counter.

You felt his finger under your chin, redirecting your gaze to him so he could see better. You struggled to keep from moving, the anticipated pain having you trying to get yourself situated, shying away from that damn antiseptic in hopes he’d just call it a day.

Of course he wouldn’t.

“Dammit, Y/n, would you hold still?” He says, patience thin as he rests his hand on your cheek and redirects your gaze once more.

You heave a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping a little bit as you allow him to, eyes narrowed as you look up at him with all the annoyance you could muster. You didn’t want to hold still, you wanted to dig your heels in and do the exact opposite of everything he said. You wanted to piss him off even more because you were still angry, still upset with him.

You gave it a valiant attempt, tried your hardest and it lasted you a little while as you sat there on that counter. But with the way he’d been cradling your face in his hand, the way his thumb brushed back and forth across your cheek almost absentmindedly. It was hard to keep your irritation in place.

“He really gotcha good, huh sweetheart?” He asks, tone much softer than moments ago but that anger was still very much there. Not at you, but at the damn thing that put its hands on his sweetheart.

It’s like a burning feeling in the pit of his stomach, sitting heavy as a damn boulder there, getting heavier and heavier with each passing minute the more he allows himself to think about what happened, what could have happened.

He always does that to himself. Always keeps himself up at night. Lays there and let’s one scenario after the next plague his mind on things that could happen to you, things that could happen to Sammy. Things that could happen on his watch, trying to figure out ways to prevent said imaginary things to happen so he’s prepared for anything and everything. Things that could happen when he’s not there, even just for a split second. Those were the things that bothered him the most. Drove him insane till he got this tightness in his chest that had him nearly bursting at the seams.

He gets himself so worked up on those nights, all while you’ve got your head on his chest and you’re sound a sleep, not a care in the world for a few hours time. He envied it, how at peace you were, but it’s all he wants for you, helps loosen that tightness in his chest knowing you’re at ease. At ease while he lays there and torments himself with what ifs and things that didn’t even happen, things that might never happen.

Dean Winchester might seem calm, cool, and collected under the pressure of this hunting life. He might seem like he’s got everything under control at all times, got a plan for everything, a solution. And most of the time, he does. But he’s also got himself so wound up on the future way far ahead of him that it renders him anxious and stressed more often than not.

You simply shrug at the question. “S’alright.”

There’s that infamous eye roll he gives, that anger building once more at your nonchalance of the situation. It’s part of what’s got him so angry that night to begin with. You act like you don’t care when you really do, act like everything’s fine and that it’s just part of the job. It is, but getting hurt like that, hell, even getting just a simple scratch. To him—that’s purely like a nightmare when it comes to you.

He couldn’t care less how banged up and bruised he got, but when it comes to Sammy, when it comes to you, he gets so damn pissed he can hardly see straight.

“No, it’s not,” he says, dabbing away the remnants of blood smudging around it on your forehead.

You’re half tempted to argue in response, tell him he’s being dramatic. But you’d only be poking the bear, something you’d done the entirety of that night. But that look on his face, painted with worry and fear, you saw it and didn’t have the heart to poke and prod at him, at least not in this moment.

So you settle for a deep sigh, looking up at him while his other hand still rests on your cheek. You know part of him is being a little dramatic, you know he doesn’t need to get so tightly wound on scenarios that didn’t even happen, but pointing it out would do no good.

He drops his hand in favor of digging through his first aid kit. It’s always fully stocked, nearly jam packed to the gills with just about anything you could imagine. At every hunt he’ll stop at a gas station in whatever town you’re in, buy a box of bandages, supplies, anything he thinks he may need. He’s got this paranoia of running out, this worry he doesn’t have enough in the event of an emergency. But that worry is something he keeps to himself.

He pulls out three closure strips, tearing open their packaging. He’s careful in the way we places them, wants them to be damn near perfect, wants to add as little pain as possible to the pain he’s sure you’re feeling. Just the idea makes him riled up and angry at the thought of you hurting.

He dabs away any additional blood that formed, that cut looking a little better now that it’d been properly taken care of, leaving it to look a little red and angry after having been touched.

You continue to sit there on that counter as he cleans up, tossing the trash in the small bin on the floor right next to it. He can feel you staring, of course he can. He can feel it and confirms it when he turns back to you.

He averts his gaze for a moment as he grabs ahold of your hand, gently as his eyes glance over the fresh bandage. That very hand his shaky as it rests in his palm, his thumb brushing over the heel of it as a wordless for me of comfort.

You can see the way his jaw tenses as he looks at it, at the way his brows crease and knit together. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, working on overdrive and you know he’s thinking about what happened that day. And it’s almost as if he can read your thoughts, tearing his gaze away as if to clear his mind, shake away his own thoughts before he looks at you.

His gaze is still narrowed with that anger, but it’s quick to soften just a little when he meets your eyes.

You bite the inside of your cheek for a moment, swinging your dangling feet once or twice when you bump his leg with your foot.

“I’m fine, Dean,” you say, not so much in a stubborn, dismissive way this time.

His brows pull closer together again at the words, words he doesn’t agree with, but there’s that damn smile of yours. Soft and sweet, a little humor behind it because you’re trying to lighten the mood. All he can do is look at you, look at that small grin and wonder how he got so lucky to have you looking at him like that.

You reach up and swipe your thumb along his chin, wiping away the smudge of dirt that was smeared there. But you didn’t drop your hand, pressing your thumb in the soft dimple in his chin before you caress his cheek softly, letting your hand settle there.

You can feel his stubble scratch under your palm, can feel the tension in his jaw. But you can also feel it subside as the tips of your fingers brush over his hair as they rest at the nape of his neck. He may have been your tough guy, may have been rough around the edges, but nothing could compare to the way his gaze softened as he looked at you. As he responded to your touch in the gentlest way possible.

It worked wonders to sooth his anger, anger that still lingered and threatened to build up and tighten in his chest if he thought about that day one more damn time.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours, hands resting on the tops of your thighs. He heaved a heavy sigh, breath smelling like the burger he’d had for dinner, and the beer he’d drank to wash it down.

His nose bumped against yours, and you can feel his unease without even looking at him, you know there’s words on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, quiet as his breath puffs against your lips with each word.

You’re silent for a moment or two, something that maintains that unease he feels. Because he knows he gets angry, so damn angry that he acts like a jerk. Says things to piss you off in the heat of an argument. He knows it.

But it’s quick to ease when he feels your lips on his, soft and gentle, something he wastes no time in leaning into as he kisses you a little harder. He basks in every last bit that that kiss lingers, parting momentarily as his breath brushes against your lips warmly before kissing you again once, twice, three more times.

He can’t help but steal another as he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter with a grip on your hips, pulling back just enough to see your face.

You see every freckle, every single one, speckled across the bridge of his nose and splayed over his cheeks. Dotting along his eyelids and disappearing up into his eyebrows. You see the one that sits in his top lip, one that you never fail to press a kiss to, this time being no different.

You see the soft creases by his eyes, the near permanent lines of worry between his brows. You see every single detail up close and personal as you sit there and stare at him. And the way he runs his hand along your rain dampened hair, brushing it out of your face, it’s the only thing that distracts you and pulls your attention.

“Guess I’m sorry too,” you say, that humor in your tone making him roll his eyes. But the meaning, the sincerity is very much there and he knows it.

“You’re a pain in the ass, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before spinning on his heel and stepping out of the bathroom.

“Hey!” You protest, hopping down from the counter with a fake frown that threatens to turn to a smile, even more so when he turns to look at you with raised brows. “Am I at least your pain in the ass?”

He pretends to ponder the question long and hard, lips puckered in thought as he stands there and watches you grow impatient and lightheartedly offended.

You’re about ready to scoff when he steps closer, hand reaching up to settle at the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair softly.

“Always have been, sweetheart,” he says, pressing his lips against yours.

—

Taglist: @harrysweasleys @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @campingmonkey @lanea-1 @deandaydreaming @agalliasi @malindacath @ajreturnstocringeyaccount @deanswaywardgirl @awkward-and-indecisive @drownthewitch @happyt0exist @sparkycorleone @humanmistakes @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @nyotamalfoy @elliewigginton20 @wandering-winchesters @senjoritanana

[enwoso]

hey, could you try write something platonic for arsenal x reader with anger issues and the team getting the brunt of it? maybe like kim/leah having to deal with them or learn to calm them down? something along those lines idrk hahahah

NOT YOU — arsenal wfc x reader

this went in a different direction then what i had originally planned. sorry if some sorts don’t make sense i wrote this while i was half asleep. but enjoy x

warnings: talks of an absent father, few swear words

masterlist

the team was worried about. more specifically kim and leah were worried about you. they had never seen you act the way you had in the past. usually you were always laughing and joking around with kyra, pulling pranks and overall just being a pest.

but something had switched, little things were making you snap more quicker than usual, you were making harsh tackles on your own teammates as well as making rude remarks to anyone who tried to talk to you which wasn't totally out of the normal but your actions were speaking louder than your words at the moment.

the team knew you had a short fuse but it had never been this bad before. something had lit your fuse.

the girls had tried everything to try and figure out what had happened but nothing seemed to work but by the day, your anger was starting to build and leah and kim were worried it was about to spill over and were worried for whoever was on the receiving line for when that actually happened.

"we need to try and figure out what is wrong with y/n, she's gonna seriously hurt someone otherwise" kim said as she walked back from the training fields with leah by her side, who immediately agreed with the scot.

a hushed talk of the other girls in front on the two talking about your negative attitude. the two giving each other a look knowing the longer your temper and bad mood continued the more it was going to affect the team.

you were walking behind everyone else, by yourself letting your thoughts override as you walked along the gravelled path of colney. your boots hanging from your hand as the wind hit your bare legs.

you were last to walk into the locker room to grab your bag as well as being one of the last to leave. checking your phone to look at the time but being met with several messages from your dad.

rolling your eyes at them as your scowl deepening as you didn’t even bother to read any of them knowing it whatever he had written but be a whole load of waffle, as the man couldn’t tell the truth if smacked him in the face and said ‘i’m here!’

you and your dad had a complicated relationship, actually scratch that, that was putting it in nice terms. to you he was a deadbeat dad, or you could go as far as saying a sad excuse for a father.

chucking your shoes on and tying the laces when you felt a showed stand over you, noticing the shoes you knew who it was before you even looked up.

“y/n, can we have a chat?” kim asked calmly, as you looked at her not saying anything instead nodding for her to continue. knowing that this chat had been coming as you’d noticed the looks and chats she’d been having with leah and a few of the others girls — knowing that it would most likely be about you.

“you don’t have to tell me but i can tell your not yourself y/n and we’re all here for you and we just want to help you if we can but- your behaviour is starting to affect the team” she began as you just sat on the bench not showing the scot any emotion. kim was walking on egg shells as she spoke, you being able to sense her trying to pick her words carefully.

“you going to seriously injure someone if you carry on lashing out at people. so if there anything we can help with?” kim spoke in the same spoke tone, you leg bouncing up and down your head was a mess and the last thing you wanted was to have someone pity you.

you didn’t like pity.

you shook your head, “nope i’m all good!” packing your bag up and slinging it on your shoulder.

“are you sure- cause we-“

“kim! i said i’m good! just leave it at that! leave me fucking be!” you spat storming out the room. the door slamming as you walked down the corridor. regret and guilt filling your body with each step, but you were sick of people asking you if you were okay, babying you.

why couldn’t they all just take the hint when you said you were fine?

“y/n.” her voice echoed along the corridor, making you freeze. “c’mere” leah spoke in a stern tone, as you turned around half of the blondes body poking out of one of the meeting rooms.

dragging your feet to where she was, taking in a big breath as you walked into the empty room. taking a seat in one of the chairs as leah turned on her heel the door clicking shut as she stood tall in front of you her arms folded across her chest, almost intimidating you.

“what’s going on? this isn’t the y/n i know.” leah said in the same tone she’d spoken to you in just a few minutes ago. you stayed silent, a part of you scared you may lash out at the blonde too.

leah knew you best out of anyone on the team, she was the one you trusted most out of the team even if she was several years younger than you. she was the one that took you under her wing when you first started training with the first team.

with that though meant the blonde could read you like a book. you couldn’t lie to her like you easily could to the others as she would know the minute you opened your mouth.

“maybe this is the new y/n” you spoke in a hushed tone, shrugging your shoulders as leah raised her eyebrows confused at your words.

“no. no, this isn’t you. has something happened with your mum?” she asked, as she watched your body language closely as that was the closest she was getting to you actually giving the blonde some clues as to what had happened.

your shoulders tense up a little more. leah knew about your close relationship with your mum how she was your number one supporter, the england captain having quite a good relationship with her, herself.

you shook your head, “no, my mums fine” you paused before continuing.

"my dads’ been back in contact." you mumbled as a sigh of defeat come from you. the room filling with silence as leah came and sat down next to you putting her arm around you not saying anything yet as she knew you hadn't finished what you wanted to say yet.

"begging to be back in my life, that he's so proud that i'm his daughter, that he misses me blah blah blah, coming back into my life once again when it’s convenient for him." the bitterness was obvious in your tone of voice as you spoke, it told the whole story for itself.

leah knew about the your history with your father, how he had treat you and your mother when you were little before leaving your mum to carry on your upbringing as a single parent when you were just four.

but then every few years he would pop back up into your life, wanting and begging to be apart of it. that he had changed and wasn’t the same man he was when you were five.

but you had learned the hard way, that people like him. they don’t change.

so the first couple of times when he would spring back up when you were younger, he would promise you the world. that he would promise take you out for the day and spoil you with anything and everything you want claiming it as his way of making up for lost time but it would always end the same way.

you sitting on the bottom step of your stairs, hair all nicely done, dressed in an outfit you would spent hours figuring out what to wear. you would sit there for hours, the sound of the clock ticking away. all for him to just not turn up and then make a lame excuse up as you cried in your mums arms.

so the last time you saw him before the past week, was when you were 15 just after making it into your first youth camp with england as well as joining the arsenal academy, your dad had told you that he had met someone in america and that he was moving there.

a small part of you was a little hurt but the majority of you was happy as sad as it sounds but he was never really a dad to you.

“i thought he was living in america?” leah asked as you hummed, a mock laugh coming over you “me too, until he showed up at my door at 6 in the morning!”

“thinking he was going to just have a place to stay at mine as if he didn’t just leave for 5 years no messages, no calls. then when i said no he started trying to manipulate me, saying how im such a bad daughter-“ you breathed out feeling leah squeeze your shoulders, her hand rubbing up and down your arms for comfort.

“have you spoken to your mum about this? does she know he’s back in london?” leah asked quietly as you shook your head. “no, she doesn’t need that stress right now.”

“i don’t know what to do le, everytime i go home he’s there. i don’t even fuckjng know how he got my address.” your voice cracked, all the emotions you’d been holding in for the past week finding flooding over.

you were conflicted, cause whilst you had spent so many years hating your father for never being there or if he was it was only when it suited him and not when you really needed him. you wanted to believe he’d changed but his actions spoke louder and then his words.

but then again he was your dad, where you got your blood from but that was it, you didn’t really know him at all and he didn’t really know you.

you both only really knowing of each other.

“it’s okay, y/n we’ll figure it out together i promise.”

[castillon02]

When Jason starts to prioritize cooperation as well as vengeance, Tim suspects Jason's self-control still isn't that great. Since he's Tim, well...

He conducts some tests.

Hood is about to murder someone that they need information from when Tim calls out, "Hey, Hood, has anyone ever told you that you're a Decepticon wannabe who probably fucks himself to the sound of his own robot voice?"

Hood stills.

The drug dealer who sold tenth-grader Benny Garcia fentanyl gapes in a way that shows off his recently-missing teeth.

Hood drops the dealer in a heap and turns his shitkicker combat boots in Tim's direction.

Tim bolts. Batman will swoop in to continue the dealer's interrogation; he and Hood have figured out a good-cop-bad-cop thing, though Batman still seems bemused about the chance to be 'good cop.'

Hood races after him.

---

Tim makes it to a safe house off of Robinson Park. He probably lost Hood about half an hour ago, but it never hurts to be careful. Especially when---oh, shit.

"This place is filthy," Jason says, sitting on the kitchen counter that Tim never uses and looking with disdain at Tim's collection of empty energy drink cans, takeout boxes, and crime yarn. Jason's not wearing his helmet or domino, and he taps his boot heels softly against the cabinet door like a little kid. Not exactly danger signals.

But for a moment, all Tim can look at is the boots. It's stupid; the knife at his neck was closer to fatal. But the kicking had hurt the worst.

"Since you apparently have time to run your mouth," Jason says, "and since someone stole my target, it seems like we both have time to clean up in here. I went out and got trash bags." He nudges a box on the counter next to him. The trash bags are the sturdy kind, not the flimsy cheap kind or the extra-strength hide-the-body-parts kind.

Tim has been meaning to get trash bags for this place for three weeks. It's just that he doesn't visit often, and when he does it's usually when he's injured or tired, and he could get things delivered but that's a paper trail he could avoid if he just made time to visit the bodega down the street... "You're a trash bag," he says, even though it doesn't make sense.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Just for that, we're mopping the floor too. Luckily, I came prepared." He hops down from the counter and opens the little mystery closet next to the fridge. Inside: a broom, a Swiffer, a bucket, a pack of scrub brushes still in their plastic, and a jug of bleach.

Ohhh, that's why the closet is so narrow. It's supposed to hold cleaning supplies. Right. Tim definitely knew that. Tim definitely doesn't just have a roll of paper towels...somewhere...that he sometimes puts dish soap on.

He squints at Jason. Still no green danger-eyes. "Darcy and Elizabeth would never let you be part of a throuple with them," he tries.

Jason pulls out a trash bag. "They've got issues anyway."

"Helen Keller would make up new words so she could sign how ugly your face is."

"She was a socialist," Jason says. He holds the bag and gestures at Tim's kitchen table. "So we'd probably just talk about organizing the working class. I don't think looks would come into it. Also, way to be a dick."

"You're so pathetic that Jane Eyre would give up on you like she didn't give up on Rochester," Tim says, figuring he did the research for this attack, so he might as well use it.

Jason actually laughs a little bit. "First of all, there's a lot of power exchange going on in that decision, so jot that down," he says. "Second of all." He looks Tim in the face. "If I start to lose my temper, I'll leave, okay? Or you can just ask me to."

"Even if I asked right now?" Tim asks.

"Even if you asked right now," Jason confirms, though he eyeballs Tim's mess.

Jason's still holding the trash bag. Hands out, open body language, seemingly not homicidal.

Tim had planned for a lot of things with this encounter, including a body bag. Trash bags weren't one of his considered variables. He starts picking up empty cans. "This one can be for recycling," he says, dumping the cans into Jason's bag. New things from old materials. Jason likes that symbolism shit, right?

(Though...new things. Old materials. If there's anyone who ought to be good at that, it's someone who got raised from the dead.

Tim smirks and keeps the thought to himself. Operation: Limitless has been a startling success; he doesn't need to verbalize all his inside thoughts now.)

("Kid, I can tell you're thinking about a zombie joke," Jason says anyway. "You can only tell me after we've brought this shit-heap back to life.")

[hellfirecvnt]

Don't Piss Me Off (Pt. 1)

John Q. (Simon) X Fem!Reader

Warnings: DRUG USE!! Y/N smokes weed and does coke. Don't do drugs, it's for the bit. Drugs are bad. Don't be stupid. This is self indulgent as fuck. Simon is mean, obvs. Y/N is also mean.

Summary: You're back in your hometown for a few weeks to house sit for your parents. A rivalry dating back to your high school years makes an appearance, but this time, he's met his match.

Notes: I finally found someone angry and hot to fill the Billy Hargrove shaped hole in my fanfic writing heart. Fuck ST. Free Palestine.

You invited everyone to this party. An absolute rager while you're house sitting for your parents. Their home is huge compared to your humble two bedroom house, states away. You've reached out to everyone you can remember from your hometown, and it's surprisingly a lot. The house is packed by the time all the guests arrive. A feeling of accomplishment straightens your shoulders as the music surges through the house. Your pride is promptly diminished when a familiar face you specifically didn't invite steps through the door. Simon.

"Why is he here?" You whisper to the nearest person, but somehow, through the music and loud conversation, he hears you as if you whispered it directly to him.

"I heard there was a party. I followed the clientele." He winks, patting a pocket on his dirty bomber jacket.

"Are you selling drugs inside my parents' house?" You ask, acting mortified. He just smirks, basking in the idea of setting you off like he used to, years ago. Long before you left this town. "Let me get an eighth of smoke and a gram of whatever I can put up my nose." The request visibly caught him off guard. He stares at you with a raised eyebrow as he rummages in his pocket for your order.

"Y'know I don't really-"

"What? You stop selling weed?"

"No, it's just," he tilts his head before shoving the illegal contents into your hand. "You seem different."

"Different?"

"Yeah, like you're not a whiny fuckin' kid blowing up my spot anymore." He chuckles as he slips past you, and dissolves into the party. That's right, years ago, when the two of you were in high school, he was expelled when administration seemingly randomly brought in drug dogs, and his locker was raided. To everyone's surprise, he still graduated from the alternative school and even went on to college, but apparently his pursuit of education stopped there when his well-known temper earned him the boot.

Sure, you were a bit of a late bloomer. A classic loser amongst your classmates. The poster child of people who took D.A.R.E extremely seriously, even though you'd never once given a shit about it. You knew he always blamed you for his getting caught, he made your life hell in college before you moved. You forgot all about him before he stepped through your parents' door.

He's already here, so you decide to let him make his money and spice up your party. It's not like you'll run into him again with the way people keep showing up. A bored town, a boring town seeking any kind of thrill outside the two bars that close at 11 PM.

You're not much of a drinker, so your eighth and blow do exactly what you need them to. The coke keeps you chatty and energetic, while the weed mellows that swinging jaw you'd have. Coke is a special occasion drug, your tolerance isn't something to brag about. You sneak off to the bathroom every once in a while, and no one seems to notice, so you get a little brave, slipping away on the empty back patio to cut out a quick line on your mother's hand mirror.

Your technique is swift, muscle memory from your harder partying days in college. The entire time, Simon watches through a window. He'd caught you in passing, and watched in curiosity as the girl he knew with big, innocent eyes and a loud mouth rails a sizable line of hard drugs. He's dumbfounded, laughing lightly to himself. You clean the glass of the remaining powder with your index finger and rub it against your gums, lifting the mirror to check your nose for evidence of your patio soiree. Just as your eyes meet your own, the patio door slides open, and you're no longer alone in the safety of darkness. "Not your first time with that shit." It's not a question, but it sounds like it was supposed to be.

"Far from it," you sigh, relieved. You don't mind smoking with others, but the coke is something you'd prefer to keep to yourself.

"Could'a fooled me," he strikes a lighter, cherrying the end of his cigarette. "You used to be a fucking bitch." He wraps his lips around those last two words, really annunciating each syllable. It's dark, but there's enough moonlight to see the dark circles around his eyes as he displays that same threatening look he used to shoot at you in college between shoulder checks and vulgar insults.

"This 'fucking bitch' will beat your ass now, Kenny. Watch ya' fuckin' mouth," you mock his accent, as yours thinned out after being away for so long.

"Who the fuck is Kenny?" He looks genuinely thrown off.

"No fuckin' poise. Stay focused. Don't insult me on my own patio, I'll fuck us both up." You're speaking almost gibberish, but the only way to knock him down is to throw him off.

"Who the fuck are you?" Simon chuckles, taking a drag of his cig.

"It's been a long time. I'm surprisingly not 16 anymore. You don't seem very young yourself."

He takes a drag, eyes widening as if he's watching a TV show that caught him pleasantly off guard. "Yeah, okay."

"How are sales?" You ask, running your tongue across your teeth to disperse the numbing of the bitter substance.

"Not bad. You just invite everyone whose name you could remember?"

"Everyone but you, Simon." You sigh.

"Well, I hate it for you, Queen Bitch. But I've gotta make money somehow."

"You could try a job," you say, but after you look him up and down, you change your mind. "Nevermind." He releases a genuine laugh, puffing plooms of smoke from his lips with each heave of his chest. "You still doing that band thing?"

"'Band thing?'" he huffs. "Yes. I'm still doing the... Band thing."

"Yikes, soft spot, huh? Not going great?" Years ago you took his verbal beatings with a cowering stance, and often, tears. Today you're giving it all back to him. The reason for your vitriol is not lost on him, so he takes every blow.

"It's going fine. You should come to a show. Get out of your little rich kid bubble for two seconds." Clocked. You've been clocked. Your stunted social skills stemmed directly from how sheltered and spoiled you were until the age of 18 when you finally realized what your life was, compared to others. You worked and saved your own money and moved away at 20. Away from your shelter, away from your helicopter parents, and realistically, away from Simon.

"Yeah, that'll be the day," you're laughing until you notice something going south right inside the door. A fight seems to have broken out. You burst through the entryway, shoving yourself between the two men. One of them, a tall, broad man steps back, acknowledging the escalation at hand. While the other, shorter, almost shorter than you, seems to only get more angry. "You need to calm the fuck down!" You yell, only trying to be heard over his own volume.

"Get the fuck out of my face, bitch!" The short man spits like venom. You look at him with a raised eyebrow, and something takes hold. Before you know it, your own fist is connecting with his jaw. The crowd is rallying you on, but your hit wasn't enough to knock him out. You're aware that your swing warrants a swing back, but God, you know it's about to hurt even with this dude being the size he is. He swings his fist under and hooks you in the stomach. It's painful, but you can't help but heave a wheezing, breathless laugh at the idea that he swung low because he might not have properly reached your face. He's not even that short, but you can't stop the laughter. That only pisses him off more, and he swings again, this time catching your cheek.

By now, you've both been separated as the spectators realize it was kinda strange to watch a man fight a woman, regardless of how it started. You're still laughing, breathless from the hit and sweating from the cocaine. When you're finally released, the laughing returns to anger and you run half of the party off.

"Party's over, fuck outta here!" You call, harshly pushing the power button on the stereo. "Short stack ruined it for all of you. Get out of my house!" You leave the passed out guests alone, they're safer here anyways. Once you return to the patio, you take your same seat and return to the conversation as if nothing happened. "As I was saying, no. I won't be at a Psycho's show."

"It's Psyops and you fuckin' know that." He speaks harshly before reeling it in, and clearing his throat. "What the hell was that?" He gestures to the door with his thumb.

"I told you I'll beat your ass now, Kenny."

"Was that Kenny? Who the fuck is Kenny?" It's clear he hasn't stopped thinking about "Kenny" since the first time you said it.

"I don't know who that guy was," you shrug. "Can I have a smoke?" You rub your sore cheek.

"Whatever," he tosses a cigarette your way. "What was with the laughing? You just fuckin' insane or something? You been in the asylums this whole time?" He looks almost serious with his inquiry. Like he wouldn't be surprised.

"No, I just-" you start to laugh again. "I imagined him punching me in the gut because he couldn't reach my face." You graze your fingers over your cheek again. "But clearly I was unaware of his lengthy arms or something. He seemed shorter from far away," you chuckle.

"Fuckin' ridiculous," Simon laughs with you, shaking his head.

"Yeah, thanks for jumping in, by the way." You joke, cutting out another line on the small silver mirror.

"Jumping in? For you? A fuckin' snitch?" He raises his eyebrows, as if he's been waiting to address this.

"Oh, fuck off. I didn't fucking snitch on you," you announce before inhaling the line.

"Y/N, it's been years. Just fuckin-"

"Simon, I didn't snitch on you. I didn't know you sold drugs at school. I thought they searched our lockers daily, I didn't think anyone would be able to sell drugs that easily at school." As you're explaining, you realize you never denied telling on him, you just silently took his punishment, hoping it'd eventually stop.

"Are you a god damn idiot? You thought they searched all those lockers every fuckin' day?" He's in disbelief.

"That's what my parents told me," you shrug, rubbing the powder from the mirror on your gums again.

"I ain't buying that shit," he mumbles like a growl. "You got that Mickey kid expelled too. Year before." He's staring you down like he's got you cornered.

"Yeah, because he pushed me down the fucking stairs, Simon. I was in the hospital for a week. He broke my arm." You're shocked that it wasn't common knowledge why Mickey was expelled. "He's in jail right now for the armed robbery of a church."

"Wait, seriously?" Simon huffs a chuckle as he pieces it all together and finally, finally considers the fact that you weren't the snitch.

"Have you ever considered that maybe you weren't very good at it? Selling drugs at school, I mean." You tilt your head, awaiting an answer.

"You really didn't do it," he exhales a cloud of smoke from the cigarette he'd just lit.

"No, I didn't. And you made every single day hell for me. You ran me out of town." You're laughing as you say it, looking down and focusing on rolling a joint, but he keeps his eyes on you. A glint of guilt flashes in his pupils, but you'd never know. He used to wonder if he had a hand in your running off, and today it was finally confirmed. Your laugh carries the weight of everything you were getting away from. A man that feels anger as deeply as Simon does, incidentally, comes with the ability to empathize with pain.

"Alright. Next time, I'll jump in." He relaxes, leaning back into the chair.

"Sounds good." You spark up your joint and take a long drag before passing it to Simon. An olive branch. A silent truce. Forgiveness that he didn't deserve. He takes it from your hand and takes a hit. The usually smooth smoke scrapes into his lungs from the guilt. The feeling quickly dissipates as the two of you get stoned.

You both stay there in those seats all night. You hardly realize the passing of time until the sky begins to light up a pale morning blue. "Holy shit, how long have we been out here?" Simon asks, noticing his empty pack of cigarettes. You throw a five dollar bill toward him.

"I owe you. I smoked over half of those." He stuffs the money in his pocket with a nod. "You can stay here, but if you knock on my door at any point after I go to sleep I will fight you like the little guy." Simon looks around and shakes his head.

"No thanks." He nods and heads towards the door.

"See ya' around, Simon." As he closes your door behind him, something sends a tingle down his spine when he hears you say his name again. A softness directed towards him that he's not used to. It's uncomfortable and new and the sensation of craving more pisses him off. He shrugs his shoulders, physically shaking the feeling from his body before heading off on foot. To where? Who fuckin' knows.

The next day, or that same day, way later when you wake up, you're already planning your next get together as you clean up from last night. It's not as bad as usual, but probably because it got cut a few hours short after the altercation. A feat that you had forgotten about until you caught your reflection while brushing your teeth. A small bruise has formed under your eye where you were hit. "Ha, what a pussy." You lift your shirt to examine your stomach and there's not even a semblance of a hit. "Pussy!" You repeat, louder.

After getting ready for the day, you head to the store to replenish the stock for your next shindig. Your parents always leave their credit card when you house sit. It's the only time in your adult life you don't mind using their money. They hardly notice it anyways.

As you're strolling the aisles of the bodega, you spot Simon. Something in you feels awkward about last night, so you hang back until he leaves. He looks tired and disheveled. More so than usual. And he's a little out of breath like he'd been running. He buys a pack of smokes with the five you gave him and disappears out the door. You make your purchase and tote two 30 packs to your rickety, old van. A vehicle you were proud to buy yourself before you moved out. Simon watches you from the corner of the store, having a smoke before continuing his trek across town. He furrows his eyebrows, trying to remember when he saw you drink anything at all at the party. "She can't seriously be throwing another shit show," he mumbles.

He bolts when police pull into the lot, no doubt still in pursuit of him. They pull up to your van and you stand outside, defensively. Unsure of what in your van could get you in trouble at this moment. "Have you seen this guy?" They hold up a picture of Simon. The way he looked in college, anyways. He's shaved his head now.

"No, I can't say I have." You shrug.

"Take this and let us know if you see anyone suspicious." The cop hands you the paper and you take it with a flat smile. Once they leave the lot, you crumple the paper into a ball and toss it in your van.

Simon just can't shake the image of you he's had in his mind all these years. Shy and afraid. Avoiding eye contact and clutching your books to your chest when he'd loom over you and whisper vicious cruelties. Now you walk with your back straight. You look him in the eye, even when he tries to make you uncomfortable just for fun. You fist-fight people and laugh because you imagined something funny in the middle of getting an uppercut to the stomach. You bought drugs from him the second he walked in the door. You're hardly recognizable.

That night, you're settling in the living room with a movie on the TV. It's a quiet, peaceful evening as you smoke a joint on your couch, enjoying the silence of your own company.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!

Someone frantically bangs on the door before bursting in and slamming it behind them. "Hey! Are you home or what?" Simon yells into the foyer.

"I'm right here, you scared the shit out of me!" You throw a handful of popcorn at him. "Why are you inside my parents' house? What time is it?"

"I don't know what time it is. Shut up, listen, I need to," he seems to search for a softer word than 'hide.' "Stay in here for an hour or two."

"I saw your wanted poster. You're a real outlaw, huh? Arson, right? Hard." He rolls his eyes. "I told them I hadn't seen you."

"Yeah, thanks. I'd hope so."

"You gonna sit down or what?" You ask, annoyed that he's interrupting your movie. He huffs and joins you on the couch and you pass the joint to him.

"The fuck are we watching?" He raises an eyebrow. You stare at him for a second before answering.

"Firestarter."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he sighs.

"Yeah, I started thinking about it after I read your charges. Fucking idiot." You laugh. "Broad daylight is brutal."

"Their house was fine."

"Well, you can hide here as long as you need to. I'll be here for a few weeks. But I am throwing another get together tomorrow, so be down for that."

"Again?" He scoffs.

"Yeah. It's way more fun to party in this giant house than my fucking double wide."

"You live in a double wide trailer?"

"Yes. I got out on my own dime. Options are limited where I ended up." You always tell this story like a brag. It's something you're proud of. After all, it's a nice double wide. It's not even in a trailer park... This time.

"Hard." He mocks you and you laugh in response.

"So these are your two options? Party or a movie with barely any volume while you get high?" He leans across the couch to pass you the joint, unknowingly scooting closer with each reach.

"Normally I'm not talking over the movie so the volume is just fine." You shrug. He takes the hint and finally shuts up, watching the movie and keeping panicky eyes on the windows. By the time the joint is finished, the two of you are much closer than before. Not too close, but gravity seems to be doing its thing. Simon can finally see the small bruise under your eye.

"Is that from that guy?" He laughs.

"Yeah, I know. He tried his best," you join in the laughter. Simon raises a hand to brush his thumb over it, never minding to invade someone's personal space.

"There's not even a welt. What a fuckin' pussy," he says as he lowers his hand. You're not sure if you're blushing or not, but you do know that you're frozen for a moment after the sudden, close quarters. You may have grown out of a lot, but you're still pretty fucking awkward sometimes. Simon notices right away. God damn it.

"That's exactly what I said! There's nothing on my stomach either. It's like I fought a toddler." You laugh, your head is clearing up, but not for long. Simon leans in closely, sliding closer to you than before and invading your personal space much more boldly than when he touched your bruise.

"You know how to take a hit, huh?" He whispers, inches from your face. Your eyes are wide and you feel the heat rise in your cheeks when you feel his hand on your thigh.

"You're about to take a hit if you don't move that fuckin' hand," you snap with a wavering voice that you hope he doesn't notice.

"I'm just fuckin' with you. Had to find some way to do it. You're all... difficult now." He laughs at your still red face. He backs down and you roll your eyes, defeated by your own bodily reactions.

"You are God damn difficult, Simon." You jam your finger into his chest, sizing him up, invading his bubble. "You're difficult and it makes you angry. Now, I'm letting you hide in my parents house from the fuckin' police, so please, for the love of god, tone that fuck-shit down." He can't help but grin at the tables you've turned. Your forehead might as well be pressed to his as you tell him what for.

"Calm the fuck down, Y/N. I'm just fuckin' with you. Thanks for the safehouse." His thanks sounds like sarcasm, but you decide it's the best you'll get from him. He keeps his distance after that, but doesn't shift away from you. For the rest of the movie, you catch him stealing glances your way. He's silently reliving the moment you pushed back, a smile cracks across his lips, but you're too focused on the movie.

The two of you fall asleep before the credits roll. You're baked and glued to the couch, he's exhausted from running all day. It's barely dawn when Simon shakes himself awake, startled by something only a mind as paranoid and volatile as his could dream up. He looks at your sleeping form on the couch and checks his watch. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mumbles to himself. As he quietly steps toward the door, you call to him from the couch.

"You can shower here if you want. You look like shit. It'd probably be harder to spot you if you weren't filthy." Simon rolls his eyes, but you're right. You rise and stretch from your blanket cocoon. "Fuck, what time is it?"

"Early."

"Useful. The bathroom's down the hall to the right. Toss your clothes in the basket and set it outside."

"Alright," he huffs, unsure how to process your balance between "fuck you" and "I'll do your laundry for you so you can shower."

Simon leaves his clothes in the basket just like you asked and you toss them in the washer with a few of your clothes to fill it up. It'll take longer to wash and dry his clothes than it'll take for him to shower, so you rummage through some of your dad's PJs and leave a pair of soft pants and an old Harvard T-shirt in place of the basket. After a while, Simon emerges from the steamy bathroom, towel-clad. "Are you serious?" He asks, holding up the clothes you've left for him.

"Don't you wanna know what it's like to wear a Harvard shirt?" You jest. "It'll be another 30 minutes on your clothes." Simon rolls his eyes, and tosses the clothes on the couch.

"I'll wait." He takes a seat next to you, the towel secured around his waist. "Give me that." He takes the joint you've barely just started rolling out of your hands. It feels more like a "thank you" than a "I'll do it better" so you let him roll it. It's a gesture of kindness from him, and you accept it.

After a joint or two more, the buzzer sounds on the dryer. "I'll be right back, I threw some of my clothes in there too." You leave and return with a basket of fresh, clean, warm clothes. You dig through and find Simon's belongings, tossing them to him piece by piece. Once he slips off to the bathroom again, he comes back fully dressed. A cleaner, easier to look at version of himself.

"Thanks," Simon nods, but he doesn't retake his seat next to you. "I'll catch you later."

"You coming to the party? For the money?" You grin, secretly hoping to repeat your patio soiree from before.

"For the money." He chuckles as he steps out the door, leaving you in peaceful silence. You fall back asleep right away. Hours later, when you finally awaken, some people are already in the house.

"Jesus Christ, you guys don't knock or nothing?" You rub your eyes. "Don't fuck up my parents' house. I'm gonna go get ready."

"Yeah, yeah," your friends chant back, picking out music to play on the stereo. Once you're dressed and made up to your liking, you return to the party. The size of the crowd doubled in the hour it took you to get ready. As you play hostess, you're secretly searching each room and hallway for Simon, hoping he'd show up, though you're not sure why you're so eager. He was a dick for most of the time you've known him, but even back then, he's a very attractive man.

You pour a round of shots and pass them out, making sure each of your closest pals gets theirs first. You're holding onto one last one, searching for Simon, when you round the corner and see a familiar face. It's the short little shit you just fought the other night. "Aw, god damn it." You sigh, already anticipating the spectacle that's about to unfold.

"You got a lot of fucking nerve throwing another party after the shit you pulled," he says, cracking his knuckles, but you're looking down at him almost, so it's not very threatening

"What? Nerve? Aren't you trespassing right now? Get the fuck out of my house. We're all pushing 30." You're dumbfounded by this weird turf war happening inside your childhood home.

"You think just 'cause you're a broad, you can mouth off to anybody you want and get away with it."

"No, I didn't 'get away with it,' you left a faint little freckle on my cheek with that crabapple you call a fist." And with that, you catch another swing. Just as painful, and this time, no laughter follows. The shot glass is knocked from your hand and shatters on the floor just before you land, cutting up your hands pretty good. "Ah! God fucking damn it!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" The man shrieks, kneeling over you to beat you senseless, but he doesn't get a second hit in before someone's grabbed his shoulders and ripped him off of you. Simon.

He has the short man pinned against the wall receiving hit after hit to the face and stomach. "The fuck you come back here for, dumbass? Playground's already closed?" Simon taunts as he lands blow after blow. The rage in his eyes is palpable. You're on your feet in no time, folding your glass-filled hands in on themselves to swing brick-like fists at the troublesome man. It's you and Simon vs that guy until his friends eventually join in, knocking Simon around and finally dragging their friend out of the function. You wonder what the point of showing up was at all.

Simon helps you wash the glass and small traces of blood from your hands. There's only one significant cut, and a bandaid will have it fixed up in an instant. "Why and how did you manage to land on a pile of broken glass?" He asks, frustrated with the tweezers he's using to remove the tiny shards. "Who keeps inviting that fuckin' guy?"

"I saved you a, uh... I saved you a shot." Your voice lowers as the sentence goes on as you realize how desperate it sounds.

"Saved me a shot?" He laughs. "You were waitin' for me." He grins.

"Yeah, I was hoping to sweeten you up and get a heavier gram this time." You reach into your pocket for money and shove it at him, leaving your bandaged hand in front of him, awaiting your drugs.

"I'll share my personal with you, how about that?" He tilts his head up, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes as he raises a cigarette to his mouth. He already knows you'll be pulling him onto the patio, so he wastes no time lighting it.

"Sounds good, let's go." You lead him to the dark backyard and the two of you take a seat at the table, but you're a chair closer this time, making it easier to share the little mirror. You cut out two lines and pull your hair away from your face. Once the substance enters your body, you're ignited into conversation. You drone on and on, and Simon listens to every bit, quietly hitting his cigarette as he watches you go. Slowly, the adrenaline wears off, and the reality of the ache in your face settles in. "Oh, my God. My fucking face." You brush a finger over the inevitable darkening black eye on the right side of your face.

"Yeah, they uh, kinda fucked us up." Simon speaks through cigarette smoke.

"Do you even know who they are? The short guy?"

"You keep calling him short. He's your height." Simon squints.

"I just feel so much taller than him. Maybe it's the shoes, I don't know." You shrug, snorting another line with the side of your nose that hasn't swollen shut from the fight.

"It's clearly a sore spot for him, regardless."

"You jumped in," you smile, feeling as if this "friendship" has finally been validated.

"Said I would," Simon responds flatly. You roll your eyes and stare up at the night sky for a moment. Inside, the party rages on. Music thumps from indoors, but the sound is well sealed from where you two sit.

"This is gonna hurt so bad tomorrow, huh?" You ask, sniffing through your coke and blood-filled nose.

"Oh, yeah." A drag of his cigarette. "It's gonna fucking suck." He can't help but chuckle, having lived through an ass beating or two in his life.

"You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Stop asking me so many fucking questions." He waves his hand dismissively.

"Not even to hide?" You smirk.

"I'll come back to hide." He exhales smoke through a small smile. You two are up long past sunrise, and when the last of the coke finally begins to wear off, you head to bed.

"Goodnight, Simon. Don't go to jail today." You chime behind you as you head down the hall. Simon scans the living room and it's emptier than the last party. As in, no one stayed the night. He shifts uncomfortably for a moment, unsure of his next move. Before he knows it, he's face down, passed out on your parents soft, leather couch.

You can hear the familiar sound of falling face-first into that exact couch, and you feel a sense of comfort knowing Simon won't be running from the cops while you sleep. He's gone when you wake up and to avoid any more drama, you hold off on planning your next party. Days go by, and your time house sitting dwindles. Simon hasn't come back, not even to hide.

Weeks pass and you're packing your belongings into your van, giving your parents a hug and assuring them that nothing went awry. They shower you in thanks and love, sending you on your way back home, states away. It feels bittersweet, and you wish you got to tell Simon you were leaving. Maybe give him a phone number or something stupid like that.

Before you leave town, you stop by a gas station to fill up and grab a snack. At the register, a tall man with long locs peers at you from behind the counter. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah, and the rest on pump four." The man nods at your request. You'd be lying if you said you weren't looking for Simon to pass by outside, or hopefully catch him walking somewhere so you can say bye. It's a strange feeling in you to want his presence. As you reminisce about the sheer rage in his eyes as he pulled that guy off of you during the fight, your eye catches something behind the register. A poster for some gritty, underground band. And opening for them... Psyops.

The cashier hands you your bags and you point to the poster. "What's the date on that? The concert thing."

"I think it's tonight," he answers flatly. Your shoulders fall, wondering if this late in the evening means you've already missed him. You shake these weird feelings from your head, reminding yourself that a few days of liking each other doesn't make up for all those years of torment. You continue down the road for a few miles more.

"God damn it!" You burst, cutting a U-turn in the middle of the street, barreling your van back into town. He said he'd jump in, and he did. You told him you'd go to a show.

(Part 2 is HERE!!)

[dummiebrat]

Rio: [leaning casually against a chair, smirking] “Come on, Wanda, you’re too sweet to be dangerous. A cinnamon roll, really. All soft and gooey.”

Wanda: [narrowing her eyes, arms crossed] “You shouldn’t underestimate me, Rio.”

Rio: [grinning wider, teasing] “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots. What are you going to do? Knit me a stern warning? Glare me into submission?”

Wanda: [takes a step closer, voice low and calm] “I could hex you into next week and still have time for tea.”

Rio: [mock gasp] “Oh no! The cinnamon roll has a temper. What are you going to do, Wanda? Sprinkle some sugar on me?”

Wanda: [suddenly grabbing Rio by the collar, pulling her closer] “Careful, Vidal. Even cinnamon burns if you push it too far.”

Rio: [blinking, clearly surprised but trying to mask it] “Not bad, Maximoff. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Natasha: [from the doorway, eyebrow raised] “Did Wanda just verbally corner Rio?”

Agatha: [sipping her tea, amused] “It seems she’s finally learned that even predators have weak spots. Impressive.”

Wanda: [smirking, releasing Rio’s collar] “Oh, I’ve always known. I just didn’t think it was worth my time until now.”

Rio: [straightening up, muttering] “Okay, fine. Cinnamon roll with claws. Noted.”

Natasha: [grinning slightly] “You’re lucky she didn’t hex you.”

Agatha: [chuckling] “Give her time.”

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 .

# with flame emperor sabo.

sabo fell for the fiancé of a wealthy heir. luckily enough, he held no respect for the world government dogs whatsoever — and he was about to let them know that.

⎰ & KINKTOBER. smut (mdni!). public. dry!humping. finger!sucking. pyromania if you squint. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 1.8k

sabo the revolutionary had quite a select number of bad qualities — and twice as many positive ones, if he said so himself — although his sadism concerning those in a position of wealth was of particular prominence. his first intention had not been to get involved in the webs of your life. it was but a simple mission; brief in essence. to infiltrate into the household of a wealthy family, aligned to the world government, to steal the specific letters of the discussed alliance — and some expensive jewelry, while he was at it, and to leave, unscathed. yet, sabo was hot-headed, and his disgust regarding the higher-ups all but served to flare that temper; to feed the beast itching for a fight. you — vexed, fretful, the engagement golden band on your finger, seeming to weigh but a thousand tons — proved to be his perfect excuse for a bit of a thrill.

seducing the sharp-witted fiancé of an arrogant heir, fucking one in the backroom of a ball, at that, was oddly satisfying. sabo presumed it’d be a singular encounter, neither predicting nor planning on repetitions. yet, he caught himself returning to your bedsheets — again and again — somewhat gaining a double-agent who offered him confidential information for the merest sake of getting into the nerves of those who had arranged that marriage. sabo risked the rage of his mentor and comrades, far too obsessed to refrain from returning to your haze of pleasure. and oh, how satisfying it was to claim you right under the royalty’s nose. to have you squirming and begging for his touch, claiming you on the same bed meant to symbolize your chastity.

yet, that had been his most ambiguous act so far. your wedding reception: a boisterous celebration, meant to leave a clear message for the entire world to see. sabo made his way through shadow and crowd, eyes tethered to the gorgeous, statue-worthy, sight of you — a monument in silk and pearls. mutual observation; your glance tethered to his figure, hidden amidst the countless, fancy chandeliers. your smile, brightest than the reflected light on your collar and earrings. it would be impossible for you to excuse yourself from the untrustworthy guests, but no limit was unattainable to him whenever you were concerned. a small, unprecedented commotion outside had the gathering on edge, parroted fools following the source of the sudden explosions — fireworks, reserved for the ceremony, a spectacle he didn’t hesitate to ruin.

a single grin sent his way had him aflame, you but a blur of white striving towards the natural maze in the garden, losing yourself amidst the bushes and thorns, presenting the challenge of being found. countless of others dared venture inside the maze, yet sabo’s senses were attuned to your spirit, the sudden outburst of flames smearing the night sky all but covered by the exploding fireworks. a pool of fire settled under the sole of his boots at his approach, grass giving in to the sudden heat as his hands claimed your hips, pressing your back flush against his chest.

“pearls,” he scoffed, voice laced with irony as his teeth bit on your earlobe. “couldn’t afford diamonds?

an amused sigh mingled with the ever-growing wild tempo of your breathing, your fingers intertwining with his own. “the treasure safe was stolen a few hours ago, such a morbid coincidence.”

“what a tragedy,” sabo mocked, lower intonation expliciting the gradual increase of his lust.

his fingers curled around your necklace, and a brute tug had the elastic snapping, a cascade of pearls meeting the grass, glinting white mirroring the moonlight. he shoved a hand inside the pocket of his trousers, fishing a stolen, diamond necklace, and clasping it around your neck. it shone — pale and ethereal — twice as much as those stupid pearls, the golden band serving as a perfect contrast to the expensive stones.

“would you look at that,” you pointed out in faux shock, and sabo grinned, tongue meeting the bare flesh of your neck.

the warmth around the pair of you increased — a consequence of the wildfire he had created. it was but a matter of time until the alarmed guests followed the trail of smoke; found your figure pressed against his own. sabo wrapped a hand around your throat, his cock hardening at the singular, delighted moan you produced. the sight of you in white; a wedding dress meant for another; had him seething. his teeth claimed your shoulder as he brushed a thumb against your lower lip, his back but a shield that kept you safe from the bruising flames.

sabo had your ass pressed against his clothed erection, a particular thrust causing him to groan, a shuddering breath following-in-suit. you whimpered at each lascivious, harsh roll of his hips, as though he aimed to have his cock inside your cunt regardless of the fabric that separated the pair of you. the commotion was but a mute, irrelevant thing, for sabo was far too dazed; lost amidst the metaphorical haze of lust and the quite literal cloud of smoke, the scent of the burnt bushes filling the air.

your own hips began to move, meeting his thrust halfway, his breath growing ragged at the pressure, his tip smearing the fabric of his underwear, girth aching within the coffins of his trousers. sabo kept a bruising grip on your waist, growing mad at the merest thought of the context of that encounter — your marriage to a scornful, disgusting heir with no respect for human life whatsoever. he snapped his hips, brute and possessive, teeth buried on your shoulders as he forced you to meet his thrusts.

his arm was the one to keep you balanced; tethering you to the earth. you had your head on his shoulder, neck craned to offer further access to the abusing bruises left on your flesh by his famished mouth. you moaned, back arching as he tried to have a brief taste of the folds of your ass, through his clothed girth.

the fire closed in, yet sabo took-in the opportunity offered by the cacophony of your whimpers to shove three of his fingers inside of your mouth, the sudden invasion provoking your gag reflex. dragon-claw technique was made for violence; battling. yet it had not been the first time he used the crafted strength of his fingers on you — oftentimes shoving them so deep into your pussy, you were left unable to feel your legs for a couple of succeeding hours. your mouth, however, was quite a new territory — and one he was eager to venture through, especially with the incoming crowd.

“suck on it,” he rasped out, and your moan sent a tide of vibrations through his skin, your tongue following-in-suit; swirling, warm and wet, having him grunt at the reminder of how it felt to have your mouth wrapped around his cock.

drool dripped past your parted lips, trailing down your chin. he did not dare shove his fingers knuckle deep, well-aware that the limitations of your mouth were far less extensive than those of your cunt, yet the strength of the thrusting into your mouth remained, filling the ambience with the sound of your struggle; your constant gagging. your cheeks were hollowed as you all but failed to match his tempo, tongue giving-in under the pressure of his digits. it was erratic, vicious and lewd, saliva coated fingers and a brutal, ever-constant thrust of his girth against your ass. yet, sabo had never been more hard; neglected cock leaking. tears rolled down your cheeks, mingled with liquid streaks of black as your fluids ruined the makeup you wore. he wondered how long those people had wasted, dolling you up, turning you into an ethereal and desirable object, coated in richness and assuming an image so far from the you he knew. sabo chuckled — darkly, malicious — for he meant to demolish the foundation of their plans, stealing their most precious jewel.

flames engulfed the surroundings, daring to lick the hem of your dress, silk crumbling from the heat. for a second, sabo allowed the wildfire to destroy it; to claim the fabric and the one who wore it. the long, chic dress shrunk, offering him a clear sight of your thigh. you gagged, whether it had been from his fingers or the smoke, he could not guess, but the sound had been engulfed by the gasps from the outsiders, and sabo, at last, laughed. he picked up the pace of his humping, dragging his tongue up your neck, teeth teasing your earlobe.

he heard flabbergasted shouting and gasping, the guests failing to approach the two of you, figures engulfed by a curtain of flames and smoke. sabo grew more excited at their reaction, grunting as he shoved his fingers, knuckle deep, a final time. you gagged, clinging to his wrist, pleading stance edging him further. he was close to cumming in his pants as though a ridiculous, untouched virgin, yet he did not care whatsoever, retreating his fingers to grip at your chin, forcing you to face the alarmed guests, observing the scene without the means to retrieve you.

the groom barked out orders, yet the fire began to spread with renewed fury, a tide of devastating heat challenging him to face it. sabo’s breath tickled the side of your cheek as he smirked, forcing your hips to remain pressed against his cock.

“you’re going to sing for them,” sabo rasped out, lips moving to bite on your earlobe. “let them know where your loyalty lies.”

he groped one of your breasts, your saliva soaking the thin silken fabric, making it easier for him to tease your hardening nipple, pinching it ever-so-slightly. sabo forced you to feel every inch of his erection, wet mouth sucking bruises on your neck as he coaxed a loud, broken moan out of you. that hardly would be enough to have either of you cumming, but he could fix that soon enough. as of then, sabo enjoyed the sight of your ruined dress; tear-stricken face; abused throat. the fact that he melted you into nothing but a reminder of the role you were forced to play earlier. he grunted, twitching your nipple with non-forethought strength, causing you to mewl, a victim of his unrelenting touch.

sirens flared; the distinctive shout for the marines. sabo clicked his tongue, wrapping an arm around your figure, ceasing to tease you. he let out an amused laugh at the sight of your displeasure, barely clinging to consciousness due to the smoke, yet willing to ignore said barrier for the sake of having his fingers shoved into your awaiting mouth. sabo used his devil-fruit to propel the pair of you up, flames engulfing the lower part of his body as he flew far from the commotion, towards the docks. moonlight reflected on the diamonds adorning your neck, and a certain hint of possession settled itself in the pit of his stomach, heat sent straight into his still leaking, neglected cock.

“where to?” you inquired, secured into his arms, comfortable despite the height.

“freedom,” he answered, not adding that freedom’s gates were but an improvised bed on a small ship, promising a proper fuck — with those diamonds resting on your breasts.

— 🐈‍⬛ : google will PAY for the stress it’s been giving me this past week i swear!! kinktober almost ending, though. ☹️

[meazalykov]

after the storm is when the flowers bloom

lauren james x uswnt!reader

summary: you were proven wrong about her

warnings: "enemies" to lovers, angst, swearing, long chapter (4.7k words), happy ending of course

in 2022, the hum of wembley stadium rang in your ears, the cheers of over 70,000 fans vibrating through your chest. 

you could feel the weight of the moment—the united states women’s national team facing england in a friendly that felt anything but friendly due to many things. political history being one of them. 

this carried the intensity of a world cup match. 

you’d been playing as a defensive midfielder for years, your positioning and timing honed to perfection. you’ve been at gotham for a couple of years now, joining when covid stopped the world for a period of time. 

in the game against england, the 54th minute ticked onto the scoreboard, and england were pressing hard. their midfield was relentless, georgia stanway was orchestrating their attack with precision.

she was dangerous, but you knew her style. aggressive yet predictable. she wasn’t going to break through you easily. 

georgia picked up the ball and drove toward the edge of the box. you tracked her movements, your instincts kicking in. the moment her touch was slightly heavy, you seized the opportunity. you lunged forward, sliding into a perfectly timed tackle. 

the ball ricocheted off your boot, rolling cleanly toward lindsey, who was already pivoting to start the counterattack. 

at the same time, georgia crumpled to the ground, clutching her ankle as if you’d taken a crowbar to it. the crowd roared, some booing, some gasping. you stood up, your face a mix of frustration and disbelief. 

it was clean, you knew it was clean. you’d felt the ball, not her. 

the referee hesitated, her whistle hanging loosely in her hand. from the corner of your eye, you saw georgia writhing on the ground, her teammates gesturing angrily toward the official. 

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath. shaking your head, you turned to jog back to your position. 

that’s when it happened.

you barely had time to register the harsh push before you were airborne. a force like a freight train barreled into your back, sending you sprawling face-first onto the pitch. the impact knocked the wind out of you, your chest and elbows scraping against the rough grass. your head spun, your heart pounding as you lay there for a moment, stunned. 

“what the hell?” you thought, pushing yourself onto your elbows. your vision cleared, and standing above you was lauren james. she looked very nonchalant, as if she didn’t care about what she did. 

“what’s your problem?” lindsey’s voice sliced through the noise as the ref whistled for the game to pause. the blonde lyon player was sharp and furious. she stormed toward lauren, her usual calm completely shattered. 

“you can’t just shove someone like that!” 

trinity rodman wasn’t far behind, her fiery temper ignited due to seeing her bestfriend being shoved onto the cold grass. 

“are you out of your fucking mind? she didn’t even touch her for you to do all of that!” trinity’s voice was practically a roar, her hands gesturing wildly as she got in lauren’s face.

lauren didn’t back down. “whatever!” she tried to walk away, her voice low but venomous. 

you pushed yourself to your knees, still catching your breath. your elbows burned from the scrape, and your back ached from the impact of the shove. the adrenaline coursing through your veins made everything sharper—the noise of the crowd, the shouts of your teammates, the pounding of your heart. 

“she hit the ball, not georgia!” lindsey shot back, stepping closer to lauren. 

“don’t worry about her, she's just pissed because they’re having a bad game!” you suddenly heard alex whisper into your ear.

“enough!” leah, england’s captain, shoved her way into the chaos, trying to diffuse the situation. 

“back off! let the ref handle it!” 

the referee’s whistle pierced through the noise, sharp and commanding. she ran into the middle of the commotion, her arms outstretched as she tried to separate the players. 

you stayed on the ground for a moment longer, your mind racing. the shove wasn’t just aggressive; it was intentional. lauren had lashed out, and you couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

sure, the game was heated, but this was something else entirely. 

as you stood, trinity and lindsey turned their attention to you. “are you okay?” lindsey asked, her voice softer now, concern etched across her face. 

you nodded, brushing the grass off your navy blue kit. “i’m fine,” you muttered, though your back throbbed where you’d hit the ground. 

trinity wasn’t having it. “fine? she shoved you like a damn linebacker! you’re not just letting this go, right?” 

you glanced at lauren, who was still being held back by her teammates. she looked carelees, but beneath that, you saw something else. frustration. embarrassment, maybe. it clicked in your mind—she was lashing out because she was struggling. 

her touches had been off all game, her passes misdirected. england was losing, and she was frustrated. 

“drop it,” you said quietly, making a subtle hand signal to trinity. she frowned, clearly unhappy with your decision, but she stepped back. lindsey hesitated, her eyes searching yours, but eventually she relented too. 

you turned and walked away from the commotion, your focus shifting back to the game. the referee called for the match to resume, and you shook off the lingering frustration, burying it deep. there was no time to dwell. 

england were still pressing, and you had a job to do. 

the minutes ticked by, england growing more desperate with every passing second. they managed to pull one back in the 78th minute, but the united states held firm. the score sat at 4-2 as the clock hit 90 minutes, and the fourth official signaled five minutes of added time. 

in the 92nd minute, you found yourself in a pocket of space 35 yards from goal. the ball rolled toward you, and instinct took over. you didn’t think, you just struck it cleanly with the inside of your boot. the ball sailed through the air, curving just enough to beat the keeper’s outstretched hands and slam into the back of the net. 

the stadium erupted, the noise deafening as your teammates swarmed you. you jogged toward the corner, a grin spreading across your face. 

reaching the edge of the pitch, you threw your arms out in your signature shrug, a gesture so casual it almost felt out of place in the chaos of celebration. 

as you turned back toward midfield, you caught the cameras lingering on you, the commentators speculating. you could already imagine the headlines, the social media takes. they’d frame your celebration as a dig at lauren, a retaliation for the shove. they didn’t understand—it was just your thing. it wasn’t about her. it was never about her. 

still, as you lined up for the restart, you couldn’t help but glance at lauren. her expression was unreadable, her eyes fixed on the ground. you wondered if she saw it differently. wondered if she thought it was personal. but you pushed the thought away. 

the game was yours, and nothing could change that.

however, you were right about the media speculation. 

the morning after the game, your notifications were flooded with articles, tweets, and videos dissecting the moment between you and lauren. headlines framed the shove as a grudge match, with some going as far as painting you as a victim of lauren’s frustration. 

at first, you ignored it, thinking the talk would die down quickly, but it didn’t. 

what started as a niche topic among women’s soccer fans spread further. people who rarely followed woso casually chimed in, turning it into a viral talking point. microaggressive comments about lauren’s maturity and emotional control flooded the conversation. 

at first, you tried to rationalize it. you told yourself it wasn’t your problem, that you couldn’t control what people said online. as the vitriol against lauren escalated, it started to disgust you. you didn’t hate her—not even close. she was a competitor, and in the heat of the game, players sometimes did things they regretted. you understood that. 

later that night, as you tried to get some rest, your mind wouldn’t quiet. eventually, you drifted off, only to wake up around 2 a.m., your phone buzzing with yet another notification. this time, it was a text from lauren through instagram.

lj10: hey, i just wanted to say sorry for what happened in the game. i was frustrated with how we were playing and took it out on you. it wasn’t fair. i’ll do better with controlling my emotions.

you stared at the message for a moment, caught off guard. most players didn’t reach out like this, especially not after something so small in the grand scheme of things. 

you typed back quickly, not wanting to leave her hanging. 

y/n.l/n: thanks for saying that. i get it. tough games can bring out the worst in all of us. I appreciate the apology.

her response came almost instantly. 

lj10: still, it wasn’t okay. i respect you as a player, and i shouldn’t have let my frustration get the better of me.

you smiled faintly, shaking your head. “respect you as a player” sounded oddly formal, but it was clear she meant it. the conversation lingered for a bit, with her reiterating how sorry she was and you assuring her that you held no grudges. 

what surprised you, though, was that lauren kept texting you even after the apologies were over. her messages were lighthearted and casual—a meme about players pretending to be fine after getting tackled, a question about how you stayed so composed on the pitch, even a random message asking if you liked english things. 

you replied when you could, but life got busy. the club season with gotham was in full swing, and between training, games, and travel, you barely had time to check your personal messages. 

still, you and lauren both issued public apologies, hoping to calm the online storm. hers was gracious, taking full responsibility for her actions, and yours was a simple statement reminding everyone that these things happen in the heat of the moment. 

for a while, it seemed like that was the end of it. then, in the middle of the 2023 season, things with gotham started to fall apart. your contract was nearing its end, and negotiations for a renewal weren’t going well. 

promises had been made about the direction of the club, but none of them had been kept. it became clear that staying wasn’t an option. 

chelsea were one of the first clubs to reach out. their offer was incredible—competitive wages, a clear vision for your role on the team, and the chance to play alongside some of the best players in the world. you couldn’t say no. 

when you arrived at chelsea’s training center for your first day of training, the nerves hit you hard. the new colors on your training gear felt surreal, and the sight of players you’d admired for years made your stomach flutter. 

among them was lauren. 

she was standing off to the side, tying her cleats, but her gaze flicked to you the moment you stepped onto the pitch. her posture stiffened slightly, and she gave you a small, hesitant smile. it was the first time you’d seen her in person since that infamous game. 

you smiled back, unsure of what to say. the entire situation felt oddly surreal, and you weren’t sure if she was as nervous as you were or if you were just imagining things. 

“hey hey heyyyy,” a familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts. mia jogged over, her face lighting up with a grin. 

“finally! another american on the team besides cat. i thought i was gonna have to keep the whole country on my back.” 

you laughed, grateful for her presence. mia was someone you knew from the national team, and her easygoing nature was exactly what you needed to calm your nerves. 

training was intense, the pace faster than what you were used to, but you managed to hold your own. still, you stuck close to mia and occasionally sam kerr, who you’d met through her fiancée, kristie. 

it wasn’t that you didn’t want to get to know the others, but your nerves were still getting the better of you. 

during a water break, lauren approached you cautiously. she held her water bottle in one hand, her other fidgeting with the hem of her training shirt. 

“hey,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the chatter around you. 

“hey,” you replied, giving her a small smile. 

she hesitated, then added, “it’s, um, good to see you here. i mean, on the team.” 

“thanks,” you said, unsure of how to navigate the conversation. “it’s… good to be here.” 

an awkward silence hung between you for a moment before she nodded and walked away, leaving you to wonder if the tension was real or just in your head. 

over the next few weeks, you settled into life at chelsea. the team was welcoming, the facilities top-notch, and the football was everything you’d hoped for. lauren, however, remained somewhat distant. 

she wasn’t unfriendly, but she wasn’t as chatty as she’d been over text either. 

one day after training, as you were packing up your things, she approached you again. this time, she seemed more confident. 

“i’ve been meaning to ask,” she said, her tone casual, “are you as good at fifa as you are on the pitch? because some of the girls want to start a tournament, and i’m not going easy on you just because you’re new.” 

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “you don’t go easy on anyone, do you?” 

she laughed, the sound light and genuine. “not really. but it keeps things interesting.” 

“i’ll take you on,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “but don’t throw a fit when i win.” 

“we’ll see about that,” she shot back, her confidence shining through for the first time since you’d joined. 

overtime, beneath the surface, something about lauren james’s attention to you began to feel... different. at first, you thought it was just her being friendly. she was always the first to help you out during training, pairing up with you for drills before anyone else could. 

she’d linger near you during team bonding moments at the bar, her gaze sometimes lingering a beat too long. 

you’d catch her watching you during warm-ups or across the locker room, her expression unreadable. at first, you brushed it off as coincidence. but then there were the small things—her eagerness to volunteer when you needed something, her insistence on being your partner during tactical sessions, her quick smile whenever your eyes met.

you did not  hate it, in fact, you looked towards her a lot to see if she was watching what you were doing. 

the moment everything shifted for you came when your car broke down, leaving you stranded. you showed up at training that day after catching a ride with mia, lamenting to your teammates in the locker room about how inconvenient it was. 

“you don’t have a car?” lauren asked, her tone casual, though her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. 

“not until it gets out of the shop,” you said, pulling your navy colored boots on. 

“hopefully, it’s just a day or two.” 

“i can pick you up,” she offered quickly, her voice steady but almost too quick. “and drop you off. it’s no trouble.” 

“really? i don’t want to bother you.” you hesitated, glancing around at the others. 

“cat already said she could do it.”

“yeah, i can,” catarina added, leaning back in her seat. 

“you’re literally on the way to here for me.”

lauren shrugged, a hint of a smirk on her lips. 

“i’m closer. plus, i don’t mind. i need the extra excuse to get out of bed early anyway.”

you raised an eyebrow. 

“an excuse? what am i, your alarm clock?” 

“something like that,” she said lightly, and though her words were playful, her eyes stayed on you, searching. 

you finally relented, smiling. 

“okay, if you’re sure. just don’t oversleep and leave me stranded.”

“promise,” she said, grinning, and you could feel the attention of the room shift as sam kerr’s sharp eyes flicked between you and lauren.

it didn’t take long for sam to figure things out. during another training session a few days later, she pulled lauren aside, her expression tinged with amusement.

“so,” sam began, her australian accent playful, 

“you’ve got a little crush, don’t you?”

lauren’s face reddened instantly. 

“what are you talking about?”

“oh, come on.” sam rolled her eyes. 

“you’re not exactly subtle. always volunteering to help y/n, staring at her during drills while moisturizing your lips. i’ve seen it.”

lauren sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. 

“fine. yeah, i think she’s… i mean, she’s gorgeous, sam. how couldn’t i?”

sam’s grin widened. “well, no one’s arguing that. but seriously, what’s stopping you? she doesn’t seem like she’s holding a grudge or anything.”

“the friendly,” lauren muttered, her gaze dropping to the ground. 

“i shoved her. it was stupid, and she probably remembers.”

“laur,” sam said gently, “she’s not holding onto that. my kristie was on the pitch that day, and even she said y/n let it go. you should too.”

you, meanwhile, were grappling with feelings you didn’t fully understand. after a few weeks of lauren driving you to and from training, you noticed something had shifted within you. 

it wasn’t just her kindness or her easy humor—it was the way you missed her when she wasn’t around. even after she dropped you off, you’d find yourself wanting to text her, to hear her voice again. 

one night, you couldn’t keep it to yourself any longer. you called catarina, needing her perspective. 

“so, what’s going on?” cat asked after you’d explained everything. 

you hesitated, chewing on your lip. “i don’t know. i just… i feel like i want to be around her all the time. it’s weird.”

cat laughed softly. “that doesn’t sound weird. that sounds like a crush.”

“no,” you said quickly, shaking your head even though she couldn’t see you. “it’s not that. i mean, it can’t be. i just saw her a few hours ago, and—” you sighed, cutting yourself off. 

“i miss her.”

“y/n.” her tone was teasing now, but there was an underlying fondness. 

“that’s literally the definition of a crush.”

you groaned. “don’t tell her. if you tell her, i swear you’ll regret it.”

“i won’t say anything,” cat promised, though you could hear her smirk through the phone. 

“but you should think about why you’re so scared of her knowing.”

the next day, chelsea faced arsenal in a tense league match. the score was locked at 1-1 late in the second half when your team won a corner kick. the atmosphere in the stadium was high, the fans roaring as lauren positioned herself to take the kick. 

you stood near the penalty spot, ready to make your move. 

lauren raised her hand, signaling the play. her brown eyes flicked toward you briefly before she delivered the ball with pinpoint accuracy. 

you surged forward, timing your jump perfectly. the header was clean, the ball soaring past arsenal’s goalkeeper and into the back of the net. 

the stadium erupted in cheers, your teammates rushing to you in celebration. the energy was overwhelming, the roar of the crowd and the adrenaline coursing through your veins making everything feel surreal. 

amid the chaos, lauren was the last to reach you. as your teammates peeled away, she stepped closer, her arms wrapping around you in a hug that felt… different. 

the english woman’s strong hands rested lightly on your waist, her grip firm but gentle. 

“great header,” she murmured in your ear, her voice barely audible over the noise. 

“perfect cross,” you replied, your breath catching as you realized how close she was. 

the moment stretched longer than it should have, the world fading around you as the two of you lingered in the embrace. your heart pounded, the realization hitting you like a freight train. 

whatever this was between you and lauren, it wasn’t just in your head. 

after the game and the post-match interviews were done, the adrenaline was fading, and all you wanted was a hot shower and some quiet. 

before you could even step into the tunnel, sam pulled you aside, her expression unreadable, though there was a mischievous glint in her eye.

“so,” she started, crossing her arms as she leaned casually against the wall, “what was that?”

you blinked at her, confused. “what was what?”

“don’t play dumb,” she said, her lips curling into a smirk. “that moment between you and lauren after the goal. everyone saw it.”

heat rushed to your face as you quickly shook your head. “it was nothing,” you said, trying to sound convincing. 

“just teammates celebrating a goal.”

sam raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “uh-huh. you’re really gonna stick with that?”

“because it’s the truth,” you replied, avoiding her gaze.

“right.” she dragged out the word, clearly not believing you. 

“you’re coming to my place after this. kristie and i are gonna have a little chat with you.”

you frowned, trying to protest. “sam, it’s not—”

“don’t care,” she interrupted, her tone cheerful but firm. “see you there.”

you couldn’t wiggle your way out of it. after a quick post-match meeting with the team, you found yourself standing in sam and kristie’s living room. kristie had just finished setting out a plate of snacks, and sam was already sitting cross-legged on the couch, her arms folded as she watched you like a hawk.

“all right,” kristie said, sitting down beside sam. “let’s hear it.”

“hear what?” you asked, feigning ignorance.

“don’t play dumb,” sam said, echoing her earlier words. 

“we’re talking about you and lauren. what’s going on?”

you sighed, sitting down in the armchair across from them. 

“nothing’s going on. i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

kristie tilted her head, her expression soft but probing. 

“y/n, come on. we’re not blind. everyone has seen how you two look at each other.”

“and that hug after the goal,” sam added. 

“i’m pretty sure the crowd thought you were about to propose to eachother.”

“it’s not like that,” you said, shaking your head. 

“i just… i don’t know. it feels too early to think about it like that.”

sam snorted. “too early? the first time you seriously talked to lauren was what, a year ago?”

the words hit you like a ton of bricks. “wait, that friendly was… a year ago?” 

“yep,” kristie confirmed. 

“almost to the day. so, don’t tell us it’s too early.”

“fine,” you muttered, slumping back in your seat. 

“but what if i’m reading this wrong? what if she’s just being friendly?”

sam let out a dramatic groan. 

“you’re not reading it wrong, y/n. trust me. your feelings are not one-sided.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, your phone buzzed in your pocket. pulling it out, you saw lauren’s name flash on the screen. your heart skipped a beat.

“well, speak of the devil,” sam teased. 

“go on, answer it.”

“i—okay,” you stammered, getting up and retreating to the bathroom for some privacy. 

closing the door behind you, you took a deep breath before answering. 

“hey, lauren.”

“hey,” she said, her voice warm but slightly nervous. 

“i just wanted to ask– uh, are you free later?”

“yeah, i should be. why?” 

“there’s this italian place in the city i thought we could go to,” she said. 

“if you’re up for it. i heard it’s really good.”

your stomach flipped. it was one of your favorite spots in london, though you’d never mentioned that to her. 

“yeah, i’d love to. what time?”

“seven? i can pick you up if you want.”

“sure, that works.”

“great,” she said, and you could hear the smile in her voice. 

“see you then.”

after hanging up, you stayed in the bathroom for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. when you finally emerged, sam and kristie were waiting expectantly.

“well?” sam prompted.

“she invited me to dinner,” you said, sitting back down. 

“at my favorite italian place.”

“your favorite?” kristie asked, eyebrows raising. 

“did you tell her that?”

you shook your head. 

“no, never. do you think… did you say something, sam?”

sam held her hands up defensively. “wasn’t me. maybe cat or mia?”

“maybe,” you muttered, though the thought made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“so,” kristie said, leaning forward, 

“you’re gonna tell her how you feel, right?”

you hesitated. “i don’t know. what if it’s too soon?”

“if you don’t tell her tonight,” sam interjected, her tone playful but firm, “i will tell her at training tomorrow morning.”

you groaned, running a hand down your face. “fine. but if this blows up in my face, i’m blaming you both.”

kristie smiled, her expression softening. “it won’t blow up. trust me.”

“just be honest,” sam added. “she likes you, y/n. you’ll see.”

at 6:55, lauren pulled up outside your apartment, her car idling as you stepped out the door wearing one of your favorite casual outfits. the drive to the restaurant was surprisingly easy, the conversation flowing naturally as you talked about the morning game against arsenal. 

by the time you arrived, the tension you’d felt earlier had mostly dissipated.

the restaurant was cozy, with dim lighting and the warm scent of garlic and fresh bread wafting through the air. lauren held the door open for you, her hand lingering on the small of your back as you stepped inside. 

the gesture sent a shiver down your spine.

“this place is amazing,” lauren said as you were seated. 

“i’ve heard so many good things about it.”

“yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” you admitted, smiling. 

the meal was perfect—delicious food, easy conversation, and the kind of laughter that made your cheeks ache. lauren was more relaxed than you’d ever seen her, her usual shyness replaced by a quiet confidence that made you feel at ease.

as the night wore on, though, the weight of what sam and kristie had said lingered in the back of your mind. you kept waiting for the right moment to bring it up, but every time, the words caught in your throat.

finally, as dessert arrived, lauren broke the comfortable silence. 

“can i ask you something?”

your heart skipped a beat. “of course.”

instead of speaking right away, lauren reached across the table, her fingers brushing against yours before gently taking your hand in hers. her touch was warm, her grip firm but careful, as though she was afraid you might pull away. 

your breath caught in your throat as she softly ran her thumb over the back of your hand, the gesture so intimate it made your cheeks burn. 

you glanced down, feeling a sudden wave of shyness, but you didn’t pull your hand away.

your breath caught. 

“after your goal earlier, did you feel something in that moment between us?”

“i… yeah, i did,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. 

she smiled, a soft, almost shy expression that made your chest ache. 

“good. because i’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

you leaned forward slightly, your pulse racing as she kept a light grip on your hands. 

“what is it?”

she hesitated for a moment, “i like you, y/n. i have for a while now. and i know things didn’t start off great between us, but… i really like being around you.”

her words hung in the air, your mind racing as you tried to process them. “lauren, i—” you paused, taking a deep breath. 

“i like you too. i’ve been trying to figure out what to say, but… i just didn’t want to ruin anything.”

lauren’s bright smile widened, and she gave a light squeeze to your hand. 

“you’re not ruining anything. trust me.”

“good, because i’ve wanted to be your girlfriend for a while now.” you boldly admited. 

“oh really?” lauren smirked, teasing you as she gave a light kiss on your knuckles. 

“yes, really.” 

“so, am i your girlfriend now?” lauren teases. 

“yes, am I yours?” 

“you are, my sweetheart.” 

masterlist

[stvrgxsm]

afterglow | joel miller [5k]

“what am i then?” “you’re the only thing worth living for.” or joel is an asshole until he isn't.

c: smut mdni, 18+. angst. abandonment. miscommunication.

a/n: i figured i would put this out here again. please let me know what you loved and what you didn't! enjoy:)

the thing is, you really shouldn’t be surprised.

he is not yours; has never been, will never be. he is completely his own man, and he has never lied to you about that.

but sometimes, when his body curls into yours late at night, and you can feel his breath ghost over your neck– when he tucks his worn boots next to yours under the bed and smiles sheepishly when you point it out– when a woman glares at you and he pulls you closer– sometimes you pretend he’s yours.

of course, all these lovely moments are tempered by his perpetual frown. he always seems to troubled in spirit about something. 

today it was some FEDRA agent overstepping the law and facing no repercussions. yesterday it was tess being cagey about the dropoff for the smuggled contraband. 

joel miller is a bitter man. but sometimes he lets himself soften, and you cling to those moments like a raft in a torrential flood.

you hum as you cook dinner– it makes you feel a little better about life. these days it’s been a struggle to look forward to the next day, the next meal, the next shift. when everything in life just seems to propel your demise, nothing seems worth it.

hence the humming. 

joel isn’t home yet– probably won’t be for a while. he takes extra shifts whenever he can. you’ve learned by now to not expect him home by 5.

you haven’t lived together for very long. when tess started taking on bigger jobs, she insisted she needed a separate space. she got her own apartment, and you took the one she shared with joel. at first, he insisted on taking the couch and letting you have the bedroom, but then it became an issue of too little space. with joel sleeping in your only shared room, neither of you felt comfortable with the other. you fought about it.

after that you took the left side of the bed. 

it’s hard to believe you haven’t known him for that long. you’re a new addition to their team– it’s not longer just him and tess. you don’t join them on smuggling trips, but you like to think you make their lives easier with the soft things you provide for them. like your garden. or dinner.

the timer you set for the chicken dings, and you jump to pull it out of the oven. it’s beautifully cooked; the bread crumbs you’d spread on top had browned just how you wanted. you love this– the playing house. it allows you to feel like all those expensive cooking classes your parents paid for before the outbreak are finally worth something.

the meal is all prepared and set out. now it’s just the wait for joel. he’s usually home by 6:30, so you tell yourself you’ll wait until 6:45 to start eating. he’s told you time and time again not to wait for him.

you glance at the clock. 6:24. it’s not really time for him to be home yet, but it’s getting there. you eye the bottle of red that tess returned from the last trip to bill and frank’s with. you had wanted to share it with joel, but it’s getting late. surely one glass won’t hurt.

you’re tipsy, and the chicken is cold on the counter when you check the time again. 6:48. still not technically unusual. you finish your plate. 

the bottle is half-gone when you finally stumble into bed. your eyes catch the clock again. 8:35. you don’t even register it.

you wake to darkness.

for a moment you lie there, trying to remember why your head hurts so bad. then you remember– the chicken, the wine, joel.

you feel around next to you for his comforting warmth, but there’s nothing there. you sit up. he’s not there. you’re alone.

“joel?” you whisper into the empty apartment.

nothing.

you swing your legs out of bed and stand on unsteady legs. your head still hurts a little, but you weren’t blackout drunk. you can expect a mild hangover, and that’s exactly what’s happening right now. 

the clock reads 3:42. even if joel took the late shift, he would be home by now. even he is not so foolish as to think he can risk missing curfew by this much. something must have happened to him. 

it doesn’t even occur to you to wait for him. you’re just grabbing your handgun and stuffing it into the waistband of your pants. the metal is cold against your skin, but you’re so buzzed with adrenaline and worry you barely feel it. you pull on a light sweater and open the door.

he’s not in the hall. he’s not in the stairway.

in fact, you walk the full length of your street before you’re certain he’s not there. you stand alone on the end of the street and sigh, planting your hands on your hips.

at the end of the day, what do you know about joel miller? where would he go in case of an emergency? 

tess, you finally decide. he would go see tess. so off you go, across the QZ, to tess’s apartment. it’s a long walk, but you know the patterns FEDRA follows, and you know where to hide. along the way, you see no one, but you hear lots.

moans, mostly. some singing. crying. the sounds of a broken city. 

tess’s apartment looms before you, and you’re suddenly struck with uncertainty. what if he’s not here? before you can stop yourself, you raise a fist and knock softly. 

tess opens almost instantly, not even looking tired. her blonde hair is pulled sharply away from her forehead, into a bun at the nape of her neck. her brow furrows. “what are you doing here?”

“joel,” you whisper. “is he here?”

she steps out of her apartment and looks left and right. then back at you. she hesitates. “why don’t you come inside?”

“what happened? is he in here?” you ask as you cross her threshold. she closes the door behind you. “tess. where is he?”

she seems almost distracted as she closes all the curtains. “joel. he didn’t come home last night?”

“uh, no. look, should i be worried? i mean, i am worried! where is he?”

tess looks straight at you. “i don’t know. we did a job yesterday. nothing big– just a few pills. he kept talking about you… he was all smiley.” she frowns in thought. “there was one weird thing.”

“yes? what was it?”

“when he dropped off the pills, the FEDRA bastard asked about you.”

you’re taken aback. you don’t interact with any FEDRA officers. “i don’t even know any of them!” you protest, as though she’s accusing you of something. 

“no, i know,” she’s quick to assure you. “it threw us off, too. joel kind of… lost it. i’ve never seen him like that before, and i hope i never do again.”

you hesitate before asking, “what did he do?”

tess grimaces. “let’s just say FEDRA’s down one agent.”

“oh.” you’re breathless for a moment, which confuses you, but you shove it aside. for now, you have to focus on your missing roommate-slash-partner-slash-whatever-you-are. “so where is he?”

“after that, he just ran. i thought he went home. i guess not.”

the worry that sprouted earlier is now blooming fully in your chest. it bursts out of your mouth with every breath, every word. you’re choking on it. 

“where– where might he have gone?”

tess thinks for a moment. “there’s a speakeasy he talks about sometimes. it’s down by the old port. do you know where that is?” you nod. “do you have a gun?” you nod again. “do you want me to go with you?”

“no, no, it’s fine. i’m good at staying out of trouble.” you force a brief smile and start walking towards the door. she follows you out. 

“will i see you tomorrow?” she asks. 

it’s a double-edged question. she’s asking not only about your safety, but also about your allegiance to her and her organization. “yes,” you finally answer. “yes, you will. with joel.”

you share a smile, and then the door is shut and you’re gone. you know exactly which speakeasy tess is talking about. joel has taken you there a few times. you’ve enjoyed it every time, but he likes it more than you. you’re clinging to the hope that he’s there through the short walk, all the way up to when you rap out the code on the door.

you hear a lock unclick. faint music seeps out from under the door. FEDRA must pretend this place doesn’t exist. sometimes they turn a blind eye to something good.

your theory is proven right when you spot several FEDRA agents lounging at the bar. the dim lights help hide the block letters on their uniforms, but it seems you’re looking for trouble tonight. 

your gaze immediately lands on him, and your lungs empty in one relieved gasp.

joel is in a corner, surrounded by his coworkers. he’s smiling. he’s… laughing. his hand grips a beer bottle by the neck, and you shift your weight, flustered against your will by the sight. he doesn’t see you, but in your happiness you don’t register this.

you’re at his table in mere seconds, smiling broadly despite your exhaustion. it’s 4 in the morning, but you couldn’t be happier. 

then his eyes meet yours, and your stomach drops.

“what are you doing here?” 

it’s joel, yes, but something’s different. he’s drunk. that’s the biggest thing. but also, he seems angry. your smile from before is gone, replaced by an angry scowl. one that has never been directed at you before.

you take a step back before you realize what you’re doing. “i… i was worried about you.” your voice sounds so small.

the men sitting around joel laugh. he doesn’t stop them, and your heart twinges in your chest. suddenly the worry from earlier is gone, replaced by a burning anger. it flushes your cheeks, it stains the breaths that spill from your open mouth. you’re blinded by it.

you’re frozen there until he speaks. he holds all the power. 

finally, he looks at you. it’s almost like he’s condescending to you. “get out, little girl,” he says. it’s nothing, it’s not even a real acknowledgement of you. but his voice isn’t slurred, which tells you he hasn’t had as much alcohol as you originally thought.

“what?”

he rolls his eyes. “i said–”

“i know what you said.” you can hardly believe yourself. you can hardly believe joel. he’s never done this kind of thing before. “i waited for you. why didn’t you come home?”

joel shoots you a withering glare. “we’re not family, you know,” he finally says. “you’re a burden. you are a responsibility. i owe you nothing.” he doesn’t spare you a second glance, just turns back to the others at the table and reaches for another bottle.

you stand there for a moment, frozen, but when it becomes clear he’s done with you, you leave. the walk back to your shared apartment feels longer than usual. you’re in your head, trying to figure out a plan. what could you possibly do when joel always has the upper hand?

then it hits you. if joel wants you gone so bad, if he really wants you out, you’ll give it to him. you’ll give it to him until he chokes on it.

that night, you take all of your stuff and bolt.

you’re aware of the time constraints you’re under. joel might be drinking, but he’ll still want to be home for a shower before he goes off to work. it’s a little before 6:00 when you’re finally done. all of your things are stowed in tess’s apartment for now, until you can find your own place. 

you stand there, surveying your new home. it’s bigger than the one you and joel shared, but it’s also not as comforting. you scan the kitchen and living area multiple times before you realize that it feels different because joel’s record player isn’t there. in the place where you had stored his records, tess has a cabinet of clothing. 

you heave a sigh. it’s not perfect, but then again it’s not forever. just until you find an apartment. and a job. preferably one that doesn’t involve seeing joel fucking miller every single fucking day. you wonder if you can include that on the application.

tess is off doing… whatever it is she does during the day. she’s left you with a spare key and instructions to not let anyone in. the day is yours. you spend it sleeping. 

you unpack when you can. it takes a few days to get fully accustomed to the new living space, but that’s normal. you’re in an entirely new home. 

speaking of which… you’re not entirely sure how to thank tess. a card doesn’t seem like enough, but a cake is too much. she’s assured you multiple times that no thanks are necessary, she’s just doing what anyone would do. but you both know she’s not. the boston QZ inhabitants are not known for their generosity or charity. quite the opposite, in fact. before you fell in with tess and joel, you got your ass handed to you pretty regularly.

there’s so much you have to thank her for. you don’t even know where to start.

on your fourth day there, tess doesn’t have any plans. normally she “works”-- whatever that means– but today apparently she’s off. she comes out of her room looking fresh, clean. you begin to suspect she only showers when she has time. 

but now her hair is pulled back into a bun, and her sharp face is softened with some light makeup. “hey,” she greets you with a nod.

“don’t you look nice. where’s the party?”

she laughs good-naturedly. “all dressed up with nowhere to go, i guess.” tess has a glint in her eye. you’re a little suspicious.

“what are you looking at me like that for?”

“no reason.” but she doesn’t stop.

“no seriously, come on.” you rise from the couch, setting aside your knitting. “what are you thinking?”

“i’m thinking you should go out tonight.”

“...oh.”

“with me! we’ll go to some speakeasy and drink cheap liquor that men buy for us. it’ll be fun! plus,” she adds, smiling widely, “you need a rebound.”

you groan and throw your head back. “oh, come on, what does that even mean?”

“it means you’ve been sitting on this couch for way too long. so he broke your heart.”

“it was way more than that.”

“okay, so he crushed your chance at ever finding happiness.”

“getting closer.”

“but you can’t let that define you!” she plants her hands on her hips. “what better way to show joel he was wrong than to hook up with someone else?”

“i’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“what better way?” she asks again.

“it’s way more complicated than that and you know it!” you stop to collect your thoughts and find yourself thinking of joel and his smile. “diseases.”

“what?”

“diseases! stds! i don’t know!” you’re gesturing wildly with your hands now, and tess is bent at the waist from laughing so hard. “it’s a real possibility!”

“that was true with joel, too!” she points out. 

you’re silent for a moment. it’s only been four days– not nearly long enough for you to “get over” him. “i miss him.”

tess stares at you with wide eyes. “what?”

“i miss him.”

she sputters, “i thought you hated him!”

“i don’t hate him! he just…”

“he broke your heart! stomped on it! in public!”

“yes, i know. i was there. but, i just… i just miss him. i can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t mean it, that he wasn’t in the right state of mind.” you shrug. “maybe i’ll never know. but i just don’t feel right hooking up with someone else when i’m still in–” 

you barely stop yourself in time. tess catches you anyway. 

“you’re in love with him? no way.” she’s shaking her head aggressively, emphatically. “no dick is that good. no dick is worth that.”

“it’s not about his dick!” you sink back onto the couch and bury your face in your hands. you feel hopeless all of a sudden. “what if he was the one and i fucked it up?”

“you can’t fuck up the one.” she kneels in front of you and takes your hands in hers. “listen to me. if you want to go back to him, i’m not going to stop you. but he doesn’t deserve you. and if he keeps acting this way, he never will.”

you suppress a groan. it’s all so complicated, and it makes your heart ache. why isn’t love ever simple? in a world colonized by evil, why does even this have to be tainted? “i’m not going back to him,” you swear. “i just… i just miss him. i don’t know.”

“we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.” tess shrugs sadly. “i get it if you’re like, i never want to go out again.”

“no, no, that’s not it. i just… i’m just tired.”

she gives you a knowing look. “right. well, i’m going to at least get a drink. i’ll be back later.” then she laughs. “i really will, i’m not going to curse you out in public. sorry sorry sorry so sorry i just couldn’t–”

you’re both laughing as you jump up to shove her out the front door. she shouts apologies through frantic giggling even when the door is closed behind her. 

meanwhile, joel is getting his ass handed to him.

“you’re a fucking idiot,” tess scoffs. “you know she’s the best thing that ever happened to you, right?”

he frowns. “she didn’t happen to me. she was just someone else i had to take care of.”

tess stops in her tracks, forcing him to slow down. “what the fuck even is that, joel? did you even go home that night?”

he shoots her a desperate look. there are dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep. he never could sleep as well without her. “yes, okay, i did! i did go home! i meant to go apologize, but she wasn’t there. so i went to wait for her at one of the markets she mentioned. she loves cooking, so i figured– look, it doesn’t even matter. she doesn’t want to see me.” he runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “i don’t know what to do.”

“apologize, dickhead!”

“how can i apologize when she won’t even see me?” joel is getting more and more distressed as he talks about it. it suddenly hits him that if you refuse to see him, he won’t have anyone.

sure, there’s tess, but he would never tell tess about his day. he could never tell tess what he wants for dinner. 

if there’s no you, who is he supposed to talk to?

tess is gesturing wildly with her hands. she does that when she gets excited or nervous. “you love her, don’t you?”

“how can i say i love her? i obviously don’t.”

“okay but you did, right?”

he hesitates. it feels wrong to say this about you when you’re not even there. “i loved her as much as you can love someone you’ve only known for a few months.”

she doesn’t waste even a second. “so then why’d you do it?”

it spills out like a broken bottle of whiskey. “she got close, tess! i was putting my boots under her bed! she gave me a massage. she told me she likes hearing about my day.” saying it out loud, joel’s beginning to realize how big a mistake he’s made. “i loved her. i love her, i just don’t know how to fix it. i’ll end up hurting her no matter what i do.”

tess stares at him. for a long moment, neither of them say anything. then he keeps going. “the last thing i want is for her to think i hate her. i don’t. i just… i miss her, and i don’t know how to fix it… i can’t fix it on my own.

“i want us to be happy,” he concludes.

well, mostly he wants you to be happy. 

your happiness just happens to correlate with his.

it doesn’t often rain in boston, but when it does, it pours. 

on this particular evening, you’re alone, tess having left hours earlier for something work-related. you’re still not entirely sure what she does on these work-related outings. 

you’re just about to curl up on the couch with a cup of weak tea and your battered copy of pride and prejudice when there’s a brisk knock on the door. you freeze. tess has always told you never to open the door for anyone. in fact, that was the first rule she established when you moved in with her. apparently tess is something of a target, and so now you are too. 

but this knock sounds familiar, and when you look through the peephole, you know why. you yank the door open. 

“are you insane?” 

joel just stands there, shivering. he’s soaked to the bone. “i’m so sorry,” he says. “i don’t want to waste your time. i’m so sorry.”

“what?”

“i should’ve come home, and i’m sorry that i didn’t.” his teeth are chattering from how cold it is, and part of you wants to let him inside. but the other part clings to your pride. “i’m sorry that i let them laugh at you, and i’m sorry that i said you were a burden. you are… anything but.”

you don’t say anything for a long moment. “what am i then?”

joel doesn’t hesitate. “you are the only thing worth living for.”

“what does that mean?”

“i love you,” he blurts. your eyes go wide. “i love you desperately. i love you hopelessly. i loved you as you left me, and i loved you even though i knew you would never come back to me. i loved you then as i love you now, and i understand if you want nothing to do with me. you don’t need to accept this, or even tolerate this, but i need you to know. you must know. i—“

“stop, stop.” he does. “what are you doing?”

his brow furrows. “i’m apologizing to you.”

“yes, but why?”

“what do you mean?”

“what are you trying to get out of it?” you refuse to let him back in again if it’s just to break your heart. you need to hear him say it– say anything, really, that would give you an excuse to close the door.

“i want you to be happy,” he says. like it’s as simple as that. like he really does just want you to be happy.

“i am happy,” you blurt out. 

he nods. nods again. “i’m so sorry,” he says, and then he turns away.

before you know what you’re doing, you shout, “wait, no! joel!” you let go of the doorframe and reach out for his shoulder. “joel, i’m not happy. i miss you. i love you.”

you manage to pull him back towards you, and then his arms are wrapped around you and you’re burying your face in his neck. “i’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

“i forgive you,” you breathe. 

joel pulls back just slightly, still keeping his arms around you. “come home,” he murmurs. 

you nod immediately, and then shake your head. “i have to leave a note for tess, she’ll be so mad if i just leave.” you drag him into her apartment with you. he follows dutifully as you search the kitchen for a sticky note, and waits while you scribble out a quick explanation.

joel came by. went home with him. thank you!!

“do you think that’ll be enough?” you ask, holding it up for him to see.

he squints at it. “i don’t know, baby. maybe just a little more.”

you flush at the petname, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it. he’s moved to your hand, clinging tightly to it as you lengthen the note. (he apologized). “is that good?”

joel hums his approval. “good job, baby.” you shift your weight, and this time you know he notices, because a smirk dances on his lips. he doesn’t comment on it. 

it’s still raining by the time you leave tess’s apartment, though not as hard, and because it’s still before curfew, it’s safe for the two of you to walk home.

home. for so long joel’s apartment felt like an in-between space. a place to go to at night. it took so long for you feel safe there, and then it all fell apart. now it’s no longer a room with a bed, it’s no longer just a refuge, it’s a home.

he loves you. just thinking about it makes you smile, even as the rain pours down. joel is holding your hand, he’s calling you baby, and he’s taking you home. you don’t know how this could get any better.

and then suddenly it does, because as soon as you get home he’s kissing you in the doorway, pushing you against the door and fumbling with the lock. your breaths are labored, and you can hear his own desperate panting as he shoves the door open. he mouths his way down your neck, and you suppress a moan.

somehow, joel maneuvers the two of you into the bedroom, where he lays you down with breathtaking gentleness. you stare up at him, wide-eyed. maintaining eye contact, he slowly kneels and pulls your shorts down to your ankles, where he leaves them and looks away, choosing instead to eye your core, glistening with your slick already. he drags one finger through your folds. when you don’t say anything, he adds another, this time pressing into you lightly. you choke on a moan.

his hand retracts, and you can’t restrain the whimper that tears from your throat. “joel,” you cry. “please.”

“good girl,” he soothes you, rubbing circles into your inner thigh with his thumb. “don’t hide your noises. i want to hear how good i make you feel.”

another moan slips free. a grin stretches across his face. then he’s burying his face in your thighs and your back arches off the bed, his name spilling from your lips with reckless abandon. he’s messy with it, smearing his spit and your slick across your folds and thighs. 

you know the walls are thin, but in your bliss you don’t care. all you can think of is joel, joel, joel. joel who loves you, and who is unfurling you on his tongue. 

you’re so close, and then he presses his thumb to your clit and his tongue to your fluttering hole. by the time his tongue breaches your core, your orgasm overtakes you, lifting you up and away. you fall silent for a long moment, but joel doesn’t mind. 

he pushes himself up to your head, kissing you through the high, bringing you back down to him. “shh, shh, shh, baby,” he coos. “you’re so good for me.”

a soft smile graces your lips, and you pull his lips back to yours, kissing him slowly. “i love you,” you whisper, and though you can’t hear it, you feel his lips mouth it back. 

he shifts up, spreading your legs wider, and you know what’s coming. he keeps his mouth pressed to yours, swallowing your moan as he slides home, filling you up just right. your mind goes blank, but you’re dimly aware of how deep he is, how full you feel. if you could speak, you would tell him these things.

but as it is, all you can manage is a quiet affirmation. “you feel… you feel so good,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut. he still hasn’t begun moving, just staying sheathed to the hilt in you. “yes, joel.”

he makes his first thrust softly. “that’s it,” joel says. “my beautiful girl.” he quickly establishes a rhythm, sliding in and out to the tune of your whines and cries. 

“please, joel, please,” you whisper, fisting the sheets in your hands. “please kiss me.”

you don’t have to ask again. instantly, his lips finds yours. he groans into your mouth and braces his hands on your hips, holding you there while he pushes into you over and over. 

it’s not that long before you can feel your orgasm approaching again. “joel, i’m– i’m gonna come,” you say, eyes squeezed shut. 

“go ahead, baby,” he commands. “come for me.”

with one final thrust, he’s spilling into you as you come apart around him. “joel,” you mewl. he’s still buried deep inside you, his forehead resting on yours as you both float down. 

when he pulls out, it’s cautious and gentle, and you can feel his love for you. your eyes drift shut, and you’re dimly aware of him walking away, but for once it doesn’t bother you. you know he’ll come back.

he loves you. 

as it turns out, he does come back, holding a warm cloth. he wipes you clean and helps you to the bathroom so you can rinse off. he follows you into the shower wordlessly, pressing kisses to your shoulders and forehead. 

that night, as you lie in bed and feel him curl into you, you don’t have to pretend anymore. he really is yours.