#without question I would smash

[aesthetic-bbyg]

WHY IS EVERYBODY FROM NARCOS SO FUCKING FINE???🗣️🗣️🗣️

[assassinregrets]

.

[numetaljackdog]

would you fuck mettaton

hmmm. probably not. i think mettaton is attractive in the sense that i completely understand how someone could be attracted to mettaton. he's flashy, arrogant, pathetic, and also a robot. but for me? i need someone with a little less lights and a little more action. i need something a little grimier. maybe if he had some wires poking out and rocket launchers mounted on his shoulders or something we'd start getting somewhere, but as is i think i'll pass.

[osachiyo]

"JUST THE TIP, BABY ! "

❐ content warnings ➩ nsfw (mdni), penetrative sex, teasing, somnophilia, petnames, established relationship, dom!character & sub!reader, full nelson (toji), prone bone (suguru), semi public sex (satoru), unprotected sex (don't do this), whiney satoru etc

❐ author's note ➩ I've been going feral for jjk men, and I find this trope so sexy. anyway, happy reading 'n hope y'all enjoy this <3

❐ summary ➩ your lover promises to only put in just the tip, but will he keep it?

≛ MINORS DNI OR I'LL KICK YO ASS ! ≛

๑ satoru ๑

"please baby− need ya s'bad," your boyfriend whined, rutting his hips into your clothed pussy. You two were on a mission, to defeat some special grade curses. "satoru− we can't! we're outside and on a mi−!" you couldn't even finish your sentence before he was sliding your panties to the side, stroking himself before lining up with your entrance. "please, just the tip− I promise, yeah?" he panted out, desperate to be inside you, staring at you with those ocean blue eyes as he waited for your permission. Once you reluctantly gave him the go-ahead, he slapped the tip of his cock against your clit before slowly pushing into you with a wet 'pop!' Your fingernails dug into his broad shoulders, strong arms propping you against the cold brick wall. "sh-shiit baby, fuuuck," he drawled, resting the urge to just slam into you without warning and fuck your brains out. But he couldn't− he promised he wouldn't.

All thoughts of resistance went out the drain when he looked at your face. Your pretty little face; mouth slightly agape as soft moans and hums escape your glossed lips, brows furrowed slightly as you looked up at him with those hazy eyes of yours. I mean, could you really blame him for slamming into you when you look at him like that? He could feel his eyes slightly roll back as your pussy engulfed him fully, loud and lewd squelching and skin against skin noises bounced off the walls of the alley. Your juices ran down your legs and his balls. God, he was insatiable when it came to you. "you− you said just the− mmh!− tip!" you babbled, hands reaching up to grip and tug at his white hair, some of it sticking to his sweaty forehead. "so sorry, pretty− this pussy's just too fuckin' goood−" he slurred, hips slamming into you as his lips smashed into yours for a messy kiss.

Really, you should've known this would happen.

๑ suguru ๑

His smiles slyly before nodding, knowing from the start that it won't take long before you crumble and beg him to fuck you silly. Snickering when you shyly ask him to put more of it in, impatient and needy for his throbbing cock inside you. He wouldn't admit it, but he's glad, he doesn't think he could stand another minute without fully plunging inside your gummy walls.

You could feel his bangs tickling your back as he presses soft kisses on the dip of your back, all the way to your shoulders before biting hard and slamming all the way into your awaiting cunt. He groaned as his hips were flush against your ass, pulling your head back by the roots of your hair before kissing you roughly. The headboard slammed against the wall with each harsh snap of his hips, abs clenching everytime a filthy noise escaped your parted lips as tears gathered on your lashes. his ravened hair cascaded down his muscular and scarred back, "thought you wanted− haah− just the tip, princess? can't even go by your own− mm yes fuck! juust like that−!" he groaned, rolling his hips against your ass with even more vigour, "can't even go by your own words, princess?" you could hear the grin in his voice, so damn smug, but you were in no position to complain, were you?

๑ toji ๑

you were peacefully reading a book, laying on your stomach− when your giant of a husband laid on top of you, his crotch right against your ass. "whatcha' readin', mama?" he questioned, breath low and gravelly against your ear. "jus' an erotic novel," you hummed, neck snapping to look at him when you felt him grinding shamelessly on your ass, "boooring, and whatcha' need erotic novels for? I'm right fuckin' here," he scoffed, making your eyes roll. "yeah okay, toji. only reading it for the male lead, he's like this god at sex−" you got cut off by your own gasp, as his large hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing it lightly, "oh yeah? betcha' 20 bucks I could do better." You pouted, excitement already pooling in your panties, "but, I reaaaally wanna read this." Toji only rolled his eyes, "c'mon baby, y'know I'm more fun than a goddamn book?" "okay, fine... but only the tip, alright?"

Toji was not happy, only getting to feel your pussy clenching on his tip, god you were so stingy! He figures he could just fold you and fuck the living daylights out of you− wait, why isn't he doing that right now?

You could feel him in your throat from how deep he was, a small bulge forming on your lower tummy everytime he thrusted into you ruthlessly. He had you in a full nelson in front of the full view mirror you loved and decorated with your cute little stickers. Heavy breaths of 'atta girl' and 'so fuckin' tight f'me, mama,' slipped out of his scarred lips, your face heating up from the desire in his voice. A palm reached down to smack your pretty pussy, your eyes opening as your gaze landed on his face in the mirror. He was smirking triumphantly, strong arms holding you up with ease, "heh, guess ya owe me 20 bucks now, sweet girl."

๑ kento ๑

Your husband, Nanami questioned his morals when he found himself hiking your nightgown up your thighs in the middle of the night, moonlight seeping in through the opened window, illuminating your features with a gentle glow, and it made him fucking feral.

That's why he had your skimpy little gown bunched up at your waist right now, he already prepped you, eating your pussy out until you gushed in his mouth, he felt too guilty not to, even if you reassured him beforehand that it was okay. He only planned to put the tip in, not wanting to wake you up at 2 am just because he couldn't keep it in his pants− even if he knew that you didn't mind, you never did. But fuck, your walls were clenching and unclenching around him so deliciously and... the next thing he knew, he was ramming into your drooling pussy, jaw clenched as he muttered soft applogies. He buried his face into your neck when you woke with a yelp, moaning and sputtering as you try to process the situation. your pussy was practically drooling and sucking him in eagerly, back arching offt he bed as his thick fingers found your clit, giving it some attention to make you cum on his cock. He smelt like cologne, and still had his work clothes on− letting you know that he came home not too long ago. His cock was hitting your sweet spot with each snap of his hips, gooey cunt swallowing him whole as he let out the most guttural noises, "fuck− sorry for the rude awakening, dear− I couldn't help myself.."

©sachiyoh — do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[eevenus]

⋆˚࿔ drabble!! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ - b.c.

I have thoughts and need to get them out of my head before I go insane.

genre: PURE SMUT TBH!!! MINORS BE GONE!! I WILL BLOCK YOU!!!

pairing: bangchan x fem!reader

warnings: chokeholds (sue me okay), a bit of degradation, rough channie 🥴, reader is called a whore once, size kink if you squint

a/n: I wrote this on my phone because I needed it out of my head NYEOW, I'm going insane over him. dividers by @sister-lucifer

(this is what I was writing to if you wanna listen along 😛😛😛)

✩ thinking so much about Chan having such a horrible day, and I mean absolutely retched. Maybe had some arguments back and forth with staff over a track he was really proud of, a dance practice with small fuckups just out of his control (loose shoelaces tripping him, stumbling over his words, etc), maybe even something as simple as all his anxieties and worries on new tracks and performances have manifested into a boiling anger he can't contain.

✩ he wouldn't want to say anything he doesn't mean, or hurt anyone's feelings, so he wouldn't talk much throughout the day if he can help it. Simple nods and "mhm"s to just get through it. A few texts from you ping his phone every now and then, he's short with you but responds nonetheless. It would almost make him angrier that he can't shake the feeling, I feel.

✩ so he'd try to blow off some steam at the gym, he always hit it on the way home so you wouldn't find it out of the ordinary. But he'd stay a little longer than usual. Trying so, so hard to just shake the feeling off so he can come home to you and relax. But he can't. It sits on his chest worse than any of his anxieties ever could. So he cleans up the area he was using, throws his things into his duffle, and heads home.

✩ he'd show up back to your shared apartment and throw his duffle somewhere out of his sight. His shoes discarded by the door and keys dropped somewhere next to them. And then you'd walk out.

✩ "Hi baby!" So sweet and so kind, already in your pajamas, waiting for him to come home. "Long day?" It was an innocent ask of course, but it clicked a gear in place in his mind. All that anger seemed to quicken the blood rushing through his veins, if you listen close enough in the quiet you'd hear his heartbeat.

✩ no response but he's just stomping his way over to you, and his hands grab your face to smash your lips together. It's messy, teeth knocking every now and then, moving from upper to bottom lip, a bit of spit would connect you when he finally pulled away. Leaving you in a bit of a daze. But before you could question the absolutely hungry look in his eyes his lips would be on you again.

✩ his HUMONGOUS arms would work to pick you up while keeping your lips connected, your hands in his curls as his wrap under your thighs. And he's walking you back to your shared room and his skin is just fiery hot, and he's deepening the kiss while expertly navigating his way down the hall. thank god you walked out and left the door open, because as soon as he is even near your bed he's tossing you onto it and climbing on top of you.

✩ discarding his tank top as you're ridding of your own, his lips moving after to connect with your neck. You'd swear you felt him bite and lick his away along like a hungry animal playing with its prey. And his hands are on your hips, squeezing so hard to keep you in place that it would def leave bruises in the morning.

✩ before you can even register it, you're both without clothes and he's got you on all fours. pulling you down onto his mouth that is just devouring you like your his last meal on death row, like you held a cure for whatever is making him act this way, not like you'd want him to stop.

✩ "Bad day?" You'd question with rutting hips and your hands gripping his hair, he'd simply mumble against you and pull you down further. "Take it out- oh god- on me." You didn't have to tell him really, but it was more like giving him a green light for doing whatever he needed too to blow off the steam that was so pent up. It was rare this happened, but you ate it UP every time.

✩ moments later, after he'd rip at least two orgasms out of you, he's sinking himself into you. Pulling at your hips to meet his, forcing an arch out of you with a flat palm pressing down at the top of your spine. with no mercy does he rut into you, so rough it was physically moving you forward. Your cries and moans muffled with your cheek against the sheets, though you'd have probably been muffled regardless as his moans and groans and growls would be just a bit louder. Feral even.

✩ and when your moans alone weren't enough, he'd slow himself just enough to lean down and wrap his arm around your neck. keeping a hand still on your hip to keep your arch in place when he lifts you up from the bed in a chokehold and returns to his previous pace. Your moans now cut-off whines and groans from the pressure, just enough to slightly bring pressure to your airways but not enough to make you lose all your air. A delightful euphoria of floating and the feeling of his cock pumping into you, you swore in this position he was kissing your cervix in the most delicious way. feeling floaty and so full. so full. (pushing the bde Chris agenda ok).

✩ "fuckin' take it." He'd growl in your ear, and though his arm stays around your neck his hand moves to hold your chin. Relieving the pressure as you take in shaky gasps, keeping you perfectly in place. "Yea? You're my fucking whore, mine- letting me use you, huh? letting me fuck my anger into you?"

✩ he'd be so far gone that he's just mumbling out the nastiest shit he's ever said, and just abusing your pretty little cunt all he wants. And when his growls turn to whines and gasps and groans of his own, his hand reaches between your legs and quickly circles your puffy pretty clit. Silently begging you to cum with him.

✩ ugh and he'd cum so much too. letting you out of his hold halfway through, to lay back against the sheets, but still pushing you through your own orgasm. It would take him a bit to register he's real again before he's pulling out and walking to grab things to clean you up, water, a snack, the works.

✩ "Better?" You'd incoherently mumble after, when you're all laid up together. Snuggled close and naked and safe and warm.

✩ "Mm. Sorry if I was too rough." He'd mumble back, pushing some hair behind your ear before promising to tell you what was bothering him first thing in the morning. But of course you never mind him that way, if you can help him.

✩ he'd apologize PROFUSELY in the morning when he notices your bruised hips and a few red marks of teeth on your neck. Doing his best to mend you. Draw you a bath. Snuggle you as soon as he gets home from the studio. Apologize again. And again. And one more time for good measure. cuz he's just too sweet, and even if he was pent up and needed to channel his anger in a (proactive) different way he could never actually hurt you and he'd feel awful if he ever did. Making sure you feel loved in every way he can in the following days. Cuz he's Channie and an absolute angel, who just loves a rough night every now and again. 😜

EEP KQJDJSNF there's my first spicy drabble, I just needed this out of my fucking head OMG. Need him to chokehold me so BAD KADJNDNF. this is probably a mess because I was trying to get a vision across without turning this into a 7k word fic okay 😭😭. Lemme know if y'all want more of this from meeee by commenting, liking, reposting!! Theenk yewwww ❤️✨🤞🏻

taglist: @possum-playground (taglist is open! Feel free to ask to be added to my general one or the one for my Bangchan series!! or if you'd like to only be added for non-spicy/spicy-only posts!)

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[kissbyoon]

⠀𖼥ৎ⠀“chicken couple” ₍ h.js ₎

───── ABOUT “a chicken husband can't kiss like me.” - probably your husband, Hong Joshua.

⋆ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: fluff, humour ⋆ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: husband!joshua x f!reader ⋆ 𝒄𝒘: skinship, kissing, petnames (baby, sweetheart) ⋆ 𝒘𝒄: 0.8k

A/N: gang this is probs the most cutest shit I've ever written. AND IM SO GLAD THIS TURNED OUT PRETTY WELL!!!! ENJOY READINGGG ◠‿◠ღ | @hanniescookie @wonkierideul

“Baby,” Joshua called out from the kitchen, the sound of gentle water splashes coming to end as he turned the sink tap off.

“Hm?” You respond, collecting the clothes that need to be washed from the basket and throwing them into the laundry.

“Would you still love me if we were chickens and I couldn't fly?”

You paused, glancing in his direction as he washed the dishes. “Chickens can't fly, shua.” You chuckle, continuing your work.

“They can't, but y'know— would you hate me for being your chicken husband and I couldn't fly to protect you?” He asks, amused and eagerly waiting for your answer.

You burst out laughing as you throw the washed clothes in the basket in your hands and make your way towards the courtyard.

“What kind of question is that?” You laugh, leaning over to look at him when you passed by the kitchen.

Joshua's lips curve into a smile—a smile that reached his ears and brightened his face. He grabbed another plate to spread the soap on, watching you as you head outside to hang the clothes.

It was a hot sunny day—perfect for doing laundry. You and Joshua decided that today should be a cleaning day, dividing works for the both of you around the house. And it was always worth it. Because at the end of the day, you both would lay down on the couch, cuddling and resting peacefully without any work left to do.

Also when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you see is a clean and neat house. Nothing could ever be better than that.

Right now, you wanted to do the laundry. So, Joshua decided to do the dishes.

“The kind of questions you ask me almost everyday,” he replies with a grin.

“My questions make sense!” You yell, trying to defend the way your questions were just random and always out of the blue.

“Would you still love me if I ran away with a puppy, leaving you alone?” Joshua recalled one of your questions you had asked just a day before, and you snapped your head in his direction, breaking into a smile.

“And you said no,” you add, squeezing the excess water from the t-shirt in your hands before hanging it on the rod.

“Answer my question, sweetheart.”

Taking the last cloth from the basket, you giggle to yourself as you come up with an answer.

“I would run away with a chicken who knows how to fly.”

You quickly look over to Joshua—he snapped his head in your direction, eyes widened and lips apart in disbelief. Even though it was a light joke, he felt the need to make everything an event.

“Woah,” he breathed out, “You don't even love me, do you?” Jutting out his lips in a pout, he looked away, trying to look as upset as possible. “I was just tricked into this marriage.”

But, the way his lips threatened to curve upward into a smile, betrayed him.

“You're really a poor actor, y'know?” You say, resting your hands on your hips as your eyes stayed fixed on him from the courtyard.

Well, you were in the mood to add fuel to the fire.

“Let's be honest, no chicken wife would stay with a chicken husband who can't fly for the love of his life!” you giggle, grabbing the basket and heading back towards the laundry room. “Every chicken husband can fly for his wife.”

Joshua washed his hands and stopped the sink tap, slowly moving his hands to rest on the counter. And just when you were about to pass by him, he suddenly turned around and held your cheek with his cold hand—leaning in to smash his lips against yours.

You flinched at the sudden action, frozen in place as your eyes widened and you tried to process what just happened.

He gently moved his lips on yours, grazing your cheek with his thumb. You could feel him smiling a bit—probably at the way you were standing there, dumbfounded. As he continued to kiss you softly, you finally closed your eyes, kissing him back.

After a few good seconds, he slowly pulled back, his eyes locking with you. They carried a mischievous glint, and you knew he had something to say now.

“A chicken husband can't do this,” he says, smiling softly. “Can he?” Tilting his head, he stared at you while his eyes softened—looking as innocent as ever.

You couldn't help the way your lips turned into a smile, your cheeks dusting a light shade of pink. You gently smack his chest, letting out a shy giggle before running away to the laundry room.

Joshua burst into a fit of laughter, watching you with amusement. “Baby, wait for me!” He called out, quickly washing his hands and wiping it before running after you.

Now you just knew—nobody could save you from your husband who would spend the next few hours pampering you with kisses and hugs. Not to mention, the thousands of ways he would tease you for being so shy and melting with just a kiss.

He learnt another lesson (even though he already knew)—kisses are your biggest weakness. “May I seal an argument with just a kiss next time?” He teases you with a soft voice and a pretty face.

The chores are long forgotten, but they can wait.

KISSBYOON 2025. all rights reserved. @kstrucknet

[sageshouldknowbetter]

It’s tempting to think that innies are just the outies at their core, right? That they’re what you get when you take a person and peel away all their past trauma until you get to their very soul. The true essence. The self free from expectations. “The you you are.”

But we have to remember: innies can’t be the “true” outies without the environmental influence to “mess them up,” because the severed floor is NOT a non-environment. This world that the innies are born into forms their every character trait and idiosyncrasy that isn’t already BURIED in the outie’s subconscious. So though it’s fun (and not completely wrong!) to say innies are outies without the baggage… they aren’t the outies in their “purest forms” either.

Take Mark, for example. On the surface, the Mark S we see at the beginning of season one is a hard-working, kind, and seemingly content yes-man. Mark Scout, meanwhile, is a depressed and sarcastic alcoholic who gets drunk at night and sobs in his car the next morning.

The apparent difference between them? Mark Scout remembers his wife dying in a car crash and Mark S… doesn’t. Therefore, Mark S must be basically like Mark Scout was before Gemma died. … Right???

Not exactly. Because Mark S still has a past. A short one, sure, and closed-off too — but still a past, and it highly affects his personality today.

It’s heavily implied that he didn’t start off as the corporate tool we see in early episodes. In fact, based on his account of threatening to kill Petey and extensive references to past torture (“bad soap,” “Milchick can’t always be nice like that,” and “It’s easier for you both if he knows which end to start from”), he could’ve been almost as rebellious as Helly. The difference is that where Mark Scout remembers being formed by a drunk father, screeching tires, and policemen at the door, Mark S remembers days on end in the Break Room, saying he was a blight on humanity until he believed it was true.

That’s a decent portion of why he comes across as a “sweet” yet timid bootlicker! Because he is built on trauma! Just new trauma! Different trauma! Trauma he remembers, but Mark Scout doesn’t! (His outie’s past still impacts his character, sure, but it’s not at the forefront of his mind the way his conscious memories are.) The fact that his bad experiences are novel, weird, and surface-level innocuous don’t make them any less potent or formative to the kind of person he is now.

In the same way, I don’t think it’s exactly right to call Helly “what Helena would’ve been like if she was free from Lumon and the pressure of being an Eagan.”

Yeah — in some ways, it’s true. Helly doesn’t have to worry about public opinion, the weight of her name, or what her father thinks. She can have friends and a surrogate dad and, well, baby goats. But the difference between Helly and Helena is more than just one remembering her Eagan upbringing and the other not. The severed floor is in NO way some controlled, pressure-free, unable-to-change-its-inhabitants environment.

Helly remembers cutting her arm in a smashed-open window under red glow, apologizing in the Break Room over a thousand times, and learning just how much she isn’t considered a person. But she also remembers three other people being her only allies, friends (and lover), and entire world — literally. Less than ten people, and always under horrific circumstances, are the only people she ever sees. This kind of life could NOT happen to anyone on the outside, including Helena — even if she wasn’t born an Eagan.

So what would Helena be like if she wasn’t an Eagan? The truth is… we don’t know. But the question isn’t what she would be like. It’s if, stripped of her heritage, it would even still be her in the first place.

Your brain is split in half. Is that still you? You are awakened, memories gone, born again into a whole different kind of world, and grow to fill it like water in cupped hands. Is it still you now? Are you the same “you” you were ten years ago? Ten months ago? This morning? Who ARE you? And what IS “you,” anyway?

That’s what Severance wants us to ponder. And whatever the relationship between innies and outies is (the same person, completely different people, Cain and Abel, you in another lifetime) (can you even call that “you”?), one thing’s for certain: innies aren’t just outies with the bad stuff wiped off. If anything, that’s what Lumon would like them to think.

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 .

# with monkey d. luffy.

when it came to food and you, luffy was insatiable. it was only fair that he had a simultaneous taste of both.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day four. smut (mdni!) food play. cunninglingus. overstimulation. afab!reader. fingering.

countless of battles — from smaller to the most tremendous — had led the crew to this specific, well-common, instance. the feast thereafter. reconquered freedom that brought forth gratefulness from the common people, a convergence all but willing to offer their food and gold and music as the symbol of their gratitude. sanji’s warnings — our captain is a black-hole; marimo will empty your cellar and it still won’t be enough — more often than not fell on deaf ears, forcing your cook to retreat and relax, at least for once.

the celebration at hand had been lasting longer than anticipated: four entire days, with no ending in sight. you were used to pushing your limits, lingering regardless of the gradual tiredness, for once you announced your retreat, luffy would soon follow. and you hated the thought of being the one depriving him from the feast — especially since luffy was its main attraction. yet, apart from the monster trio with their inhuman resilience, the entire crew opted to return to their rooms in the country’s palace hours — days — prior. and you, too, were exhausted.

luffy busied himself with the locals and the buffet, so you figured it’d be easier to leave without being noticed. of course, that was far from the case. the second you started to tiptoe away, his head snapped towards you, a glint of delayed understanding explicit in his eyes.

he swallowed an entire chunk of meat with one go, burped, and announced: “I’M LEAVING!”

the locals began their failed coercion, offering sweets and beverages and first-course meals, but luffy was as obstinate as he was strong, and ignored their pleads for the sake of your comfort. however, he was still luffy. he outstretched a rubber arm, hugging an alarming amount of food and pressing it against his chest — a frosted cake the size of a human being following-in-suit — while the other arm wrapped itself around you. as predicted, when luffy pulled you towards him, the entire front of your figure was smashed against said sweet and covered in white cream. he all but laughed, licking it off your cheek before grabbing the palace’s construction and sending the pair of you flying towards it.

was it not for your presence, luffy would have taken solid hours to find the way back to the shared room. meaning he didn’t question your authority when you started to drag him, half-listening to his excited words — those a tad incomprehensible whenever he stuffed his face with the stolen food. upon entering the room, however, he at last noticed your silence, his glance a burning sensation in the back of your head.

“you’re not ok,” not a question; a statement. luffy had a dozen flaws, yet being emotionally unintelligent was far from one of them — especially when those he loved were concerned.

“i’m tired,” you mumbled, containing the urge to brush the sleep off your eyes, for your hand was smeared.

“let’s sleep then!” he beamed, shoving the food into his mouth.

his lower body remained round until the starting process of digestion. he hadn’t been able to eat the entire cake in one go — which was a surprise of itself — but perhaps he decided to save it for later. you were quick to dodge his efforts to pin you down on the bed, retreating to the corner near the door.

“c’moooon,” luffy whined, wrapping his arms around you, staining your skin and clothes further. “we need to sleep when we’re tired. and you need energy! because you won’t focus on me otherwise, and that’s no fun!”

a small smile made its way to your face, but you couldn’t help the hesitation whatsoever. “can’t do, luf. i need to take a shower.”

the whipped cream was the least of your issues. luffy had stolen a city-worth amount of food, and you were smashed right against it. from cake, to cookie crumbs, to meat and fruit juices. upon dressing yourself four days past, you hadn’t taken into account that your lover would decide to turn you into a walking buffet. the dress you wore was ruined and provided no protection whatsoever, hence why your thighs, too, were dripping with a combination of tastes.

luffy blinked, his grip tight enough to support your limp muscles. when his mind wrapped around the meaning of your words, he groaned. “but the bathing suites are on the opposite side of the palace.”

“i know,” you sighed, tapping his arm lightly so that he’d let you go. he didn’t.

“why haven’t you said so? i would’ve sent us there instead!”

“figured you’d rather wait here. there’s more space for you to eat and no vapor to ruin the cake; besides, if i had taken you with me, you’d have to wait outside, and i doubt it’d have been fun for you.”

luffy laughed, the sound of it contagious. “fun is wherever you are, silly!”

the affectionate words had you melting, but you refrained from answering, for luffy wore his usual “thinking” expression — pouted lips and narrowed eyes, nothing but an adorable sight. when his face brightened up yet again, you braced yourself for whatever plan he came up with.

“well, if you’re too tired to go there, i’ll just wipe you clean!”

“there’s not enough water or towels here—oh!”

luffy’s tongue claimed the flesh of your face, a long stripe from your chin to your temple. whipped cream stained his lips and he, too, licked it, beaming.

“you and food all at once, shishishi,” you closed your eyes as he lapped at your face yet again, coating it with saliva. “that’s great!”

he prepared his knees for a jump, his eyes aimed at the bed. you were but helpless in his embrace, and had to tug at his — freshly — dirty cheek to catch his attention.

“wait, i don’t want to stain the bed!”

he hummed. “that’s fine! i can clean you on the floor!”

as the wood for sure would have hurt you, for it was not as soft as the mattress, luffy laid you down with surprisingly tenderness, grinning to himself as he hovered above your figure. his wide eyes scanned your face and body; his mouth all but watered. it seemed as though he was conflicted with where to start.

his lips found the side of your neck, giggling as the cream and crumbs smeared his nose. luffy was sniffing you, searching for specifics. rather than to decide which part of your body to clean, he chose which food he wanted to taste first.

“found it!” he beamed, sucking on the flesh of your throat. you gasped, unable to squirm as his hands had you pinned down.

luffy hummed with pure bliss; tongue swirling and teeth scraping. he was famished, mouth wide and a cascate of saliva trailing down your cleavage as he devoured the aimed essence. luffy, then, strived to wipe the desserts, drowning his face on your neck, claiming the sweetness that lingered.

his presence ensued in gradual pressure as he lost the previous giddiness, leaning closer until mere inches separated his hovering chest from your own. he was moaning in delight; swallowing it all. without the barriers from the cream, his tongue had guaranteed access to your bare flesh, and luffy couldn’t help the constant biting, his smeared lips doing nothing to wipe you clean — having rather the opposite effect. the tiredness, combined with his touch and pleased moaning, had you growing sensible.

luffy raised his head and glimpsed at you. his lips held a tinge of chocolate, and he swiped a thumb on your skin, laughing as he smeared your lips with the cream. something seemed to have shifted within him at the sight of your mouth coated white; your tongue lolling out to clean it. his eyes glanced down to your cleavage, a finger teasing the fabric of your dress.

“i can’t clean you if you’re dressed,” he stated, toying with the straps. luffy’s fist clenched around the hem, tugging it above your head. you had raised your arms in order to be of use, and was surprised at the sudden lick of his tongue, starting on the inner area of your upper arm, reaching your wrist.

he curiously glanced at your armpit, and you dodged his attempt to shove his face into it. “luffy!”

he pouted. “it was dirty too!”

“you’re not licking my armpit!”

as expected, when one considered his poor attention span, luffy’s glance fell on your cleavage, and he hummed pleasantly to himself, groping your breasts. “found something better.”

he latched his mouth on the flesh, the loud sound of slurping commanding the ambience as he drank the fruits’ juices and cream off it. luffy pressed his knee in between your legs, applying pressure on your cunt. you mewled, trembling hands gripping his hair.

luffy’s pupils were blown when he stared at you, voice rough and demanding. “where’s the meat?”

he caressed your ankle before placing it above his shoulder, fingers tapping on it to grasp your attention.

“my thighs,” you whispered meekly.

another glance at your figure had him grinning — all teeth and lust. “your abdomen is dirty still. we can’t have that.”

you raised an eyebrow in confusion, for your dress had managed to shelter pieces of your skin from the onslaught of food. your abdomen had been the solemn spared inch. yet, luffy had outstretched his arm to grab a chunk of the cake, and he slapped your flesh with cream, smearing it all over from your ribs to your belly-button.

the forethought retort died at the tip of your tongue when his own worked its magic, wiping it off your flesh. luffy kept his knee pressed against your cunt, rutting his hips as he licked long, disgusting stripes on your front. spit dripped from your body to the ground, and you spasmed, rolling your eyes in an attempt to match his pace. luffy sucked on the flesh, grunting as he left a dozen bites, teeth digging into it and tongue soothing the maimed spots.

he trailed his mouth lower, reaching the waistband of your panties, removing his knee. you had no time to mewl at the lack of contact, for luffy began to drag his tongue along the inner thigh above his shoulder, moaning loudly as the taste of meat overlapped with that of your own sweat. he slurped as though a man starved, chasing the food juices, sucking on your thigh and dragging his teeth lower on your leg.

luffy bit on it harshly, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. he then moved towards the other leg, repeating the process with twice as fervor, though his glance was tethered to your cunt — wetness pooling through the fabric of your panties. he abandoned your thigh altogether, tugging on the waistband, licking his lips. luffy lost his patience, tearing the underwear from your body, and latching his face to your cunt.

the suddenness had you gasping; gripping his hair as a form of anchoring. luffy shoved two fingers into your intimacy, lapping at your folds as a man starved, rubbing his nose against your clit. he moaned and swallowed, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves, scissoring your insides. your back arched, and he observed you through his eyelashes, stretching his free hand to pinch your nipples.

luffy’s head retreated, though the ministrations of his fingers remained. he eyed the forgotten cake, eyes glinting with an idea he sure deemed brilliant. the sudden absence of him on your cunt had you groaning; begging. he all but ignored you, drowning his fingers in cream and shoving it inside his mouth, sucking on his own flesh and tasting at the merge of your essence and the dessert.

luffy beamed. “delicious!”

he fisted yet another chunk of cake, and before you could process his actions, luffy had cream whipped on your cunt, smiling to himself in satisfaction. you were given a brief second to collect your breathing before he shoved his tongue inside, pumping the cream. luffy groaned, drowning his nose amidst your folds. he dared not use his fingers, for the cream was but a blessing to his mouth. instead, he gripped your thigh, pumping his tongue inside and out.

your toes curled at the odd sensation born from the cream texture in your walls. luffy’s attempt to wipe it all; to swallow; had his tongue moving in an erratic manner, tearing a moan of bliss. he licked a stripe on your folds, latching his mouth around your clit, collecting the cream.

“it’s bittersweet,” he stated, his chin dripping down with your essence; nose stuffed with the white sweet. luffy licked his lips; cracked his neck.

a deep breath had him returning to your cunt, lapping at your folds with loud slurping sounds. he licked long, warm stripes on your outer lips.

“luffy,” you whined, tugging at his hair. “fingers, too. please.”

he complied, shoving his middle-finger inside, stretching it. you could feel it gradually fill you up; the tip curling and brushing on your cervix. you cried out the second his mouth returned to your clit, hollowed cheeks applying pressure before his tongue began with its usual swirling, the fast pace causing you to tremble; your legs a melting mess.

the finger around your nipple twisted it; the cream melted on his nose due to the warmth of your fluids.

“so good,” he moaned in awe, moving his head and nose to the sides, breathing you in.

luffy added yet another outstretched finger, pumping the pair in-and-out while his mouth busied itself with your labia. the knot at the pit of your stomach tightened and loosened; your tongue lolled out ever-so-slightly and you grew quite sure that luffy had managed to steal the movement of your legs.

“luffy—”

“i’m hungry,” he interrupted, tearing his face off your cunt for the briefest instance to observe you with a darkening glance. “serve me more food.”

you whimpered, and luffy maintained eye-contact as he swiped the last of the whipped cream from your urethra, challenging you to disobey. a broken moan bloomed at the pressure he held, and your orgasm was a devastating cascate. luffy was quick to remove his fingers and replace them with your mouth, swallowing your cum faster than it came out, chasing it within your walls with his tongue.

when he, at last, grew satisfied, he licked his fingers, staring at your limp figure on the ground. luffy hovered above you, licking your lower lip.

“love is sharing food,” he stated, lolling his tongue out to show it coated white with both the cream and your cum. “open up.”

his kiss was bruising. his covered cock rutted against your thigh. there was still some cake left — and luffy was famished.

— 🐈‍⬛ : another day, another kinktober!

[blairxbear]

MHA Characters Getting "The Talk"

Warning: awkwardness ahead. This is pure stupid crack.

Inspired by a JJK version of this on tiktok by @ matt_the_curtin

How do the guys react to recieving 'the talk'

Featuring: Izuku Midoriya, Toshinori Yagi (All Might), Katsuki Bakugo, Best Jeanist, Fumikage Tokoyami, Keigo Takami (Hawks), Tamaki Amajiki, Fatgum, Tomura Shigaraki, Toya Todoroki (Dabi), Hitoshi Shinso, Shota Aizawa (Eraserhead), Shoto Todoroki, Enji Todoroki (Endeavor)

Izuku Midoriya – Getting "The Talk" from Toshinori Yagi (All Might)

Toshinori Yagi sat across from Izuku Midoriya, looking extremely uncomfortable as he clasped his hands together. Sweat dripped down his face as he tried to find the right words.

"Y-Young Midoriya," he coughed. "I… uh… I feel that, as your mentor, it's my duty to, er, educate you on… certain aspects of life."

Izuku blinked. "Oh! Like hero strategy? The importance of recovery time after a big battle?"

"No." Toshinori's face paled. "I-I mean… relationships. Love. And… physical intimacy."

Izuku turned bright red. "OH GOD."

"YES, EXACTLY!" Toshinori shouted, dramatically pointing at him. "GOD HELP US BOTH!"

There was an awkward silence.

Toshinori cleared his throat. "Ahem. So. When two people care for each other very much—"

"PLEASE STOP."

Toshinori held up a shaky finger. "No, no, listen, Young Midoriya. I must do this! It is my responsibility!" He inhaled deeply. "It is much like a United States of Smash—except instead of destroying an enemy, you are—"

"OH MY GOD, PLEASE NO!" Izuku covered his ears, mortified. "DON’T RUIN SMASH ATTACKS FOR ME, SENSEI!"

Toshinori’s gaunt cheeks turned red. "S-sorry."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"...Do you have any questions?" Toshinori finally asked.

Izuku stood up. "I HAVE TO GO STUDY FOR A TEST!"

"But there’s no test!"

"THERE IS NOW!"

And with that, Midoriya ran.

Outcome: All Might is traumatized. Izuku never looks at him the same way again.

Katsuki Bakugo – Getting "The Talk" from Best Jeanist

Best Jeanist sat elegantly in his chair, hands clasped, posture impeccable. Across from him, Katsuki Bakugo slumped aggressively, arms crossed, looking seconds away from combusting.

"Katsuki," Best Jeanist said, his voice smooth. "It is my duty as your mentor to educate you on a matter most delicate."

Bakugo scowled. "If this is about ‘being a proper gentleman,’ I’m out."

Jeanist exhaled through his nose. "No, my unruly pupil. This is about intimacy."

Bakugo's eye twitched.

Jeanist continued. "Love is a fabric that must be woven carefully. Each strand—trust, respect, communication—is vital. And much like a fine pair of denim—"

"NO." Bakugo stood up. "NO DENIM ANALOGIES, YOU WEIRD STRING BEAN!"

Jeanist ignored him. "A strong foundation is crucial, lest one suffer a wardrobe malfunction, if you understand my meaning."

Bakugo’s hands literally sparked.

Jeanist smiled, unfazed. "And of course, protection is important. Just as one would not step into battle without proper armor, one must also ensure—"

"STOP TALKING!" Bakugo turned completely red. "I’M OUT! I’M DONE! I’M NOT LISTENING TO A GUY IN A DENIM TURTLENECK TALK ABOUT CONDOMS!"

And with that, he exploded through the nearest window.

Outcome: Best Jeanist remains unbothered. Bakugo needs therapy.

Fumikage Tokoyami – Getting "The Talk" from Hawks

Hawks leaned back in his chair, casually tossing popcorn into his mouth. "Alright, kid. So. Birds and bees talk. Let’s go."

Fumikage Tokoyami stared at him. "...I already know about birds."

Hawks grinned. "Not like this, you don’t."

Tokoyami sighed. "This is unnecessary. My path is one of solitude and darkness. I have no need for such knowledge."

Hawks waggled his eyebrows. "Yeah? Well, when your Dark Shadow isn’t the only thing rising at night, you might wanna reconsider."

Tokoyami froze.

Dark Shadow: "BRO, WHAT THE HELL?!"

"HAWKS." Tokoyami gripped the edge of the table, visibly trembling. "DO NOT SPEAK OF SUCH MATTERS!"

Hawks chuckled. "Relax, Bird Boy. I got your back." He tossed a condom at him. "Use that if you ever wanna fly south for the winter, yeah?"

Tokoyami practically flew out of the room.

Outcome: Tokoyami becomes celibate. Dark Shadow is scarred for life.

Tamaki Amajiki – Getting "The Talk" from Fatgum

Fatgum grinned as he placed a giant plate of takoyaki in front of Tamaki.

"Alright, bud! Let’s talk about the big stuff!"

Tamaki, already nervous, started sweating. "B-big… s-stuff?"

"Yup!" Fatgum nodded. "The ol' horizontal tango! The whoopee cushion shuffle! The bibbity boppity boink!"

Tamaki looked like he wanted to disintegrate.

Fatgum laughed. "Aww, c’mon, kiddo! Ain’t nothing to be scared of! Everybody’s gotta learn how to get down to business eventually!"

Tamaki: "I don’t."

Fatgum patted his shoulder. "Ah, it ain’t so bad! You just gotta be confident, communicate with your partner, and—"

Tamaki teleported out of his chair.

Outcome: Fatgum laughs it off. Tamaki moves to another city.

Tomura Shigaraki – Getting "The Talk" from Dabi

Dabi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking.

"So, you and relationships. That’s a funny thought."

Shigaraki scowled. "Tch. Whatever. I don’t care."

Dabi chuckled. "Alright, well, let’s say you do care. You meet someone, they actually like you—miracle, by the way—so what then?"

Shigaraki crossed his arms. "Then I’d… tell them they’re mine?"

Dabi sighed. "Alright, well, if you don’t wanna accidentally dust your date mid-kiss, you should probably learn some control, champ."

Shigaraki looked away. "...Tch. Whatever. I have control."

"Yeah? What about when your emotions get wild?" Dabi grinned. "Or if they kiss your neck?"

Shigaraki turned bright red. "SHUT UP."

Outcome: Shigaraki refuses to speak to Dabi for a week.

Hitoshi Shinso – Getting "The Talk" from Aizawa

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay, Shinso. We need to talk."

Shinso sipped his coffee. "About what?"

Aizawa: "...Sex."

Shinso immediately choked.

Aizawa sighed again. "Look, it’s nothing complicated. Just be respectful, communicate, use protection, and for the love of god, don’t use your Quirk in bed."

Shinso: "WHY WOULD I—WHAT—NO! WHY WOULD YOU EVEN THINK THAT?!"

Aizawa shrugged. "I don’t know. Gotta cover all the bases."

Shinso buried his face in his hands. "I hate it here."

Outcome: Aizawa doesn’t care. Shinso wants to disappear.

Shoto Todoroki – Getting "The Talk" from Endeavor

Endeavor sat across from Shoto, arms crossed, his face burning slightly brighter than usual.

"Shoto. We need to talk."

Shoto blinked. "About?"

"...Procreation."

Shoto immediately stood up. "I’m leaving."

Endeavor grabbed his wrist. "SIT."

Outcome: Shoto literally escapes through a window.

Ko-fi / Masterlist

blairxbear © 2024. do not copy, modify, or translate my work. you do not have permission to share my work outside of tumblr!

[pretentious-blonde]

finally

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: in the aftermath of everything, steve comes to one undeniable realisation—he has to let you in. he just hopes you’re ready for what he's about to give.

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, angst (what's new?), scars, crying, body insecurity, arguments, explicit smut, p in v, body worship kinda, it's so sappy guys

a/n: this is so long and was incredibly difficult to write, i swear i was struggling and probably deleted and rewrote each part at least twice. i really hope i did this justice. but buckle up because this is a rollercoaster.

series masterlist

Steve slipped through the front doors of the school before the sun had fully risen, a ghost drifting in silent halls. The echo of his footsteps against the polished floor was unnerving without the usual morning ruckus. Only a couple of bleary-eyed janitors acknowledged his presence with a nod, too occupied to question why he was there so early. 

Truthfully, he hoped they wouldn’t ask—because no explanation would ever sound right. But then again, that was nothing new.

He headed straight for the gym, heart pounding like a trapped animal in his chest. He could feel it throbbing in his ears, overshadowing even the squeak of his trainers on the spotless tiles. Rounding the back corner, he found the small set of showers—an afterthought of a space once used for older students or the occasional sports camp. 

He dropped his bag onto the bench, the sound echoing in the stark emptiness. Then, without hesitation, he tugged the clothes off his body—jumper and joggers, the ones he’d gone to sleep in. He couldn’t even remember how he’d managed to find his other clothes in his scramble to leave your place. His head had been too clouded with shame and panic.

But now, he wanted them off—his mind was already overstimulated, and the added fabric against his skin was only making it worse.

The steady flow of the water was comforting, constant in a life that felt like it was careening off the rails. He stepped under the stream, letting the hot spray pelt his skin. It stung at first, just a little too hot, reminding him that he was still alive—still breathing, still here. He forced his eyes shut, shoulders slumping as steam enveloped him.

He didn’t want to think about anything, yet the images came unbidden. Your face. The look in your eyes when he lost control, when he gripped you hard enough to bruise. It flickered behind his closed lids, bright and aching. 

The memory of that moment—your shock at his exit—slammed into him like a punch. A strangled groan escaped him. He raised his fist to the tiled wall, teeth gritted, so close to just letting go and smashing it. So very close.

No. Don’t. Not again. 

He could almost hear his therapist’s voice.

Nothing good ever comes from hurting yourself.

But what about the hurt he inflicted on you? 

Because—Christ, that was worse. 

Worse than any bruise he could plant on his own flesh. 

Part of him wanted to hurt. He deserved it after laying a hand on you. He couldn't stomach the thought of how those marks would look on your skin now—the shape of them a perfect match to his hand. Proof of his failure to protect, to be gentle. 

He was supposed to be better than this.

He was supposed to be getting better.

The water slowly turned tepid, so he twisted the knob off with a hiss, breath still ragged as steam ghosted around him. His hair dripped in limp strands around his face. 

Only after stopping the shower, he remembered something vital. 

No towel. 

He nearly laughed—a dark, bitter chuckle that caught in his throat. Nothing like standing drip-dry in an abandoned changing room. He hated the feeling of his exposed skin, even on the best of days.

He grabbed the abandoned jumper from the bench, pressing it to his body to wick away the water. The material felt clammy and foreign, but he pushed through, feeling each drop like another reminder of how he never planned anything right anymore.

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. The reflective surface was warped with condensation, but he could still see the angry marks etched across his torso—the largest slash running from his hip bone to just under his ribs. His stomach clenched at the sight. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen them; it always felt like the first.

He thought back to who he used to be. Cocky, a little arrogant, but at least he was whole. 

He used to swagger around the high school hallways, grin on his face, chest puffed out like he owned the place. Back then, he was King Steve, the golden boy—girls would practically sigh when he peeled off his shirt at the pool, drawn to his tanned skin and slick confidence. 

He could remember the way their fingertips would graze along his sides, warm and curious, sometimes shy, other times bold. He lived for it—lived for the validation of their longing stares, the flush of their cheeks when they realised they wanted him.

Now, he could barely stand his own reflection. 

The raised scars were ragged lines cutting across the person he once was. Each one told a story of violence, of fights he barely survived. The old Steve had worshiped the feel of someone’s palms sliding over his smooth skin; this Steve was terrified of letting anyone see the mess underneath his clothes. 

He was certain no one would ever touch him like that again—not without flinching. And why wouldn’t they flinch?

You didn’t.

The thought stabbed at his gut. He pictured your reaction when he first showed you the state of his arms—the complete lack of revulsion in your eyes. But those were just his arms. There was no telling how you’d react to the rest of him.

Maybe you’d feel obligated to tell him it didn’t matter—but he knew it would matter. It was too ugly, too raw, too real. His fingers ghosted over the ridges and valleys of ruined flesh, hating every inch of it, mourning the boy who used to be so sure that anyone’s hands on him were a promise of pleasure, not a reminder of pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting a shaky exhale pass through his lips. 

He wished he could go back—so fucking badly. 

Not just to yesterday, but to his younger self, to tell him to run and never look back. That’s what all his friends had done, anyway. Max, Lucas, Nancy, Dustin—they all left the moment they had the chance.

But then again, if he hadn’t stayed, who would have been there to protect them?

He didn’t regret that.

Staying had felt safer, clinging to the familiar. At least he had Robin. But now, all he did was look back on the life he could have lived, replaying the possibilities like a song stuck on repeat.

Back to simpler days when he reveled in stolen kisses behind the bleachers, back when the biggest problem was heartbreak or a lost basketball game. But he couldn’t rewind time. He was stuck here, carrying an inventory of scars on his skin and secrets in his soul, all of them carved by battles he never volunteered for but fought anyway. 

Selfless and stupid. 

So fucking stupid.

Cautiously, he stepped away from the mirror. His boxers slid up over damp thighs, sticking uncomfortably, a reminder of how unprepared he’d been for all of this. As he tugged on his jeans from yesterday, he caught another glimpse of those twisted lines on his hip, and his stomach churned. 

You’ll never look at him the way the others did. 

Especially after this morning.

He couldn’t let that self-hatred bloom right now, not when he still had to make it through the day.

He pulled the shirt over his head, careful not to aggravate the scar tissue. It still stung sometimes, and the shock of cool air against his wet skin made him shiver. One final glance at the mirror, and he felt that hollow ache gnaw at his chest again. 

He looked so far from the King Steve of old—his hair flat, his eyes rimmed, nothing left of that youthful swagger but a faint ghost.

Clenching his jaw, he bent down to pick up his bag. The clothes serving as a flimsy barrier between him and the rest of the world. A world that didn’t know the truth, a world that would never see the depth of his shame. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignoring the pounding guilt that told him he’d never be worthy of touch or tenderness again. With slow, deliberate steps, he turned away from the mirror.

He was fully dressed, but it didn’t matter. Underneath the fabric, he was still raw, still marked, still broken—and no amount of clothing would ever change that. He couldn’t hide in this empty locker room forever. He had to face the day, face the kids, face you—except he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Not after he’d left you in pieces. 

Get through the day, just get through the day.

The weight of it all made his steps feel leaden. When he emerged from the gym, the halls were still quiet. Everything was tinted in a dull gray that matched the cold ache in his bones. In a few hours, the corridors would be flooded with laughter, questions, and chatter, and bright eyes would turn to him for guidance.

The thought made his stomach churn. 

How could he possibly guide them? 

But there was no time to linger. He had to keep moving—because if he stopped, even for a heartbeat, he’d sink so far that he might never resurface. 

It had happened before. And he had managed to pull himself out once, but there was no telling if he could do it again.

The only thing you felt as you stared at the door was complete numbness.

Your body trembled, each breath catching in your chest as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that Steve just…left. Walked out without even a backward glance in your direction. 

The echo of the door closing still rings in your ears, and you swear you can feel it vibrating through the room, a certainty that he isn’t coming back. 

You’d called out, desperate, begged him not to go, pleaded for him to stay and fix this horrible mess that you had no idea how to navigate. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He saw the hurt in your eyes, registered the tremble in your voice, and still decided to leave you here alone.

And that’s what fucking hurt the most. 

It hits you in waves: confusion, anger, aching in your chest so sharp you think it might just hollow you out from the inside. A mix of emotions tangles in your mind, and you can’t believe this is the same man who’s been so gentle, so sweet, who made you feel seen and wanted. Protected, always. 

The sting of betrayal ignites something bitter—how could this man, the one who’d look at you with such warmth, so casually vanish when you needed him most?

You press a hand to your face, feeling the tears slip between your fingers. In a distant corner of your mind, you register that you’re shaking, your knees threatening to give. The memory of him grabbing you in the throes of that nightmare is still fresh, sharp as a newly opened wound. 

You can practically feel his grip on your wrist, the surge of his panic flooding you as he relived some horror. As frightening as it was, you understood—or at least, you tried to. Night terrors were real; you’d seen enough to know you couldn’t blame him for something he wasn’t even awake to control.

That was all explainable. 

What truly rips you apart inside is that he ran before you could even talk it through. 

You would have endured the pain in your wrist a hundred times over if it meant you didn’t have to deal with this gaping sense of abandonment. You needed him here, not just physically but emotionally—to see the remorse in his eyes, to hear his voice, to feel his arms around you as he promised this would never happen again. 

You wanted him to sit down with you, both of you maybe still trembling from the shock, and figure out how to handle it next time. Because you already know you’re in too deep to pretend you can just walk away. 

If this was going to be part of the reality you shared, then so be it—you’d find ways to cope, to help him. That’s what people do when they care about each other. 

They stay and talk and try to understand.

But he didn’t. He vanished, leaving the sharp tang of fear and heartbreak in his wake. And the one person who can stitch you back together is also the one who tore you apart in the first place. 

Worse, there’s a small voice whispering in your mind that he might not trust you at all, that he doesn’t believe you can handle this darkness—or maybe that he doesn’t want you to see how deep it really goes. It crushes you. If he can’t open up in a moment like this, when you’ve already witnessed him at his most vulnerable, how can you ever feel safe being vulnerable in return?

Your eyes drift again to the door, half-expecting him to change his mind and burst back in, breathless and apologetic. But the knob remains still, the room silent except for your ragged breathing. 

A profound sense of loneliness steals over you. You almost consider marching right out, driving to the school, demanding he talk to you. Let him try to brush you off in front of everyone—let him see you won’t be turned away so easily. 

But common sense, or maybe just the last shred of your pride, holds you back. You know better than to cause a scene, especially around innocent kids who don’t deserve to see two adults unraveling.

At length, you retreat to your bedroom, hands fumbling for clothes that feel safe and soft. You pick a long-sleeved top, something that covers the marks on your arm. The bruises throb with each movement, a physical reminder of everything that happened. Every time you rotate your wrist, the ache spikes, and fresh tears threaten to break free. 

You don’t know which hurts more: the bruises or the empty space where Steve should be, reassuring you that he never meant to cause you pain.

Downstairs, you force yourself into a routine. There’s an order on the desk, scheduled for pickup later today—simple enough to pack, something you can do on autopilot. You line the boxes, arrange the contents, trying to focus on each small task. But your wrist protests every time you bend it, and it’s impossible not to recall the panic in his voice, the wildness in his eyes when he woke.

You push through the discomfort, desperate for a distraction, but all it does is magnify the emptiness in your chest. When the last box is sealed, you exhale a shaky breath and rub your forehead, wishing you could smooth away the swarm of thoughts churning behind it.

You decide you’ll work the shop until the customer comes, feign a smile and some semblance of calm, then close up early. Maybe after that, you can collapse into bed and let yourself cry until your eyes ache more than your arm. Maybe you’ll try to sleep, or maybe you’ll just stare at your phone, hoping Steve will call. 

You hate how much you want him to, but you can’t help it. 

Because despite everything, he’s the only one who can stitch these pieces of you back together in any meaningful way.

You don’t want to think about it, yet it’s all that occupies your mind. He’d been terrified, and that knowledge twists your sympathy and anger together in a knot so tight you feel you might suffocate from it. 

The part of you that cares for him wants to comfort him, hold him until those nightmares fade. The part of you that’s hurt wants to shake him and demand he never, ever do this again. 

You aren’t sure which part is stronger.

You brace yourself for customer service mode, plastering on a polite smile you know won’t reach your eyes. 

And after that, you’ll close up shop and let your thoughts spiral in circles, trying to figure out if there’s a way to mend what’s been broken. 

Because, really, what else can you do?

You can’t go back to pretending everything is fine, not when you have the proof etched into your skin. And you can’t move forward until he decides to talk—if he decides to talk at all.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. 

The night blurred into a half-awake haze where every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. It was the only thing he had left since you had been dodging his calls. 

He’d told you he would—call that is—or at least, he thought he did. It was all so garbled and panicked, words tumbling out in a half-choked stream as he fled, too ashamed to look at your panic-stricken form for one second longer. 

At first, he wondered if you’d even heard. The confusion in your gaze suggested maybe you hadn’t. 

None of this would have made sense to you anyway.

He could barely comprehend it himself.

When lunchtime came around at school, he tried. He dialed your number on the ancient landline in his classroom, pressing the handset so tightly to his ear that his knuckles turned white. The phone rang on and on, that endless tone droning in his head like an alarm. Then, voicemail. No click of your voice picking up, no hesitant greeting, nothing. 

It was the first sign something was off. You’d always said it was important to answer—it could be a customer, after all. 

He set the phone down slowly. 

Maybe you’re out. 

But that uneasy feeling lodged itself in his chest, refusing to let go. You hardly ever left during your lunch hour. 

He tried again after class ended, his nerves coiled tighter than a spring as he tapped his foot under the desk. Every glance from a passing teacher through the door felt like it burned straight through him—like they all knew he’d done something awful. 

And it showed, too: even the kids had been oddly subdued, their usual energy muted by the forced smile he gave them, the one that never reached his eyes. He wanted to tell them, he wasn’t mad at them. That they didn’t do anything wrong. 

But he did. 

He couldn’t find the words. Not when all he could think about was how he’d scared someone he cared about, even if it was an accident. 

The phone rang and rang again, no answer.

By the time he walked the entire route back to his place, he was ready to crawl out of his skin. He tried once more after he closed his front door behind him, your number already lodged in his mind like a reflex. 

Nothing. 

Not a peep. 

His heart felt like it was in his throat. You always pick up. Especially in the evenings. 

He remembered all those late-night calls, you answering groggy but delighted, telling him he was being stupid for staying up so late. Then you’d laugh, that sweet, half-asleep giggle he’d come to adore, and he’d cling to the sound like a lifeline. 

You’d talk until dawn sometimes, spinning stories, sharing secrets. That memory cut him now like glass—because tonight, there was only silence on the other end. 

And that was the second strike.

When he tried one last time before bed—gripping the handset with both hands to his ear—and still got no answer, the panic set in. 

Hard. 

He could practically hear your voice in his head. But the ring trilled on, eventually sliding into voicemail again. The emptiness felt like a personal betrayal, even though he knew he was the one who’d run from you. 

Maybe you hated him now.

He wouldn’t blame you. 

Or maybe you were hurt and couldn’t bear to speak to him. Neither possibility let him sleep.

But that still didn’t make sense to him. Not answering when you didn’t even know it would be him.

He almost dialed Robin’s number, thumb hovering over the buttons. She’d know what to do—she always did. She’d give him some tough-love pep talk, maybe call you herself. But he pictured the horror on her face when she found out the full extent of what happened, how he’d latched onto you during that nightmare and left you with marks in the shape of his fingers. 

Would she see him differently now? As a threat? A monster? 

He couldn’t stomach that. Couldn’t lose her too. So he didn’t call. He just let the phone drop back on the holder and stared at the ceiling until morning.

The next day only confirmed his worst fears—still no answer. He tried you at every spare moment, hands shaking so badly sometimes he nearly dropped the receiver. 

He told himself he was a coward for doing this over the phone, but the alternative was to walk right up to your shop and risk you slamming the door in his face. He couldn’t decide which would hurt more: your silence over the line or seeing rejection in your eyes. 

But the silence was brutal. It chipped away at him, driving his mind into overdrive with possibilities. That unwavering habit of yours to always answer, to be available, had been so endearing. Now it had morphed into a warning sign.

No answer meant something was wrong.

No answer meant trouble.

No answer meant danger.

The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t shake it. By afternoon, he was in his car, driving too fast through the quiet neighborhoods of Hawkins, heart rattling in his rib cage like it wanted out. Each stop sign felt like an obstacle, every slow driver a personal torment. A voice in his head whispered that maybe this was all in vain—maybe you wouldn’t even want to see him. 

He had to do something. If you were in trouble, if you were shutting down, he couldn’t just sit at home wracked with guilt. 

He owed you more than that. He could understand that now.

When he finally screeched to a halt in front of your place, he killed the engine in one rough jerk, not caring that the car was crookedly parked. His hand trembled on the door handle as he climbed out, the sight of your shop sending a jolt of dread through him. It wasn’t as bright, as welcoming. The windows seemed dimmer, as though the life had bled from the space. 

Or maybe it’s just you that’s gone dark. 

An icy wave of guilt twisted in his stomach. 

He tried the door, a gentle pull at first that quickly escalated into a desperate yank when it wouldn’t budge. 

Locked. 

You never locked it at this hour, at least not without a sign indicating you’d be back soon. This was abnormal.

Pressing a palm flat against the glass, he peered inside, squinting to see past the faint reflections. That’s when he noticed the state of your desk—papers strewn about, boxes teetering precariously, random books flung as if you’d knocked them over and never bothered to pick them up. 

His heart lurched. You hated mess, took pride in keeping everything tidy. He vividly remembered the meltdown you’d had over a weekend rush, how you’d scurried to reorganise everything within minutes. 

This was not like you.

A flicker of relief sparked when he realised only that corner was in disarray—the rest of the shop looked intact. But the relief was short-lived. This still screamed trouble. If you were leaving things in such a state, you had to be upset, or distracted, or both. 

Shoulders bunched, he thumped on the door, urgency mounting with each second. 

“Hey!” he called, the sound cracking in his throat. He said your name once, then twice, his voice rising in panic when only silence answered.

He remembered every unanswered ring on that phone, every message he’d left that was met with nothing but static. Sanding here, it felt like the universe was doubling down on his punishment, forcing him to relive the helplessness all over again.

“Please,” he said, pressing his brow against the glass. “Listen—I know I messed up, but—”

Suddenly, he saw something move at the edge of his vision. A flash of you, stepping from behind a shelf or the back counter—he couldn’t be sure. Relief slammed through him, leaving him momentarily dizzy. He straightened, heart in his throat, eyes drinking in the sight of you like a lifeline. 

He wanted to weep with gratitude that you were up. You were moving. 

You were alright. 

But the instant he registered your expression, his stomach knotted. 

You looked exhausted—drained in a way that went beyond lack of sleep. You were wearing the clothes you usually reserved for upstairs, they felt so out of place. No shoes, just those thick socks peeking out from beneath your pajama bottoms. An oversized jumper swallowed your frame, sleeves unrolled for once, hanging past your knuckles instead of pushed up like usual.

The relief that hit him was replaced by a heavier dread. He knew why. The sleeves weren’t for comfort—they were for hiding. He didn’t have to see the damage from a few days ago to know it would be worse by now.

You look broken. 

And knowing it was his fault made him wish he could just vanish.

He lifted a hand in a shaky attempt at a wave, lips forming your name in a breathless whisper. The only consolation he had was that you were here, physically okay—at least for now. 

His heart lurched the moment he saw you dart for the stairs.

So this is what it feels like. 

The helplessness of watching someone run when you need them most. 

It gutted him. He wrenched on the handle again, calling your name, more desperate this time. The echoes of what he did—leaving you in exactly the same state—taunted him. His shame rolled over him, drenching him in guilt. 

He called your name again, his voice unsteady, and caught a glimpse of you hesitating on the landing. You turned slowly, wary eyes meeting his, your expression pinched, unreadable and indecisive. You looked torn, as if caught between two instincts, sending him away for good or granting him the same chance you had begged him to give the morning he ran.

He wasn’t running anymore.

“Please,” he rasped, voice cracking around the word, “can you—fuck—can you just open the door? I—I just want to talk.” 

He winced at how needy it sounded, but desperation had stripped him of all pride. You turned fully, glaring at him with an anger he knew too well. 

How dare he ask that of you. 

It was a grim understanding, remembering how you’d wanted him to stay and talk.

He watched you stomp to the door. As your hand closed around the lock, he could see the barely contained fury in the tightness of your jaw. The click sounded thunderous in the still of the shop.

“You want to talk?” You snapped, throwing the door open. “Now, Steve? Really?”

His chest constricted, because you had every right to be furious. 

It didn’t dull the sting of your words, but he owed you this, owed you the chance to say every bit of anger you’d bottled up. He swallowed hard, opening his mouth. 

No explanation came. How could it?

He deserved this. 

Your eyes flicked over him and you gave a mirthless laugh, then turned on your heel and marched back inside. He followed, hands sweaty and shaking, shutting the door behind him in a soft click that felt eerily final. 

“You wanna talk?” You whirled, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

He could feel your gaze cutting into him, but it was the exhaustion limning your features that really made his stomach knot. You looked one harsh word away from shattering into pieces. 

He recognised that brand of exhaustion all too well—he wore it often. 

“Look, I—I’m so sorry, angel,” he began, voice trembling. The term of endearment slipped out unthinkingly.

“No.” You inhaled sharply, tearing your gaze from his. “You don’t—you don’t get to call me that, okay?” Your breathing was shaky, tears threatening at the edges of your voice.

He swallowed and nodded, stepping back as if to physically rein himself in. 

This was worse than he thought.

“Alright,” he whispered. “I won’t. But please, let me say sorry. I—I never meant to scare you like that.”

Something flashed in your eyes, a deep, wounded frustration. 

He really didn’t get it.

“Steve,” you said with a weary sigh, “I don’t give a shit about that right now.”

He blinked, thrown. He expected you to rip into him for hurting you, even if it was unintentional. But you pushed on, your voice rising. 

“Are you ever gonna talk to me? Like, actually talk?”

“I—” He stammered. 

Isn’t that what he was doing right now? 

“Of course you’re not,” you said bitterly, eyes flicking to the floor. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Wait—wait, what?” A spike of alarm hammered in his chest. “I promise, I never meant to lay a hand—”

“Jesus, Steve!” You let out a broken laugh that cracked partway through. “I know that! I know what a fucking nightmare is, alright?”

He stared, stunned, as you raked a hand through your hair, tears brimming.

“I can deal with that,” you pressed on, your voice firm despite the weight of the conversation. “People have them all the time—maybe not to that extent, but at least I can make sense of it.”

You took a deep breath. 

This was it—the question that had been sitting on your tongue for months, the one you had rehearsed a hundred different ways but never had the nerve to say aloud.

“I know something happened to you—you think I haven’t noticed?” You exhaled sharply, a weak attempt to steady yourself before pushing forward. “I see the way you act around me, how you’re always looking over your shoulder, how you barely let me touch you. Don’t you think I’ve put two and two together by now?”

A twisted sense of dread pooled in his stomach. 

So much for keeping everything subtle. 

He’d thought he was being careful, showing you just enough to fly under the radar, but apparently not enough.

“I don’t know the details, not really. But I’ve been patient. I’ve been letting you take your time. And that’s fine. But—God—you need to let me in just a little. Anything. Especially if it could get this bad.”

He opened his mouth, a term of endearment on the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself. 

“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.”

Your eyes filled with pain. 

Is he not even going to try?

“Well, you’re gonna have to figure it out. Because I can’t keep doing this—stumbling around in the dark, watching you shut me out, and getting hurt for trying.”

The fatigue in your voice tore at his heart. He wanted to grab your hands, drag you close, promise that he’d tell you everything if it meant wiping that tortured look off your face. But he knew you needed space to speak, to get it all out.

“You know…I thought about leaving.”

“What?” His eyes widened, the notion shook him. 

Leave Hawkins? Leave him? 

The panic roared in his veins.

“When you left, I was a wreck,” you admitted, tears quivering on your lashes. “I couldn’t do anything right. The order I had to fill? I screwed it up—completely. And the customer tore me a new one, cursing me out in front of everybody. And I stood there, thinking, ‘Why am I doing this? Why am I giving my all to this place when it gives me nothing in return?’”

It was true—you had uprooted everything to move here, determined to start fresh. And for a while, you thought you could. Especially with him. But every time you tried to move forward, you hit a wall. Resistance. Silence. There was only so much you could take.

This lack of communication was breaking you. Only intensified by the last few days. 

“And—I’m not asking for your whole life story,” you said, your voice wavering as you wrapped your arms around yourself instead of reaching for him. He didn’t get that privilege right now. “But it’s like you’re not even trying. Like you don’t want to try. And—and it just—” You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your emotions in check. “It just feels like you don’t trust me.”

His throat constricted at the sight of your tears finally spilling over. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer—he closed the distance in a rush, wrapping his arms around you. You trembled against him, clinging to his shirt as sobs wracked your frame. 

He stroked your hair, pressing apologies into the air around you like whispered confessions, though he wasn’t sure if you could hear them over your own grief. But none of that mattered more than holding you right now, than letting you know he was here. 

He hadn’t even stopped to consider how hard this was for you—how much you had clung to him, relied on him. And maybe that was his fault. He didn’t know how to be your rock, the person you could turn to when everything else felt unsteady. He had shattered that illusion, along with everything you had given him, leaving you with nothing to hold onto.

Then, in a trembling voice, you muttered into his shoulder, something so small he could barely hear it. 

"I just—" You suck in a shaky breath, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t settle the ache in your chest or stop the way your voice wavers.

"I just feel so fucking stupid—like… like nobody even wants me here anymore."

Oh.

Oh, no. 

Sweetheart, you have no idea how wrong you are.

He holds you tightly as you crumble against his chest, your tears soaking through his shirt even harder than before. Each sob you let out is a blow to his heart; your cries cut deeper than any nightmare he’s ever endured. He scrambles for something to say, something that makes sense—something that won’t come out a tangled mess of incoherent feelings.

“Shhh, that’s not true,” he says softly, his voice steady. “Not true at all. Hey—c’mon breathe with me, yeah? That’s not true—I promise, it’s not—”

He had believed shutting you out would protect you, keep his past locked away where it couldn’t taint anyone else. Instead, all it had done was carve deep wounds in the present.

For a moment, he simply stands there, letting you pour out every emotion. 

He soon comes to a realisation he hates—one he’s been avoiding, hoping he’d have more time to figure it out. But the way you’re clinging to him now, begging for just a shred of honesty, for something real.

He understanfs that the only way to keep you from spiraling further is to open the door he’s kept barred. He needs to give you a glimpse of the shadows lurking behind his eyes, prove that he trusts you enough to share even the smallest fraction of his past.

He has to try.

He inhales shakily. 

Hoping to God this is the right decision. 

“It was…” he begins, voice raw. “It was summer of ‘85.”

He’s started now. 

Something small. Something safe—at least, safer than the rest.

Something true.

Your breathing stills, as if you’re trying to steady yourself. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, tears still clinging to your lashes. 

“What?” you murmur, confused. But you don’t pull away entirely, you stay close, your fingertips still curled in his shirt.

He nods, exhaling a trembling breath. 

Here goes nothing.

“I—I was working the summer with Rob. At the old mall. First real job since graduation. It’s…where I met her.” 

His eyes flick away for a second, remembering the cramped ice-cream counter, the corny uniform, and how it had felt like the biggest joke in the world back then. But at least it had been something to do, a way to prove he wasn’t just a washed-up high school jock.

You study him, eyes red but full of concern. He can practically feel your pulse racing under his palms, so he drags in another breath and forces himself to continue. 

“It was a crappy gig, honestly. Couldn’t’ve picked something more humiliating if I tried. But hey, it kept me busy—got me out of bed in the morning.” He grimaces, remembering the bright neon of Starcourt, the endless swirl of customers. He presses his lips together, telling himself this is good, that he’s finally doing what you asked. 

Show you something. Let you in.

“Got too close to something we shouldn’t have,” he says finally, voice low. “Way too close. Put our heads where they didn’t belong, and suddenly things were…real. They were really fucking real.” 

He hesitates, haunted by the memory of secret corridors and muffled Russian transmissions. A slight tremor runs through him, and your hand comes up, brushing gently along his side as if trying to soothe the ache. He wonders if you can feel how tense he is, how his heart is pounding. 

Probably.

“It was my fault, really,” he mutters, guilt stabbing at him. “I—uh—I encouraged it. All of us. There were four total—Rob, me, Dustin, Erica. I swear I’ve mentioned ‘em in passing.” He catches the slight nod you give. He’s mentioned Dustin especially, and you’ve always been curious about him. “They ended up moving away after everything. It got too much, and I—I almost lost…all of them.” His voice falters, the words scraping at his throat. “We nearly didn’t make it out in time.”

At the time, he could almost see the humour in it—some twisted, detached part of him had laughed. But, as time passed, the reality of what occurred settled in, sharper than he’d expected.

Being forcibly drugged had blurred the edges of his memory, warping everything into a hazy, disjointed mess. For a while, that had felt like a mercy. But then, piece by piece, the memories began clawing their way back. His doctor called it a trauma response—fragments resurfacing at random, triggered by nothing and everything all at once.

Only they never came back gently. They came in the dead of night, harsh and sudden, a flash of something new, something he hadn’t pieced together before. And with each fragment, the picture became clearer.

He had been closer to dying than he ever let himself believe.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, eyes searching his face. Despite your own heartbreak, you’re looking at him with such compassion it nearly topples the walls he’s built. It’s that look that finally pushes him to give a bit more.

“There was something going on down there,” he whispers. “Something we couldn’t understand—still don’t understand, really. Then the whole place went up in flames. You can read about it in the papers, see how they spun the story.” His eyes squeeze shut, images flashing through his mind: the deafening explosions, the collapsing ceiling. “It was…bad, angel. So fucking bad. I just—” His breath hitches, the memory closing in, “the stuff I saw…I can’t—. sometimes it’s all I see—”

He’s on the verge of unraveling, stuck in the memory of being beaten to a pulp, thinking Robin was gone, not knowing where Dustin and Erica had disappeared to. 

It isn’t even the worst of what he’s been through, but it’s all he can manage right now. The rest stays locked away, too heavy, too unfathomable to put into words. He wishes he could give you more, lay it all out in the open, but even this small piece feels like pulling teeth.

Sharing it feels like exposing a fresh wound to the air. He’s terrified you’ll recoil. But instead, you rest your hand over his heart, fingers spread so you can feel how it thunders in his chest. He wraps you up in his arms again. 

“I’m sorry I can’t… give you more right now,” he says, voice quivering. “I’m so sorry. I—I thought I was better, y’know? I’ve been trying.” There’s a hollow laugh buried under his words, tinged with self-loathing. “I just—it’s hard. I’m working on it, you gotta believe me—I’m gonna work on it, I want—”

Your eyes glisten as you cup his face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, silencing him immediately. It’s only then he realises tears have slipped past his defenses—he’s crying, and he didn’t even notice. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to soothe him, nodding to emphasise your words. “You’re okay.”

With tender caution, you lean up and brush your lips against his. It’s brief, but so warm. He kisses you back, just as softly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he presses too hard.

Pulling away, he’s trembling all over, but there’s a new resolve in his eyes. The weight on his chest feels a fraction lighter. 

“I—I’ll tell you everything someday—everything,” he manages, voice husky with emotion, and he means it. Every ugly memory engraved into his mind, the ones that refused to fade—he would tell you them all. “I swear. Just…not now. I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to, but I—”

You press a gentle finger to his lips. 

This is a start, you are proud of him for this. It’s not a complete story, but it’s enough. You can work with this new information. 

“It’s alright. Really,” you say, voice thick but kind. “Thank you for telling me. I know it’s hard, but you did good, okay? You did really good.”

He’s struck by how your tone is almost parental, like soothing a wounded child. 

Strangely, it doesn’t anger him or make him feel weak—it only fills him with a sense of safety. And so he sags against you, letting your arms envelop him, letting himself be held.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs. “About running off the other day. I don’t—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what happened. I just…I panicked.”

“It was a shock, and I get it,” you say softly with a nod. “But next time?” You arch a brow. “Please don’t run away from someone who’s trying to help you.”

He can’t help the short laugh that escapes him. There’s something genuine in your tone that loosens the last of the knots in his stomach. 

“No, you’re right,” he admits, bending his head to meet your gaze. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Your lips twitch into a playful smile. “I’m not that scary, am I?”

“I don’t know,” he teases, leaning down, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You have your moments.”

You roll your eyes in mock offense, but before you can pull back, he slips a hand behind your head and leans in, capturing your mouth in another gentle kiss. He loves the way you smile against his lips, the tension around you both lifting like a receding tide. When he finally draws away, there’s a lingering light in your eyes.

“You’re not actually gonna leave… are you?” he asks quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the anxiety that accompanies the question.

“No. I’m not.” You shake your head, offering a smile. “Was just being dramatic.”

He exhales, relief washing over him. Good, he never would have forgiven himself if he had been the catalyst. 

“That’s supposed to be my job,” he counters wryly, and you let out a laugh of your own. 

When his gaze drifts to your scattered desk, his brow furrows. 

“Is that his order right there?” he asks, tipping his head toward the pile of boxes and papers.

With a sigh, you slip out of his embrace and walk over, eyes lingering on the partially emptied contents. 

“Yeah, he took it all out to check it right in front of me,” you explain. “I swear I gave him exactly what he wrote down, but apparently there was a miscommunication.”

He makes a sympathetic noise, stepping up behind you. 

“Want help putting it all back?” he offers, hoping the simple act of assisting you might ease some of the tension that still permeates the air.

“Please,” you say softly, and that single word settles in his chest.

This is what he can do right now—help you, make things right, one careful motion at a time.

You both settle into the couch upstairs, nestling between his legs so your back presses snugly against his chest. His arm curves around your waist, the other hand drifting gently through your hair and brushing along your shoulders in soothing patterns. 

His voice is soft, almost playful, as he rambles about his old job. It reminds you of stories he’s shared in passing, but never in such detail—like he’s finally letting you peek behind the curtain.

“You know, she actually made a whole tally,” he says suddenly, chuckling under his breath.

“A tally?” you repeat, turning slightly so you can glimpse his expression. There’s a hint of self-consciousness around his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” he confirms, voice warm. “Wanted to keep track of how many times I struck out with girls. Really hammered home that I was ‘off my game.’” He air-quotes the last words, rolling his eyes. The self-deprecating smirk on his face makes you giggle.

“Wow,” you breath out. “Did you manage to score a date at all that summer?”

“God, no,” he groans. The memory clearly makes him cringe. “The uniform made sure of that.” 

“Uniform?” you ask, curiosity lighting up your tone.

This is gonna be good.

“I didn’t tell you about that part?” He sighs dramatically, tapping the back of the couch with his free hand. “It was a full-on sailor getup. Hat, shorts—everything.”

“You…dressed as a sailor?” A snort escapes you, and you try to muffle the laugh behind your hand. “Please tell me you still have it.”

“Seriously? No. No I don’t. Think I’ll stick to sweaters, thank you very much.”

You twist around in his lap with a coy grin. 

“Aw, come on. Might be a good look on you.”

He shudders theatrically, pulling you closer until you’re resting against him, torso to torso. 

“Trust me, I looked ridiculous. The last thing I need is to relive that nightmare.”

You laugh and wind your arms around his shoulders. You were joking about his mishap now, that was a good sign. 

“Fine, fine,” you acquiesce. “For the record, I like the way you dress. You have good style.”

He arches an eyebrow, fingers still sweeping through the ends of your hair. 

“You think so?”

“Mhm,” you confirm, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Good luck ever getting your shirts back, by the way. I’ve already hidden a few in my room.”

He nods in surrender, before pausing as he recalls something that’s been playing on his mind. 

“Wait—did you take the navy one?”

“Hmm, maybe.” You tilt your head with a sly grin. 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, though his voice is tinged with amused affection. “I was looking for that last week! Next time, at least give me a heads up.”

You feign contemplation. “I’ll think about it.”

Before he can protest, you lean in and kiss him. It’s soft at first, the way your mouths just brush and part. You can feel the subtle hitch in his breathing as he savours the closeness, smiling against your lips. 

The soft noise you make against his mouth sets his nerves alight, and he inches you closer to him by your waist—like somehow, if he just holds on a little tighter, it’ll anchor him to this moment. Your fingers tangle in his hair, a gentle pressure at his scalp, and he exhales a shaky breath into you, revelling in how you get him to respond so easily.

But then your hands slip lower, down his neck until they settle over his chest. It’s a featherlight touch, nothing that should spook him, yet he tenses anyway, that automatic flinch he hates so much. It’s barely perceptible—he’s skilled at hiding it—but you notice. 

Of course you do. 

You always do.

You pull back, just enough to search his eyes. He reads the hint of disappointment there, though you try to smooth it over with a soft smile. It makes his stomach drop, guilt surging through him. 

Why can’t he do it?

After everything.

Why can’t he just let this happen? 

Frustration burns in his ribs. Even in these moments, when his guard is down, his body still betrays him.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you shift as if you’re about to slide off his lap—ready to give him space and spare him discomfort. But he can’t let that happen, not when his heart is screaming at him for you to stay. 

He grips your hips, halting your retreat, guiding you back into place. You hesitate, blinking at him, confusion filling your features. You don’t push further, though. You just wait, letting him decide what comes next.

His eyes skim every detail of your face, taking in the way your gaze stills, the way your lips part in question. He cups your chin, and the resolution settles in his chest. 

He wants this. 

He wants you, and maybe it’s time he truly showed it—no more half-measures.

“I…” He begins, slow and steady. “I want… you,” voice low with longing.

Your lips curve slightly, if he wants to play, you have no problem humouring him. 

“You can,” you murmur softly, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “You have me.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. You need to understand his distinction. 

“No. I mean…all of you,” he clarifies, his eyes flicking between yours. “I want all of you… against all of me.”

The confession nearly floors you.

This was big—huge. You could see it in the way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the subtlety behind his words. He was really trying, and that alone was a massive step.

You wanted to tell him not to push himself, that he could take his time. But, god, you wanted him to take this step with you. 

You were practically aching for it.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, your words were true. “If this is because of today, I’m okay waiting. I don’t want you to rush.”

Don’t want him to do anything out of obligation. 

He exhales, some tension uncoiling in his chest. He hates how scared he is, how part of him is still so damn nervous. But he also knows he’s ready in a way he’s never been before.

“I’m ready,” he insists, voice tinged with a plea. “Please, I… I want this. Want to do this with you.”

You nod—gentle, careful not to draw attention to his vulnerability.

“Okay,” you say quietly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “We can do that.”

Your hands rise to frame his face, your thumbs just grazing the underside of his cheekbones. You kiss him once more, and he feels your acceptance, sweeping away the last thread of doubt. 

He feels safe here. He feels safe with you.

He breathes against your neck, each kiss lingers, heavy with new meaning.

It’s yearning, it’s hesitation—it’s everything at once. Every emotion he can name, and even the ones he can’t, thrumming through him like a live wire. He’s pressed so close—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—that it almost feels like you share the same heartbeat. 

He’s stalling, but you understand. You sense the anxious flutter in his chest, in his movements, the old wounds fueling his wariness. 

You know he needs to be the one to cross that line. 

He needs to be the one to make that final decision. 

At last, he tugs lightly at the hem of your sweatshirt, lifting his gaze to yours in silent question. 

You go first?

You respond with a small, encouraging nod, letting him see your readiness—and your patience. Gently, he helps you sit up on the bed, his hands sliding carefully along your sides, fingertips testing their welcome at every shift of fabric. 

The tenderness in his touch sends a shiver over your skin, and you watch him exhale a slow breath as though reassuring himself this is safe.

Once the garment is off, he lowers you back down with a featherlight press, settling atop of you. His palm finds yours, lacing your fingers together, a tangible tether that seems to keep him grounded. Uncertainty dances across his expression, but he keeps going, letting himself hover in that intoxicating space between caution and desire. 

They say anxiety can heighten pleasure, and right now, he’s drowning in both.

He shifts, adjusting to find a more comfortable position—not just for himself, but for you too. If this was going to be the night he laid everything bare, he needed to get everything else right. 

No distractions. No missteps.

He pushes himself up, using the hand still linked with yours, but the second a sharp yelp escapes your lips, he freezes.

Shit.

Your wrist. 

Your fucking wrist.

Instantly, he recoils, eyes going wide. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice shaking with fresh guilt. “I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

The weight of it all crashes down on him—the intensity of the moment, the last few days, everything piling on top of him until it’s suffocating. His breath stumbles, his grip loosens, and suddenly, the bed beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“I… I can’t do this. I—” He falters, breaking under the strain.

His voice cracks, and you can see it happening—the spiral, the shame rolling over him in waves, dragging him under. But you won’t let him disappear into it.

Not after he’s come so far.

Not after he was so close.

You cup his face in your hands, grounding him, your thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks.

“Steve,” you say firmly, your hands steady as you pull his frantic gaze to yours. “Look at me—hey, look—”

His eyes finally meet yours, wide and scared, like he’s teetering on the edge.

“I trust you,” you say, voice unwavering. “I want this. Okay?”

You soften, letting the urgency slip into something gentler, something he can hold onto.

“Please,” you add, barely above a whisper. Desperate to keep him here, to stop him from retreating into himself. To keep him from running away again.

Your words seem to slice through his panic, and he inhales shakily, forcing himself back.

He can do this.

“Yeah,” he rasps at last, nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I’m… I’m good.” His breath comes in unsteady bursts, the aftermath of an almost-panic detectable in his voice.

For a moment, he just clutches the edge of his sweater, hesitating as if every muscle in his body wants to lock up. You can practically feel the anxiety radiating off him, a pang of sympathy tightens in your chest.

He’s really doing this.

Finally letting you see what he’s kept hidden for so long.

He starts to pull the fabric up, inch by inch, and you swear you feel the tension building inside yourself, mirroring his every move.

Your heart squeezes as you watch him close his eyes, the last of his self-preservation roaring for him to stop. You know exactly how hard it is for him.

It makes you want to reach out, to still his trembling hands. Tell him how well he is doing. But you stay put, giving him the space he needs to do this on his own terms.

Once the material is off, he holds it in a death grip, knuckles bleaching white, and your stomach twists with an ache of empathy.

He’s shaking.

You want to tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. That scars or not, you’ve chosen him, over and over. But you wait, letting him find his own breath.

When he finally lets the fabric slip from his grasp, you see him glance around, as though searching desperately for a safe place—somewhere to hide the proof that he’s now so utterly exposed.

Your throat tightens, remembering every story he’s told you, every time he’s mentioned wearing hoodies in July, never taking off his shirt by the lake, being careful not to stretch too high in public lest someone catch a glimpse.

How many years has he carried that weight?

He’s kneeling there, half-naked, and the rawness in his eyes makes your heart pound. He looks at you then—uncertain, vulnerable, like he expects you to recoil.

But you don’t. You can’t.

You want him to know that in your eyes, he has never been anything less than beautiful. His scars are part of his story, and you want to learn every chapter if he’ll let you. The corners of your mouth curve into a gentle smile, and you lift one hand, offering it wordlessly. He swallows, then edges closer.

You didn't flinch, after all.

He’s shocked to find himself questioning if he overreacted. From your lack of response, this really was nothing.

The thought is an unsettling, creeping realisation. It’s painful to admit that the words he’s been told so many times might actually be true. That he is—truly—his own worst enemy. 

Maybe, it really was all in his head.

What he feels is grief. He doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know how to hold the weight of the unexpected emotion. He is grieving every lost opportunity, feeling dejected as he is the reason he was held back.

You beckon him closer with a simple lift of your hand. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes.

Come here. He’s not alone in this. 

There’s a shake in his limbs as he crawls over you, and when your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, he exhales, trying to slow the roar of blood in his ears.

“Do they still hurt?” you ask first. Your fingers ghost along one of the longer scars snaking up his side, and he sucks in a breath.

“No,” he manages. His throat feels tight, so he tries a reassuring smile. “They don’t hurt anymore.” 

Not physically, at least. But the reminder of how he got them has always stung somewhere.

Your gaze fills with understanding. 

“Can…can I touch them?”

Can I touch you?

He stiffens, pulse kicking into overdrive. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Of course you can.”

Even if he can’t understand why you'd want to.

You surprise him by sliding a hand to his rib cage, fingertips light but deliberate. The sensation makes him tense, then relax. It tickles into a new feeling, one he has yet to feel in an age.

Freedom. 

Like some invisible chain has snapped, letting him feel your touch for what it is.

A sigh escapes him when you guide him down for another kiss, deeper this time, your free hand sneaking up to tangle in his hair. 

There’s an exhilarating rush as he senses just how badly you still want him—how your hips roll against his, hands clinging to his arms, his torso, fingers curling into his marked skin. 

You want this. You still want him. Nothing has changed.

It spreads through him, heating his entire form. You’re pulling him closer, practically begging for more.

It’s euphoric, familiar in a way that sparks memories of his younger self—before the world took a piece out of him. He’d felt invincible back then.  And now, as you arch against him, nails grazing lightly along his spine, it’s like a piece of that bold, fearless boy flickers back to life.

Your pyjama bottoms slip off with his help, soft cotton pooling by the bed. He lingers for a second, mesmerised by the sight of you in nothing but your underwear. 

He’s lucky. So fucking lucky.

A wave of gratitude swells, a fierce need to show you how seen and cherished you are in return.

His mouth travels over your stomach, up your ribs, scattering kisses like he’s leaving a trail of silent thank-yous. He finally shifts higher, he brushes his lips against your chest—hesitant at first, like he’s testing if it’s okay.

Then he grows bolder, his tongue and teeth teasing against sensitive skin, testing, exploring—soaking in every breathy sound you give him like a delicious reward. He pulls back just enough to glance at you, hair falling into his eyes. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs, voice catching in his throat. His fingers find the clasp of your bra, and when he slips it free, he dips his head to kiss and taste at the newly exposed skin. There’s something liberating about the way you curl into him, spurring him on with each gasp. 

“You’re… you’re so fucking stunning,” he breathes, His eyes flick up—just to watch. To take you all in.

“So are you.” You manage to speak, through the dizzying sensation of his mouth.

He huffs a laugh, he doesn't believe that for a second. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.”

You already had him. 

“Not lying,” you say, the sincerity in your flushed face makes his throat constrict.

It wasn’t a lie—he was gorgeous. 

Unfairly so. 

His hair, wild from your hands, framed his face in soft, unruly waves. His lips, plush and kiss-bitten, parted just slightly as he caught his breath. The sharp cut of his brow bone cast the faintest shadows over his dark, wide eyes, pupils blown with pure lust.

The marks on his body were plentiful, scattered like constellations across his skin—but so was his beauty. The slope of his collarbone, the freckle just above his stomach, the way his chest rose and fell in unsteady rhythm. 

“You’re beautiful, Steve Harrington,” you insist, every syllable dripping with conviction.

It sounds so alien to hear the word beautiful tied to his name, but the affection shining in your expression doesn’t waver. A sudden prickle of tears flutters at the corners of his eyes. 

You really meant it.

After you'd seen everything.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice thick, embarrassed at how easily you can unravel him. “I’m supposed to be making you feel good, not getting emotional.”

“You want me to stop?” You smile, leaning up to nip at his jawline. 

“Never,” he whispers, shaking his head, pressing his forehead to yours. 

He never wants you to stop wanting him. 

Your underwear joins the pile on the floor, and then he moves to rid himself of his own jeans. He pauses at the button, a sliver of lingering uncertainty present.

He sees the look on your face—entirely filled with desire—it’s enough to banish the last thread of doubt. He shucks them off, letting them fall, then tugs down whatever’s left until he’s utterly bare before you.

He returns above you, his chest hovering over yours. He kisses along your throat, lips trailing heat as he cups your jaw. His fingers slip lower, skimming across your collarbone, down the curve of your waist, until they reach the soft skin at your inner thigh.

“God, sweetheart…” he murmurs, sinking his teeth gently into the spot where your shoulder meets your neck. “All this for me?” 

Just at the sight of him?

He slides his hand further between your legs, groaning when he feels how soaked you are against his fingertips. 

“Haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he adds, voice rough, thumb circling lazily in a way that draws a quiver out of you.

“Steve,” you plead, your legs fall open wider, begging for more contact.  

It’s all he needs to hear.

“More?” He lowers his mouth to your collarbone, pressing a hot kiss there that makes you shiver. “You want more, baby? I’ll give you anything—just say it.”

“Want you inside me,” you manage, voice catching as your nails scrape lightly across his shoulders. “Please… been wanting for so long.”

Too long.

The words rip a ragged sound from his throat, a groan that vibrates against your skin. His mind swims with the idea of being inside you, everything else fading into white noise, but he resists—barely. 

He’s torn, wanting to give you exactly what you’re begging for, yet desperate to watch you fall apart on his fingers first. His free hand frames your jaw as he pulls back just enough to see your expression.

After everything, he needs you to feel nothing but pleasure tonight.

No pain, no doubt, just this.

Just him.

“I can take it,” you plead, arching your back and pressing your core more firmly into his hand. “Please.”

“I know you can,” he brushes his lips over your cheek, peppering kisses across your face. “I know,” he soothes, stroking deeper, harder, careful but utterly entranced by your every reaction. “Just a little longer, baby. You’re getting there—I can feel it.”

He’s single-minded, pouring everything into his movements—no teasing, no hesitation—just a relentless focus on pulling you apart, on making you soak his hand.

Every whine tells him he’s doing it right. Every breathless whimper is his reward.

Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel yourself coming close to the edge. He’s watching you intently, drinking in every flicker of bliss on your face. 

It’s enough to unravel whatever composure he has left, but he’s determined to see you through this first. His thumb finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside, coaxing a sudden cry from your lips.

“Let me have it,” he begs as you clench around his fingers. “Then you can have me, alright? I promise. Gonna take such good care of you, angel.”

That final push does it. Your body seizes up, shuddering around his fingers as your climax hits. A breathless moan tears out of your throat, your face tipped back against the pillow. He murmurs your name, transfixed at how you writhe beneath him. 

You cling to his wrist as the waves roll through you, and he eases you through it, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

He’s never seen anything so beautiful. It’s etched into his mind, this image of you, lips parted in bliss, your chest heaving with each ragged breath.

He barely has time to talk before you tug him into a fierce, urgent kiss, your lips parting under his as the aftershocks of your orgasm still tremble through you. He can feel it in the way your thighs quiver around him and the way you cling to his shoulders, desperately pulling him closer. 

You need him as badly as he needs you.

“Ready now,” you urgently murmured against his mouth. “Need you—now—please.”

It’s almost painful at this point, having him so close. 

“Okay,” he manages, voice husky. His hands slide to your hips, palms nearly trembling from how hard his heart is pounding. “Alright, sweetheart. You have me. Gonna give you what you want, yeah? Waited so long. Been so good for me—” 

You have. In more ways than one, offering him patience and reassurance even when he hardly deserved it. Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently, and you say two words that make his stomach twist. 

“Top drawer.”

He fumbles to reach over, pulling it open to find the box of condoms. He tears one packet open with shaking fingers, rolling it on before positioning himself over you again.

A groan spills from his chest as he drags the tip of his cock through your slick, letting himself feel just how soaked you are. His hips jerk involuntarily at the warm, wet pressure, a low rumble building in his throat. 

His past doesn’t exist in this moment—there’s only you, wrapping your legs tight around his waist, urging him closer. The sensation of your ankles locking behind his back sends a jolt of pure desire down his back.

His eyes flick up to yours as he presses in—slow, savouring every fraction of an inch. A tightness gathers at the base of his spine when he feels the snug heat of your pussy welcoming him. You draw a sharp breath, a little gasp that sets him on fire. 

He breathes hard, eyes squeezed shut as he basks in the electric bliss of being fully sheathed inside your walls. Every nerve in his body screams to move—to claim every inch of you and lose himself in the friction—but he holds himself still, chest heaving.

“Need you—” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Need you to move.”

He cups your face with one trembling hand, locking his gaze onto yours, the other hand planted by your head. 

“I will,” he assures you, voice wavering on the edge of control. “I will, I promise—shit, just—gimme a moment, yeah?”

You can feel it—the way he is barely holding on, the way his breath stutters against your skin. This is a lot for him.. 

He just needs a second to process it, to believe it.

Your grip slides up to cradle his head, guiding him to rest against your shoulder. 

“As long as you want,” you promise quietly, but you don't know how much longer you can take. His heart clenches at just how needy you sound for him.

He presses his forehead into your neck, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo and skin, before finally drawing back. The sensation of leaving your warm pussy and pressing back in again is everything he’s fantasised about—slow and unhurried, a deliberate, dragging friction that sends sparks dancing across his vision. A guttural moan tears from his throat at how good it feels, how perfectly you fit around him. 

Christ, this was so much more than he ever imagined.

The moment he starts moving again—slowly at first, then steadily building rhythm—it’s like he finally surrenders to everything he’s been holding back.

“Ah—shit,” he exhales, voice thick with need. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he grips your hips more firmly. “Feels so good—you—you feel so good.”

Your fingers weave through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. The action sends sparks skittering down his spine, and he can’t help the low, desperate moan that escapes him. 

He already knows he’s gone, lost in the pleasure, but hearing you—the way you gasp and whimper whenever he thrusts just a bit deeper—only pushes him further.

“Steve,” you murmur, voice trembling with need. You tug at his hair, urging him closer, and he leans over you, chest pressed to yours. The heat of your skin against his feels like the most intoxicating thing in the world.

“Keep doing that,” he pleads. “Just—just like that—” He punctuates the words with a hungry kiss to your throat, then angles his hips in a way that makes you cry out. “So perfect for me. So fucking perfect.”

He’s never felt this drunk on pleasure before—like every stroke, every shift of his body inside yours, is rewiring his brain. It’s all he can do not to lose himself immediately, but he needs to last, needs to give you everything you’ve waited for.

His mouth begins running in a constant string of half-choked praise and filth, fueled by the steady drive of his hips.

“You… oh, baby—look at you,” he gasps, forcing his eyes open to watch your face contort with bliss. “Wanted to see you like this, wanted it so bad. God, you’re—”

A fucking dream.

You whimper again, arching beneath him as he thrusts deeper. Your nails dig into his back, leaving faint crescents that he’ll cherish like badges of honour. 

Maybe if he fucks you good enough, you could leave your own marks, ones that he can look at with pride. 

The sting of pain only sharpens the pleasure as he drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged. 

“You feel—” he mumbles, voice disbelieving, like the words are just flowing out of him. at this point. “Like you were made for me—fuck, can feel you squeezing me—”

His hips stutter, then snap harder, like he’s trying to memorise this, make up for lost time.

“Jesus—so fucking stupid,” he groans, breathless. “Why did it take me this long? Why did I—when you—”

Your moan splinters into a soft sob of ecstasy, and that sound just unravels him further. His confidence surges, stoked by your every reaction. He slides one hand up from your waist to cradle the back of your head, gently tugging so he can devour your mouth. His kiss is open-mouthed, messy, all tongue and desperation.

“You like that?” he asks, voice laced with a giddy awe, as if he can hardly believe he’s the one pulling those sounds from you. “Tell me—tell me how good it feels.” His words spill out before he can check them, he needs to hear if you are as gone as he is.

“Feels… so good,” you manage, broken and breathless. “You’re so—God, Steve—deep.”

He laughs—he fucking laughs. 

Pure, unfiltered bliss bubbles up from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

This moment, you—it’s all he’s ever wanted. 

It’s fucking everything.

“Shit—you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He nips at your skin, pressing kiss after kiss along your throat. 

Now that he’s had a taste of what he’s been missing, he never wants to let it go. Never wants this moment to end.

Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him deeper. There’s no space between you now, just the heated glide of your bodies. Each time he withdraws, he can feel the trembling in your limbs as you cling to him, pulling him right back in. And each time he plunges forward, a fresh surge of desire knots low in his belly.

He changes angle, dipping one shoulder slightly. The new position has him hitting a spot that makes you cry out his name, and he’s undone by it—his pace falters for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of ecstasy washing through him.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, the word breaking apart as he punctuates it with a sharp thrust. His voice is wrecked now, spilling over with pure need as he rambles, barely thinking, just feeling. “All for me, yeah? Fuck—show me. Let me hear you.”

His grip tightens, his movements growing rougher, deeper—chasing your pleasure like it’s the only thing that matters. Like he’ll only believe this is real if he earns it from you, if he can wring it from your body, pull it from your lips.

“Please—don’t stop,” you whimper, needing to take all of him.

His breath stutters, jaw clenched, losing himself in the way you beg for him.

“Not gonna,” His voice is wrecked, thick with heat, his control fraying at the edges. “I’ll give it to you, baby—”

He’d give you everything. 

You nod frantically, hands sliding up to cup his face. Tears of pure bliss gather at the corners of your eyes, and he brushes them away with his thumb. He catches your lips in a sloppy, desperate kiss, tongue dipping into your mouth just as he drives his hips forward again in a relentless rhythm.

He watches your face, the way you bite your lip, your brows knitting as the pleasure builds again. His head spins because he’s the one doing this, bringing you right to the edge. Pride floods him, spurring him to keep going harder, deeper, until his thighs burn.

“Fuck, angel—gonna give you this whenever you want,” he can hardly believe the ragged edge to his own voice, how he’s speaking without filter, entirely guided by the euphoria coursing through him.

“Been so good for me—so fucking patient—” his words break apart with a shuddering gasp. “Not gonna make you wait ever again. You want this? You ask, alright? You fucking ask and it’s yours.”

You chase his mouth with yours, swallowing his words, your hands gripping the nape of his neck. He can’t tell whose breath is louder, whose heartbeat is pounding more fiercely. All he knows is that he’s dangerously close to the point of no return.

“That's it,” he coos, voice unsteady. “Let me see it again—you gonna show me?”

Your only reply is a shattered moan, your body tensing, then unraveling all at once as the pleasure crashes over you. Your walls clench tight around him, dragging a wrecked, guttural groan from his throat.

He thrusts again, pushing you both right to the edge and over, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Heat coils tight, then snaps, a white-hot pulse of pleasure ripping through you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Steve sees stars, fucking galaxies behind his eyelids as he loses himself completely. His hips stutter, his breath breaking against your skin as he buries himself deep, chasing the last aftershocks of your orgasm. He kisses you blindly, desperately, a hot, messy press of lips, as pleasure overtakes him—dragging him under, drowning him in you.

He lingers in the warm aftermath, breath coming in shallow pulses as he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls away. His stomach lurches unexpectedly, and here’s a moment where he worries the spell might break now that he’s not entwined with you. But the blissed out smile on your face is a balm, telling him everything he needs to know.

He slips out carefully, skin still slick with sweat, and settles beside you on the bed. The rush of air against his torso feels strange—he can’t remember the last time he let himself be this naked in front of anyone. He mostly feels…peaceful.

He turns to you, propping himself up on an elbow. 

“Hey, you with me?” He murmurs, voice a bit hoarse. “Was that…okay? I mean—I tried—” He trails off, cheeks flushing as if he’s embarrassed to be asking.

“Are you really asking me if that was okay?” You tilt your head, amused by his bashfulness.

“I just—” This is so lame, like a kid asking if he did a good job. “It’s been a while for me...” he admits, face reddening. “Wanted to make sure I did everything right.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, and you reach out to trace a line down his arm. 

“You did more than okay." You punctuate the word by pressing a light kiss to his jaw, feeling him exhale. "You were perfect.”

“Good,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. He presses his forehead to yours for a moment, savouring the closeness. “I—I wanted to make you feel good.”

Wanted to prove that he could. 

“Trust me, you did,” you say as you cup his cheek. “I’m probably gonna be thinking about this all day tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” His lips curl into a tentative smile. 

“Absolutely. And the next week, too.”

A boyish grin spreads over his face, some tension easing from his shoulders. He eases off the bed, carefully removing the condom and tying it off, a bit awkward as he stands there stark naked. He holds it, looking around for somewhere to toss it before deciding on the small trash bin near your dresser. 

Once it’s gone, he seems uncertain, his gaze shifting from his discarded clothes to you. He swallows, arms hovering at his sides.

“Um…” He gives a nervous laugh, cheeks stained pink again, unsure of what to do with himself. “I—sorry, I didn’t think this far ahead. Do I just…?”

God, he’s out of practise.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. 

“Here,” you say, rolling onto your side and reaching for the closest thing at hand—his boxer briefs. You toss them to him. “Start with these.”

He catches them with a shy nod, pulling them on quickly. He’s still conscious of his body, but for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urgent need to cover them immediately. When he glances back at you, you’re holding his jumper out, an inviting smile on your face.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, stepping closer to the bed. But then he hesitates. “Actually… um… I—I’m good.”

He’d rather not put it back on if he didn’t have to—this was a workout in itself, both mental and physical. And honestly? He liked the way you were looking at him.

Your gaze lingered, hungry but soft, the way girls used to look at him when he was younger. You liked what you saw. 

“You sure?” you tease, wiggling the material in your hand.

“Yeah,” he says simply. It’s a big thing for him to admit that he’s comfortable remaining bare-chested around you.

“In that case…” You slip the shirt on yourself, pulling it down over your body. It’s long enough to graze the bottom of your hips, and you can feel his eyes lingering on your legs. His warm gaze makes heat flood your cheeks.

“Looks better on you, anyway.” He laughs softly, that sweet, affectionate sound that never fails to tug at your heart. 

Crawling back onto the mattress, you pat the spot beside you, and he settles in, letting you snuggle up close against his side. Your hand drifts lightly over his chest, gliding over both smooth skin and the raised ridges. To you, there was no difference.

The two of you just lie there in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound present being the soft rustle of sheets. Eventually, you decide to break the hush. 

“So…” you start, voice soft but teasing, a playful glint in your tired eyes. “You’re saying I can have you whenever I want now?”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he nudges his nose against yours. 

“Within reason, sweetheart,” he smirks, but there’s nothing but warmth behind it.“But yeah,” he murmurs, tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. “Whenever you want.”

You lift your hand, brushing your fingers over one of his scars, tracing the mark with a gentle touch. He sucks in a breath, but his eyes stay on you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, letting your fingers linger. “I know this wasn’t easy.”

He huffs out a small, self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head. 

“You say that like it’s—I don’t know—like, it’s something groundbreaking.”

“Isn’t it?” You arch a brow. 

He hesitates, then exhales, running a hand through his already-messy hair. 

“I mean… it felt big,” he admits, voice lighter now, like he’s letting himself tease with you instead of retreating inward. “But, y’know… it’s just a shirt, at the end of the day.”

“Just a shirt?”

After everything, his casual dismissal shocks you—but you see it for what it is. 

Progress.

He’s crossed this bridge, left the fear behind. He’s looking forward. This is another obstacle he’s overcome, another weight lifted, he’s not letting it drag him back down.

He smirks, catching your thought process, and shifts beside you. 

“Okay, maybe a little more than that.” Then, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Only one other person’s seen me without a shirt in—damn—must be years now.”

That catches your attention. 

“Years?” You blink at him. 

“Yeah. And that was—” He winces slightly. “Well, I was in bad shape at the time, so not exactly a choice.”

Your heart tugs, but you don’t let the moment get too heavy. 

“So what you’re saying is you chose me?”

He groans, dropping his head against the pillow, but he’s smiling now, genuinely. 

“Jesus, you love making me say shit out loud, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, nudging him with your knee. “I do.”

He turns to face you more directly, his arm slipping beneath your neck, pulling you in close. 

“Well,” he murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. “If I was gonna do this with anyone… I’d want it to be you.” His fingers trace absentmindedly along your spine. "Feels right with you."

Another short silence blossoms, but this time it’s a cosy, intimate one. Eventually, he clears his throat. 

“So…maybe we should think about getting cleaned up?” He rubs at the back of his neck, a hint of bashfulness returning. “I’m kinda sweaty, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you respond, pressing a playful kiss to his arm. “You’re not the only one who’s all sticky. A shower sounds nice.”

He shifts, carefully easing off the bed. 

“You wanna come with?” There’s a boyish hope in his voice that makes you grin.

You stretch lazily, savouring the soft slide of his jumper against your skin, your eyes raking over him appreciatively.

“Mm, you go first,” you say, giving him a teasing smirk. “I might need a minute to recover from all that.”

He chuckles, a pink flush creeping up his neck. 

“Right… okay.” He stands up a bit straighter, seemingly buoyed by your banter. “Promise not to use up all the hot water.”

“Good luck,” you joke, arching a brow.

“I’ll try,” he fires back, a spark of mischief in his eyes. Then he leans down, planting a warm kiss on your lips. When he draws back, you catch a glimpse of that smile again. Pure elation.

A gentle hiss of water filters through the door. You can’t help but smile, thinking of how different things feel compared to this morning—so much tenderness in the air, so much more understanding.

Yet a nagging itch persists at the back of your mind.

You walk over to your chest of drawers, hand hovering for a second before pulling open the top. There, tucked under a few random receipts and spare pens, is the little notebook you began after he left you that morning. 

You retrieve it carefully, flipping the worn cover open to the page where you’d scrawled names and details he’d let slip in passing. Fragmented hints you’d gathered as though building a puzzle from mismatched pieces.

Now, after the night you’ve just shared, you have new pages of context to fill in. You let the pen hover above the paper, then jot down the fresh details. Every shaky mention, every half-finished explanation. 

You trust Steve—God, you do. But your anxiety over that horrifying scene a few nights ago weighs heavily on you. 

Never again.

Never want to see him that petrified or feel that helpless.

You pause to reread what you’ve written. A swirl of scribbles, question marks, underlined phrases. 

Starcourt, destroyed in a fire? 

1985.

Summer job.

Got too close.… nearly didn’t make it out?? 

The pen taps lightly on the page as you consider how these clues might fit together.

Your heart twists with guilt. You are unsure if this is a betrayal.

But then you recall the sheer terror in his eyes, the bruises on your own wrist, the way your chest had constricted with helplessness when he ran.

You need answers—not because you doubt him, but because you want to be prepared to care for him better, to protect him if you can.

You push the notebook back beneath the clutter, hiding it away. You straighten your posture, letting a slow exhale chase the tension from your lungs. Reaching for the stray clothes on the side of the bed, you toss them into the hamper. 

You do care about him—deeply. That care drives you now. 

No more blind-siding nightmares.

No more dark corners you’re unprepared for. 

Whatever he’s running from, whatever secrets linger, you’re determined to understand. Because ignorance, you’ve learned, doesn’t save anyone.

And you just hoped this was the safer option.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

i’m obsessed with your declan fics! can we get one where the reader has to calm him down? it would be even more fun if they were mad/annoyed at each other but he can’t help but seek her out when he needs comfort 👀

Paradoxical.

you currently can’t stand the sight of each other. and yet, in this moment… yours is the only face he wants to see.

declan o’hara x female reader (nickname - lucky.)

warnings - smut. cursing. angst. unspecified age gap. yeeeeeearning.

word count - 4.6k

authors note - she’s back 💋. loooved this request, so thank you so much to whoever sent it!! i’m still on my rivals shit, so please join me in this never ending journey. never getting over this man <3

masterlist. inbox.

“How are you doing?”

You snuggle further into the pillows on the bed, popping another strawberry in your mouth to avoid the question.

“Lucky.”

“Hmm?”

“I asked how you are.”

“M’fine,” you answer as you chew, praying the subject gets changed. She clearly doesn’t believe you, so you sigh and look at her pointedly. “I’m being serious. I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Taggie.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“What? No! I’d never think that.”

“Then why are you treating me like I’m oblivious? I can see that you’re not fine, but you keep lying to my face.”

Taking a deep breath, you exhale in resignation.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re caught in the middle of all of this, Tag.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. He’s your dad, I’m your friend. You are quite literally the middle man here.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she counters, perching on the edge of her bed. “If I have to be the peacekeeper, I will be.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“I know, but these things happen. I just… if I knew what had happened, I could try and fix it.”

“You can’t fix this, Tag. I promise you, you can’t.”

She’s quiet for a moment, tracing the patterns on your socks as she thinks.

“What happened, Lucky? I swear that whatever it is, I won’t judge you. I just want to know how it all went so… wrong. One minute the two of you were the best of friends, and the next minute you’re packing up your office and leaving without so much as an explanation.”

“It’s complicated,” you murmur.

“So complicated that you had to quit your job?”

“Yes.”

“He’s never going to find a better assistant than you, you know. Never. He doesn’t even want to look for one, says he’d rather do all the work himself.”

“Well that’s stupid of him. He can’t do all that stuff himself.”

“Exactly. He’s willing to put himself through all of that stress so as not to replace you.”

“That’s his foolish choice, Tag.”

She sighs in frustration, leaning back against the footboard of the bed.

“Did he upset you? Did he say something stupid? You know what he’s like, he often doesn’t think before he speaks. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation here.”

“It wasn’t him, it was me. I quit by my own volition. He didn’t upset me, he didn’t offend me… I just had to do the right thing, which was to leave. I know you’re trying to help, Tag, but you can’t. Not with this.”

Taggie finally realises that she’s fighting a losing battle, choosing instead to shuffle over so she’s all cosy in the pillows next to you.

“I won’t tell him you were here,” she whispers, bumping your shoulder with hers.

“Thank you. I’m sorry you’re caught up in the middle of all of this.”

“I don’t mind, honestly. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“Give it some time. It’s meant to heal all wounds, after all.”

She chuckles, resting her head against yours affectionately.

“Will you help me make some raspberry tarts? I need at least forty of them, and I could do with an extra pair of hands.”

“Of course I will. But if your dad comes home, I’m sprinting out the back door.”

“Alright,” she laughs, shaking her head. “I’ll help with your escape, if need be.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You’re tempted to smash your head into the bar top.

You’ve been debating the pros and cons of it for the last forty five minutes, actually.

The gala is bustling, bodies packed into the beautiful ballroom with barely an inch between them. Everyone has a drink in hand, the light from the chandelier glinting off of the champagne and whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

You’d said yes to the event when you were still Declan’s assistant - assuming that you’d go together, just like always. And now, here you are, standing on opposite ends of the room and avoiding each other like your lives depend on it.

A cool hand finds your waist, spiced aftershave hitting your senses and letting you know who it is before they even have to speak.

“Hello, darling.”

“Hi, Rupert.”

He spins you around gracefully, smiling at you with a twinkle in his eye.

“You look ravishing, as always.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself, you know. You scrub up quite nicely.”

“Oh stop, I’ll start blushing.”

You can’t help but laugh, accepting his arm as he offers it out to you.

“Come on darling, let’s socialise a bit. You can’t stand in the corner forever.”

“I can.”

“Not on my watch.”

He’s dragging you across the floor before you can process what’s happening, people passing by you in blurs of colour and sparkles.

“Dance with me.”

“Is this fun for you? Torturing me?”

“Oh, immensely,” he grins, hands finding your hips.

You reluctantly wrap your arms around his neck, looking at him with a quirked brow.

“Don’t you have a thousand other women you could be dancing with, Rupert?”

He spins you playfully, laughing as you shriek.

“I do, but none of them are nearly as beautiful as you.”

“Oh god,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Does that line usually work?”

“Never on women as smart as you,” he chuckles, swaying you gently.

You stare at him carefully for a moment, realising you know him too well when you instantly see through his carefree facade.

“Ask it, then.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that’s what this is. You’re going to get me all soft and relaxed and tipsy, and then you’ll ask me about Declan. You might as well just cut to the chase, Rupert.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re much too intelligent to think that I believe that.”

His eyes don’t leave yours as he tilts his head, getting a good look at you and your unwavering expression.

“Fine, you stubborn woman. Fine. I wanted to ask you about Declan at some point tonight. But only from a place of care and concern, not because I’m going to try to wrangle the two of you back together or anything.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

“Forgive me for being confused, alright? You were joined at the hip, and all of a sudden you can’t stand the sight of each other. It’s just so unlike the two of you.”

You sigh deeply, dropping your head forward so it rests on his chest. Rupert’s arms tighten around you, silently letting you know he’s got your back.

“It’s complicated,” you explain, muffled by the material of the man’s shirt. “Stupidly complicated.”

“So complicated that it can never, ever be repaired? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Blimey,” he half gasps, the sound vibrating through the both of you. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day, you bastard.”

Rupert laughs so loudly that people turn their heads to see why, the cadence of it completely infectious. Declan watches from across the room, unable to help himself from at least glancing at the two of you together so cosily.

“He’s currently watching you like some sort of bird of prey,” he informs, tilting your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes. “Whatever it was that happened, it hasn’t erased the fact that he cares about you. A lot. And I know for a fact you care about him.”

“Of course I do.”

“There we go then. Surely it’s nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of good old fashioned communication.”

“You’re a terrible communicator,” you argue.

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head as you both sway to the music once again.

“If I had a pound for every time that applied to you, Rupert, I’d be a fucking millionaire.”

He twirls you outwards quickly, watching as the skirt of your dress billows with the breeze of the action.

“And if I had a pound for every time Declan has pretended to stare interestedly around the room this evening just so he has an excuse to look at you, I’d be a millionaire too.”

You ignore the way your heartbeat picks up at his words, choosing instead to focus on the steady rhythm of the music from the piano that fills the space.

“Maybe he’s looking at you.”

“No, Lucky. He’s always looking at you.”

You sigh in resignation, fingers fiddling with Rupert’s collar as you straighten out his tie.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to respond to that.”

“You’re practically his right arm. This separation, whatever its cause, is doing both of you more harm than good. I don’t want to push you darling, because that isn’t fair - but just think about everything I’ve said, alright?”

He stares at you expectantly, brows raised in questioning.

“Alright.”

The grin on his face is almost blinding, beaming out in all directions.

“Now, you look too beautiful to stand on the fringes. I will dance with you all night if I have to, if it means showing off this stunning dress of yours.”

“So charming,” you smile, shaking your head. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse, isn’t it?”

“You’d be stupid to,” he winks, still grinning like the devil.

You let him lead you further into the middle of the dance floor, chuckling as he spins you as you go. Your hand has just slipped into Rupert’s once more when you’re both startled by a crash coming from the other side of the room.

The two of you whip your heads around towards the source of the commotion, to see two men in undoubtedly expensive suits brawling with each other. One of them is throwing punches while the other can do nothing but take them, merciless at his opponents hands. Some people are shouting and screaming, trying to physically separate them, while others turn a complete blind eye to the ruckus.

“Fuck,” Rupert mutters, grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the scene.

You’re about to ask what the hell he’s doing when you’re pushed forwards and given a clearer view of what’s in front of you, understanding Rupert’s panic immediately.

Ginger is on the floor. Declan is standing above him with bloody knuckles.

“Fuck,” you repeat.

You want to run in the other direction, desperate to not be involved with the drama. And then you look at Declan - the way he’s falling apart at the seams, nerves ruined and adrenaline rushing through his veins, clearly on the edge of something awful… and all of a sudden you’re walking towards the brawl, logic be damned.

There’s so much noise surrounding you that you can’t hear yourself think. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding against your ribcage in your sudden determination to get to the Irishman.

You’re yelling his name without even realising you’re doing it, shouting at the top of your lungs to fight over the commotion.

“Declan! Oh for fuck sake… Declan!”

Your voice somehow breaks through the noise like a sirens call, the familiar melody of it finding his ears like his favourite song. His eyes finally meet yours, and the rest of the room melts away.

You have a conversation without saying anything, so many words exchanged in such a short amount of time. The two of you have always been good at this - communicating in your own language, silently and easily.

You grab his injured hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling him away from the scene of the crime with determination. You cast a look back to Ginger, who remains on the floor with blood dripping from his nose, before dragging Declan through the crowd and towards the front door of the huge Manor House. You can hear Rupert trying to mitigate the situation as you leave, using his charm as he does best.

You make your way outside, yanking the man behind you in your path without so much of a glance backwards. You trudge through the gardens in your heels, ignoring the way the dewy grass brushes across the tops of your feet occasionally. Finally, after walking for what feels like hours but was actually mere minutes, you come across a bench, sheltered by an old stone wall and neatly trimmed hedges.

You shove him to sit down, still refusing to look him in the eye. Neither of you say anything, the evening breeze and two sets of lungs heaving all that can be heard.

“What happened?” you whisper eventually, reluctant to disturb the peace. “Who started it?”

Declan looks surprised that you’re speaking to him, failing to hide the shock on his face.

“Will ya sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re not the boss of me anymore, remember?” you half joke, sitting down anyway.

“Funny,” he says, completely deadpan. He looks at you carefully for a long moment, before continuing. “It was Ginger, obviously. I wouldn’t waste my time with him otherwise.”

“What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me.”

“Well it shouldn’t.”

“Right.”

You stare at your shoes, wondering why you even bothered to rescue him back in the ballroom.

“Fuck this, then,” you mutter as you stand up to leave.

A hand wraps around your wrist as quick as a flash, pulling you back to sit down where you were.

“No. You don’t get to just walk away from me, not again.”

“Tell me what Ginger said.”

“Tell me why you quit workin’ for me.”

“I already did.”

“Liar. You gave me a poor excuse that’s absolute bollocks. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“That’s your problem, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

You stare at him, completely exasperated by the events of the last hour.

“You can’t just punch people at galas, Declan. It’s a bad look for you, for Venturer, and for every member of staff that relies on you.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

He scrubs his hand over his face, clearly frustrated with both you and the situation at hand.

“He made some horrible comment about you. I fell right into his trap too, like a bull and a fuckin’ red scarf.”

“What did he say?”

He hesitates for a moment.

“Just… something crude about you sleepin’ with me to get to where you are. Called me a cradle snatcher, too.”

“You can’t be a cradle snatcher if I’m a grown woman.”

“Exactly. And it’s not true, anyway. We all know that.”

“So why did you hit him, then? If we all know it’s not true?”

Declan sighs, fatigue painting the sound.

“Because no one gets to speak about you like that with no consequence. And because I was angry.”

“At me.”

“At you. Yes.”

You fiddle with your fingers, entirely unprepared for the fact that you’re about to have the one conversation you’ve been completely avoiding.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” you begin. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”

“Then what did you mean to happen, Lucky? Did you think that you could just up and quit with absolutely no warning, without a problem? That I’d just let you walk out? Did ya think I’d help you pack your things?”

“Obviously not,” you whisper. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not. Which is why I know that you thought about that decision long and hard. And that’s what I can’t seem to wrap my head around.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

He looks at you with pleading eyes, clearly desperate to resolve the issues between you.

“Please, Lucky.”

His voice is cracking just like his heart, breaking down the middle to allow all of his emotions to spill out onto the grass. You’ve never heard him sound like this. You hate it.

“I had to, Declan. For both of our sakes.”

“For fuck sake, can you cut it out?” he snaps, volume raising.

“Cut what out?”

“Speaking in these fucking riddles! I can’t even pretend that I have any idea what you’re talkin’ about. Please, whatever it is, however terrible you think it is… I just need you to say it. We’ll deal with the consequences. But I can’t keep goin’ around in circles, dancing around the subject constantly.”

You take a deep breath, bottom lip wobbling as you will yourself not to cry. You’re well and truly at the end of your tether, unsure of how much more you can take - or how much you want to. Deciding to throw caution into the wind, you exhale carefully before turning to face the man next to you.

“You’ll hate me. When I tell you.”

“I could never hate you. Never, Lucky.”

You get lost in your own head for a moment, staring off into space as you debate the best way to go about this. A large hand finds its way into your knee, comforting and grounding. His thumb rubs patterns into your skin where the slit of your dress is, warming you up from the outside in.

“I thought about it for a long time,” you begin. “A long time. Because being your assistant is the best job I have ever had, or will ever have. It was a dream, Declan. Even when we had a tough day, or week, or month, I always knew we’d be okay.”

He nods, his full attention on you.

“We were comfortable, me and you. Maybe a little too comfortable for a boss and his assistant, but in a good way, I think. I was settled, with you.”

He squeezes your thigh, urging you to continue.

“But then, I think we got too settled. People started to notice - which doesn’t matter, but they did nonetheless. I was sleeping over at your house, staying awake with you until the early hours, attending galas and events as your date. And I wasn’t sure what it was - the thing that was bothering me - until one day, it clicked.”

“Lucky…” he whispers, desperate for you to spit it out.

“I’m in love with you.”

The two of you sit the silence for a moment, listening to the breeze softly whip around you.

“That’s what clicked. And that’s why I quit. Because it felt like a conflict of interest, like a… betrayal.”

“A betrayal?”

“Yes. Like I was taking advantage, or something. And I didn’t think it was fair, for you, having me pining over you at work. I didn’t want you to feel pity for me, if you noticed eventually - I hated the idea of being treated differently by you, all through fault of my own. So I quit to get ahead of it.”

“Are ya done?”

“I, uh… yes?”

“Great.”

Declan surges forward, smashing his lips to yours with the most passion than you’ve ever experienced in your life. One of his hands tangles in your hair as the other cradles your face, pulling you as close as he physically can. His tongue slips into your mouth cheekily, allowing you to taste whiskey, cigarettes and the cool night air. Eventually, when you both need to breathe, he pulls away reluctantly, resting his forehead on yours.

“Did you do that to make me shut up?” you murmur, fighting to keep the smile off your face.

“Yes and no.”

He’s grinning like the devil, chuckling as the palms of his hands find your cheeks.

“Yes and no?”

“Yes and no. I took the action needed to stop you rambling. But I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“… What?”

“Why do you think we got so comfortable, Lucky? It works two ways. You were just the only one brave enough to make a change - even if it was the completely wrong thing to do.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“The opposite,” he laughs. “I can’t remember when it happened. I woke up one day and I just knew. And I knew that you’d never feel the same way, but I love being around you so much that I was willing to make that sacrifice. So I was a coward, and I stayed silent.”

“We’ve made this complicated. Too complicated.”

“Much too complicated.”

“But… it is. You were my boss, and you’re older than me, and I’m good friends with Taggie now, and-”

Declan kisses you again, sweeter this time.

“We can figure it out, Lucky. You know we can.”

“Maybe,” you whisper.

“And I want you to come back to work.”

“Declan-”

“I’m serious. I cannot cope without you. I will never find an assistant as good as you, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. I want you. No one else.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a conflict of interest, like I said earlier.”

“But it isn’t. Not anymore. Before all of this, we were two people in love working together. And when you come back, we’ll be two people in love working together.”

You can’t find it in you to argue, realising that he’s actually making a good point. If anything, it should be easier now that you’ve both communicated your feelings - no more skeletons in the closet.

“Tell me you don’t miss it,” he provokes. “Tell me you’re not even remotely tempted to come back.”

“I can’t.”

“Exactly.”

You take a deep breath, moving the hair away from his eyes tenderly.

“I’ll think about it, alright? I’ll have a think when I go home.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He smiles like the cat that’s got the cream, entirely too satisfied with the outcome of this conversation.

“I know we’re in uncharted territory here, Lucky. But we can figure it out. You know we can.”

“I know. It’ll be hard, but… I know.”

You lean up to kiss him softly, sighing as your eyes drift closed. He winds a hand around the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as he pulls you closer, trying to plaster every inch of his body to yours.

You lose yourself in everything Declan - the way he tastes, the way he smells, the way he feels underneath your fingertips. You want to strip him bare right here and memorise every curve of his muscles, every line in his skin, every mark on his face.

His hand slips further and further up the slit of your dress, gripping at your thigh as if he’s worried you’ll slip away. You’re half in his lap, draped over him on the bench as he still pulls you impossibly closer.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he whispers against your throat. “Every. Single. Night.”

He kisses his way along your neck, revelling in the way you squirm at the feeling of his moustache on your skin. You grab fistfuls of his white shirt, crumpling it in your hands to try and give yourself some sort of anchor.

When Declan’s fingertips slip into your underwear, all you can do is sigh, resigned to the fact that you’d let him do absolutely anything he wanted in this current moment.

“We’re in public,” you protest weakly, both of you knowing you don’t want him to stop.

“We’re at the bottom of the garden, surrounded by three hedges and a wall. If anyone sees, that’s their fault.”

You drop your head forward onto his shoulder, parting your legs to give him a better angle. He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels just how aroused you are, practically vibrating with want.

“Are ya this wet f’me?”

You nod against his shirt, not trusting your voice.

“Oh, sweetheart. Well I can’t leave you like this, can I? That’d be cruel.”

He pulls your underwear to the side fully so he can slip a finger into you with ease, both of you groaning at the sensation. Sliding a second one in, you hold onto him for dear life, panting like you’ve run a marathon.

“Please,” you whisper. “Declan, please.”

“I’ll do anything to hear you say my name like that again, Lucky. Anything in the world.”

“Declan.”

He sets a steady pace, crooking his fingers as he goes to make sure you see stars. Your eyes are rolling back, lip caught between your teeth to stifle any sounds that threaten to escape.

“God, I wish I could hear how pretty you sound,” he groans, looking at you intently. “You can make as much noise as you want when I take you home. Promise.”

You whimper softly, bucking your hips up to meet his rhythm. The bench is cold underneath you, the air turning chilly, but neither of you pay any mind to it. You’re too far gone to care.

You grab Declan’s other hand and stick two of his fingers in your mouth, laving your tongue around them to keep you quiet. He moans at the sight, all deep and rumbled, the sound reverberating through both of you.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

All you can do is look at him with big, bright eyes, pleading with him silently to finish the job at hand.

“You want me to make you come, sweetheart? That it?”

When you nod, he picks up the pace of his fingers, thumb pressing circles into your clit.

“Have ya thought about this? In bed, alone, getting yourself off in the dark?”

You whine at his words, nodding your head in answer.

“That’s a good girl. Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me and I’ll take you home and fuck you properly, yeah?”

You see stars as you climax, gripping onto his shirt and his hand for dear life. He works you through it, murmuring filthy promises into your ear as he does it.

Lifting his fingers from between your thighs, he pops them straight into his mouth, both of you groaning in unison.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs against your lips, leaning in to kiss you softly. “Perfect girl.”

You shuffle sideways so you’re pressed into Declan’s side, two strong arms encircling you immediately.

“Thank you.”

“For the orgasm?”

“Yes and no,” you laugh. “For listening to me. I’ve been going insane trying to think about what I’d say to you if I got the chance to explain myself, but no words seemed to suffice.”

“I just wish you’d talked to me sooner, sweetheart. I’ve been going insane trying to get through life without you. Not to mention that office is chaos.”

You laugh gently, cuddling into him and his warmth.

“I’ll fix it on Monday.”

“Yeah? For definite?” he asks, hope colouring his voice.

“Yeah. Like I said - best job I’ve ever had.”

“You’ve just made me the happiest man alive, sweetheart.”

You grin as you lean in to press a kiss to his lips, all soft and sugary sweet.

“Besides. Someone’s going to have to sort out the inevitable mess that’ll follow you hitting Ginger at a charity gala.”

“Ah, I forgot about that,” he laughs, planting a kiss into your hair. “What would I do without ya, hmm?”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you smile, resting your head onto his shoulder. “Never again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You sit on the bench for a little while longer, both of you looking up at the stars that paint the sky in a canopy above your heads. You’re quite convinced you could stay like this forever, just the two of you in your own little universe.

There’s paperwork to be done, meetings to be had, deals to be made. But all of that can wait.

Right now, it’s just you and Declan.

The way it should be.

reblogs are gold dust, lovers!! reblog and circulate your favourite fics, and your writers will create more. simple. <3

[chrattho1]

your number.

one shot:-

summary: you and chris meet at a wedding,but your second interaction is not much like your first.

warnings: unprotected sex (nuh uh dont do that),p in v,smut,idk what else to add

a/n: do not copy my work,use it as inspiration idm,english is not my first language.

“you’re the groom’s sister right?” asked chris,to whom you were introduced to just about a minute ago.

“yeah,also one of the bridesmades” you nodded

“i noticed the dress code-that dress really looks good on you by the way” chris compliments awkwardly,not knowing what to say especially when he found you so breathtakingly beautiful.

“thank you! i will see you around after the ceremony?” you ask

“yeah-definitely” chris replies

you’re currently in the bathroom after the ceremony,wiping off tears and fixing your makeup when the door creaks open

“fuck-i must’ve walked into the wrong bathroom sorry” you watched as chris was stepping out immediately

“its a general bathroom stupid” you let a chuckle through your teeth.

“oh” chris pressed his lips together before walking in.

“you okay?” he comes closer to you,now standing in front of the mirror with you.

“yeah just a little overwhelmed” you smile at him.

“you know you’re the prettiest girl at this wedding” chris whispers out of nowhere,you let out a scoff.

“i am sure there are prettier girls here chris”

“no but you dont get it-the way this dress fits you,the way it makes your ass look so fucking delectable in it” chris lets out a small breath,kind of afraid of what you might reply with.

“yeah? and what else do you think makes me so pretty?” you look straight into chris’ eyes,making him harder than before (he has been bricked since he shook hands with you) chris’ breath hitched before he could answer the question.

“fuck-your tits-your fucking tits oh my god” chris groans before completing his sentence.

“looked so perfect when you were dancing” chris got closer to your face,both of you can feel each others breaths on your faces.

“fuck it” you said before smashing your lips onto his,both of your mouths tasting like the champagne being served at the wedding,your lips moving fast enough for chris to catch up smoothly,hungry for something more.

chris groans into the kiss,because this was better than he imagined and trust him-this is all he has been thinking of since he walked into this wedding.

your hand swiftly goes over to the lock on the bathroom door,clicking it and locking the both of you without breaking the kiss,chris felt your action take place and was quick to react. he pulled you up by your thighs and placed you on the bathroom counter effortlessly. a whimper leaving your mouth.

chris wasted no time and found your lips again,his hands roaming all over your body with desperation,over the silk dress you’ve worn. your hands drop from his hair to the straps of your dress,pulling each down with no efforts.

chris’ hands were all over your tits,and once the straps were off he could see that it would be easy to get them out of the dress you’ve worn.

“can i?” chris pulls away and asks tugging the neckline of your dress,you nod hastily between breaths .chris pulls the neckline enough for your tits to pop out on their own.

“fuck” chris groans before he leans down to kiss you all over your neck and eventually reaching to one of your nipples. your head thrown back,eyes fluttering,and the ache between your thighs becoming harder to bare with each one of his actions.

you pull on the tie wrapped around chris’ neck and bring him to your face “now fuck me” you speak,feeling impatient than ever.

chris could cum at your words and the way you said them,but he held his calm before wrapping one arm around your waist and putting you down from the counter and swiftly turning you around.

your ass in the air,just right at his dick level. he rolled your dress up to your abdomen now looking at your baby pink laced panties-soaked. a grin forms on his face and he looks up to the mirror to see your face in it,bent down,eyebrows knit.

he quickly unbuckled his belt and dropped down his pants and boxers,his tip leaking pre cum. he puts two of his fingers on the wet patch on your panties slowly circling around till he figured out where your clit is.

“chr—is” you whimper loudly,hinting that you are done with the teasing. he pulls your panties down and watches how your pussy drips in front of his sight-again he might cum just by the visuals alone.

“i dont have a condom” chris spoke looking at your through the mirror.

“im on the pill,just cum in me” you look up at him in the mirror. your words do something to him,he cannot wait to fill you up.

he slaps his dick on your pussy a few times making both of your groan- before parting your folds with his fingers and and slowly aligning his tip with your entrance.

he slowly and patiently went all in,till his dick disappeared in your pussy. “oh-fuck-oh—” you moan out loud,eyes shut because of how big he is.

chris slowly starts moving “god-fuck so good-” chris eyes roll back as he feels you wrapped around his dick. a series of sounds start to leave your mouth and makes chris look at you through the mirror. your hair messy,makeup ruined,tits out,whimpering.

“fuck you look so fucking hot i—” chris spoke between heavy breaths as he thrusts into you. his words only making the sounds you make louder. he increases his speed and also starts thrusting harder,the sound of skin slapping almost pornographic.

with each thrust he hit that one spot that made your toes curl. “fuck-chris you’re so big” you spoke

chris’ head snaps from your ass to the mirror,looking at you wide eyed now,his dick twitching inside of you,his thrust’ getting faster and deeper

“yea-? oh-” he spoke looking at you,to which you try to nodded with how much how your body was shaking with chris’ thrusts.

“you take—me so well-ah” chris tried speaking feeling his orgasm coming closer with each thrust

“fuck fuck-chris im cumming fuck-oh my god fuck fu——-” the last swear becoming a screech as you crash down with your orgasm. your back arched,ass all up in chris’ dick,you’re shaking under his body.

for chris-he had been holding it in, waiting for you to finish first and just as you finished,and put your ass all up in him he couldn’t hold it in any longer

“oh my go-oh-oh” he came,thrusting in you a couple more times to make sure his cum is all in there.

he crashes down,his face laid on your ass,eyes closed quite literally in heaven.

you turn yourself around,chris not leaving his grip on you so now he is hugging your waist. you bring your hand down to ruffle his hair.

chris looks up at you with his fucked out face,

“give me your number right now” you chuckle at his words nodding.

[eufezco]

TOLERATE IT 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

oldman!logan x fem!reader

synopsis – the struggles with the growing distance between you and logan and holding on to a man who has already let go.

a/n – kinda inspired by tolerate it by taylor swift.

angst.

logan was late again, though you’d stopped watching the clock weeks ago. time became meaningless when each hour felt like a reminder of how far apart the two of you had grown. he was late and you thought you preferred it this way, because when he was home, it was worse.

when he was home, he didn’t look at you, like you weren’t even there. he didn’t talk to you, offering only brief replies or silence. the man who once made you feel seen, known, and loved was now a shadow. at least when he was gone, you didn’t have to feel the sting of being invisible in your own home.

the sound of the front door opening startled you from your thoughts.

you'd been cooking dinner for him, if you stayed busy, maybe you could ignore the ache in your chest, the endless questions you no longer dared to ask. his heavy steps echoed down the hall, the unmistakable smell of alcohol followed him into the room like an unwelcome guest.

you turned toward the hall, his eyes, bloodshot, avoided yours.

—hey, —you said softly, your voice tentative.

he didn’t answer, just grunted as he moved past you and toward the chair where he always dropped his jacket.

—i've cooked you dinner, —you tried again, forcing a smile.

—not hungry.

the smile disapeared , your lips trembling slightly as you looked at him. —logan, you’ve barely eaten anything lately, —you said, your voice quieter.

—i said i’m not hungry, —he repeated, the irritation in his voice unmistakable. he didn’t even turn to face you, his focus already on loosening his tie.

you stood there for a moment, clutching the edge of the plate, so hard that you thought it would break under your fingers. the meal you’d poured so much effort into, the carefully laid table—it all felt pointless, like shouting into a void. you opened your mouth to respond, to say anything but your eyes caught on the smudge of red on the collar of his shirt. the words died on your lips, and your stomach twisted as realization hit. lipstick.

—logan? —you said, barely above a whisper.

he followed your line of sight, his expression hardening when he saw what had caught your attention. —don’t start, —he said, his voice low and warning.

—don’t start? —you repeated in disbelief. —logan, there’s lipstick on your collar. you—

—i don’t want to do this right now, —he interrupted, his voice rising slightly, frustration etched into every word.

—but... —you tried again. then you noticed how his hair was more disheveled than usual, how some buttons on his shirt were undone. ever since things started to go wrong with logan, you always had a sneaking suspicion that he was seeing other women. most of the times you didn't say anything, not because you didn’t care, but because the thought of confronting him felt more terrifying than the suspicion itself. you had convinced yourself that if this was the price you had to pay to keep him by your side, you would pay it.

but when you confronted him, he’d deny it—nothing was going on. you wanted to believe him, you tried to believe him. but you knew that something was off. there were things you couldn’t ignore and that he didn't care enough to hide, like the way he would smell different when he came home some nights—like someone else’s perfume clung to his shirt.

—i came from work fucking tired and you are trying to start a fight! these things—these things you do are what makes it so goddamn exhausting to be near you.

you didn’t just drop the plate on the floor, you smashed it. the plate carefully prepared, a gesture of love but now, just like everything else, it was broken beyond repair. without thinking, you stepped forward, closing the space between you and him, your breath coming hard and fast, your fist tight with anger.

his expression was unreadable at first, a flicker of annoyance clouding his features, but beneath it, there was something else—something like intrigue, as if he was daring you to keep going, to show him just how much he had hurt you. your pressed your finger against his chest, steady and defying.

—you don’t deserve a fucking thing I gave you, —you spat, your voice laced with fury that you had been keeping to yourself for far too long. his lips parted as if to say something, but you didn’t give him the chance. —what a shame that this mutation of yours is taking so long to kill you and that i have to be the one to suffer all the shit you are rotting in.

silence settled between you after those words. for a few seconds, you both just stood there, locked in each other’s gaze. his eyes were hard, unreadable, and you couldn't see anything shifting. no sign of regret, no sign of guilt.

—are you done? —he said finally, his tone flat, almost bored, as if your pain was just another inconvenience in his already exhausting day.

you made your way to the bedroom. as you passed him, you bumped your shoulder against his and logan closed his eyes and shook his head. you didn't let the tears fall from your eyes just yet. you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

you collapsed in your shared bed. the sheets smelled faintly of him, even though it had been weeks since the last time he slept there, a cruel reminder of the distance between you. the sobs broke free, quiet and muffled at first, but then louder.

and he heard you from the living room.

you knew he did and you waited, even as your tears soaked the pillow, hoping—praying—that you’d hear the sound of his footsteps approaching. that he’d walk through the door, sit on the edge of the bed, and pull you into his arms like he used to. that he’d say something—anything—to let you know he still cared, still saw you.

but he didn't come.

instead, you heard the clink of his whiskey glass, the quiet sound of him trying to drown out the reality with alcohol. his attempts to ignore the sound of your sobs failed. but still, logan didn’t move.

the tears eventually took over and you fell asleep.

logan picked up the shattered pieces of the plate from the floor and then went into your room. you felt his arm slide across your back, pulling you closer to him, the warmth of his skin too familiar, too intimate, but it felt wrong now, like a cruel mockery of what it used to be. you whined and tried to push his arm away, your body tensed, trying not to surrender to the moment, and shook, trying to make it clear that you didn’t want him to touch you.

—don’t, —you muttered, still half asleep. —don’t touch me.

yet he could feel how it instinctively molded to his. your body remembered him, the way you used to fit together.

—quit it, —logan said, his voice low and rough. his arm tightened around you, firmly, to keep you from pulling away. then, just as quickly, his hold softened, arms relaxing as they hugged you.

he stayed there all night, his arm around you, holding you close in a way that felt almost natural. for the first time in what felt like forever, his breathing steadied, the weight of exhaustion pulling him into a deep sleep. you relaxed into his embrace but when you woke up the next morning, the bed felt cold. you turned, reaching out instinctively and the space where he had been was empty.

he was gone. but it wasn't surprising, not really. you should've known that he wouldn’t stay. he had always been a man who left—left conversations unfinished, left wounds unhealed, left you in pieces. what was truly surprising, more than his absence now, was the fact that he had been ever there at all.

[foxesscramble]

(Some of) the Foxes doing the WIRED Autocomplete Interview

Question: What is Neil Josten's real name

NJ: Neil Josten.

Question: What is Neil Josten exy position

NJ: I'm a starting striker.

Question: What is Neil Josten family tree

NJ: Small.

Question: Neil Josten’s sassiest moments compilation

NJ: That's not a question. Andrew has a lot of those videos saved on TikTok.

Question: Neil Josten best plays

NJ: I think you mean plays best but yes.

Question: What is Kevin Day's dominant hand

KD: I used to be left-handed but now I’m right-handed. A bit ambidextrous but mostly right for right now.

Question: Kevin Day ski accident

KD: Boring, next.

Question: Kevin Day and Theo Muldani

KD: Yes.

Question: What happened to Kevin Day’s hand

KD: It got smashed.

Question: What happened between Kevin Day Neil Josten Jean Moreau

KD: A lot, but that will be staying between the three of us.

Question: Who is Matt Boyd dating

MB: Only the most beautiful powerful goddess of a woman, Dan Wilds. Love of my life. Fantastic woman.

Question: What team does Matt Boyd play for

MB: Right now I am in the middle of a transfer which is public knowledge so I cannot actually answer that but I can say I am trying out for the US Court in the future.

Question: Matt Boyd being in love with Neil Josten for 7 minutes and 23 seconds

MB: This is so real. Not a question but I feel like I’m probably the reason it’s so high on the list. I’ve reposted the video on my socials and it’s also got its own bookmarked tab on my computer. We’re soulmates. Dan agrees. I’m sure Andrew will come around to accepting the fact sometime soon. I just love him. He’s so cute, just like a kitten.

Question: What are Matt Boyd’s exy stats

MB: You’ll have to ask Kevin. I should probably know them but you've asked me and now I can't think.

Question: Who is Matt Boyd’s best friend

MB: Without a doubt, Neil Josten. I would say Dan but she’s the love of my life and we share custody of Neil so it’s definitely him.

Pt. 2 》 Renee Walker, Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick

Pt. 3 》 Allison Reynolds, Dan Wilds, Aaron Minyard

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ perv!bsf!rafe & his infatuation for his best friend.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. blurb, not fanfic. rafe being a pervert, mentions of t*pper and k*lce, descriptive scenes of smut & fantasies, naive reader

cherie's note — the things i would do... omg. <3

everyone else had already caught on to the way rafe felt about you, i mean, anybody with eyes could see it. your pervy best friend rafe had grown quite an obsession with you for nearly a year now. poor stupid girl, of course you hadn’t caught onto the fact he had eyes for you. nobody else’d say it out loud though, scared rafe’d smash their face in for even bringing it up.

naturally, he wasn’t good with his emotions — with vulnerability. we all know this, that man has some serious temper problems, not even mentioning the obvious daddy issues at play either. but it was different with you. he’d known you so long that it just came natural.

i mean, god. it’s like you two were already dating, the way he’d be there for each of your demands, buying you anything you wanted, and going out of his way for you. the bottom of his stomach twisted each time someone’d bring up the rumour about you two dating — and he definitely wouldn’t shut it down either, claiming he ‘didn’t know’ when you’d ask him about it — too naive and manipulated to question the severity of the truth behind his shrugged off lie, of course. why would your best friend lie to you?

he’d absolutely lose his shit when he finds out you were still a virgin. drunkenly confessed one night after the both of you had managed to drink an entire bottle from his father’s wine collection, it had opened up a whole new world of never ending fantasies for him, wondering how it was even possible you were still completely innocent and practically untainted.

and with that confession, came the thoughts. rafe’d thought nearly hundreds of times about how he’d absolutely love to be the one to wreck that tight virgin pussy — i mean, you practically owed it to him at this point. without his help, you’d probably still not have had your first kiss. it was on his mind for an entire week straight after you’d told him, finding himself pumping his fat cock within his palm, imagining how it’d feel if it was your wet cunt instead of his hand. it was definitely wrong of him, you were his best friend after all, but that definitely didn’t stop the thoughts from reoccurring.

poor guy wants to fuck you so badly. he’d have to conceal the bulge within his pants any time he’d be around you, thoughts of bending you over and having you drip onto his cock swirling within his troubled mind instantly. he’d do anything, just to feel the soft skin of your ass as you needingly grinded against him.

getting you high was his favourite thing ever — the way you’d practically spew out confessions about how you’d never properly made yourself cum, and about all the things you desperately wanted to try. he’d memorized it all (and definitely jerked off over it a few times but we won’t mention that) he wanted to be the one to take care of you, have your body trembling after ripping three or four orgasms out of your poor pussy, he could only imagine the sweet sounds that’d escape your mouth each time his fingers’d skim against your g-spot, jeez.

ward adored you. you’d come from a good family, and he knew how good of a person you were, especially when it came to rafe. ‘better make a move on her before someone else does’ he’d tell his son, and rafe knew he was right too. you’d be the perfect girlfriend for him, and an even better wife. he’d love nothing more than to fill your sweet cunt full of his fertile seed, impregnating you with his baby. you’d look so cute, all swollen and round after he’d bred you. he needed to have you.

he’d scare off any guy that approached you, making it known you were off limits, and he was willing to do ungodly things in order to have you stay single for him. it’d break his heart, otherwise. he was your best friend, and he was protecting you, right? pretty baby couldn’t handle it all by herself, he thought.

god, he was so whipped. sometimes he’d catch himself doing shit he’d normally never do for anyone, ultimately reminding himself it was for you, and continuing. that man would do anything just to see you smile. he loved you — he was obsessed with you, truly. topper and kelce rolled their eyes even at the simple mention of your name leaving his lips. he didn’t know what he was going to do with himself, that was for sure.