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demowogorgon · 2 years

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Live Wire (Gareth/GN! Reader)

Part 2 out now!

Summary: Gareth is painfully aware that he has no fucking experience with relationships. It seems like romance has made a concerted effort to avoid him all his life, although he can't say he minds too much. After Sydney Lewenski embarrassed him at his first highschool dance, he can’t find it in himself to complain about the lack of romantic attention. (And sure, that was over six years ago now, but the mortification never went away.) But when it comes to you, his inexperience is nothing but a source of chagrin. And every little thing you do makes him feel like a live wire.

Or, in which Gareth has to retreat to your bathroom during movie night to "calm himself down."

Warnings: Smut, but that’s about it. Reader is 100% gender neutral, but is briefly mentioned to have a vulva.

Word Count: 1.7k

He knows it's wrong. He knows with every fiber of his being that he shouldn’t be doing this, and yet here he is in your bathroom with his belt half-unbuckled and cock painfully hard in his jeans — while you’re just one room away. He leans his head against the bathroom door, sighing and averting his eyes towards the ceiling.

You're his best friend — hell, how could you not be? Sometimes he wonders how he got so lucky with you, why out of everyone in Hawkins you could have chosen to spend your time with, you chose him. He doesn’t understand why after all these years, you’re continuing to choose him. You’ve stuck with him through everything: helped him dye his hair with kool-aid in his parents’ bathroom when he was 13 and rebelling against the world; you comforted him when Sydney Lewenski embarrassed him at his first highschool dance; you beat the shit out of Jason Carver when you found out he was bullying him; hell, you even helped him through the mortifying process of college applications last year. And the fact that he's so helplessly attracted to you — the kindest and prettiest person in Hawkins; his best friend; the person who's miles out of his league — eats at him beyond belief. And the worst part is, this is all becoming a habit that he’s not sure he wants to put down. It’s embarrassing, how easy it is to work him up nowadays, and you don’t even know it.

He digs his palms into his eyes as he tries to redirect some blood flow, or at the very least stop thinking with his dick — but the second he closes his eyes he’s assaulted with the image of you. And just like that his fingers are fumbling with desperation as he finally, finally undoes his belt, popping the button of his jeans and pulling them down his hips. He sighs at the relief from the ridiculous tightness, but the stillness of the moment doesn’t last for long as he palms himself through his boxes for some semblance of relief.

Thoughts of you flood his mind with such an intensity that even if he had wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stop them. Your fleeting grins, the ones you would give him before rolling for initiative at Hellfire; the drag of your fingers against his scalp when you playfully tousle his hair — nobody’s allowed to do that, nobody but you; the way you cheered for him at their last gig, like he was your whole world — and fuck, the fresh ink that now adorns your thighs is driving him mad tonight. God, what he wouldn’t give to run his hands along the new lines, tracing the design with the pads of his fingertips as he ventures further, just to see how far they really go. Would you tremble beneath him, want him just as much as he wants you? Your hands fisting into his shirt as you pull his lips to yours, perfect thighs caging him against you as you rock into each other, brains gone fuzzy from the lust and the sensation of one another.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost subconsciously. He can’t help the way his hands tremble as he pulls down his boxers, hastily dragging his tongue over the palm of his hand and wrapping his hand around his dick with a shudder. He pumps the length of his cock experimentally, thumbing the flushed head and smearing the precum that gathers there across the smooth skin before stroking himself once again. His head falls against the door once again, louder than he would have liked, but any worry that he feels is quickly erased when he realizes that he can just barely catch the remnants of your cologne on his flannel — you had chosen to sit next to him tonight, and he’s never been more grateful for your tiny thrift-store couch. He’d drown in you, if you’d let him, and even the ghost of your scent is already halfway towards suffocating him. His tongue darts between his lips, and the noise that claws its way out of the back of his throat is needy in every sense of the word as he drags his fist along his length. His teeth graze against his lip, biting gently to keep himself quiet, but it only serves to fuel the fire.

You had sat next to him, pressed shoulder to shoulder just like any other movie night. He can’t remember how many times they’d watched The Exorcist by now, but it's a classic, and he's always lived for the way you'd argue alongside him to strong arm the rest of the guys into watching it just one more time. But this time you were wearing these denim shorts, so short that they really should have been illegal, and with a new tattoo adorning your thighs to boot. You had said something about how jeans would have messed up the lines, but in all honesty half of the blood that should have been going to his brain in that conversation was already moving below the belt, and all he could do was hum, nod, and stammer out a generic compliment about how it looks great — forget everything else he wanted to say. He wouldn’t be able to get half of it if he tried, but that didn’t stop his mind from running.

But it just didn't end there — the entire night he felt like he was drowning in you, the way your shorts hugged your frame as you moved through the house, the way your hands wrapped themselves so delicately around your soda bottle, the way you'd lean over to whisper little sarcastic quips into his ear when the guys weren't looking. If he closes his eyes tight enough he can almost feel the way your breath hit his neck as you murmured a teasing comment about how it was funny that Eddie still jumps so badly at horror movies, despite being such a terrifying DM. His tongue darts between his lips at the ghost of the memory, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek when he thinks about all the dirty things you could be whispering into his ear instead.

His free hand moves to grip at his hair, tugging at the strands to keep him grounded to reality, and his breath hitches because for the briefest of seconds it feels like you. His dick twitches in his hand at the thought, and Jesus Christ, how the hell is he supposed to keep himself together like this? He fucks into his hand with renewed vigor, twisting his grip at the head, eyes fluttering closed as he imagines your hand in place of his own. Your chest pressed to his, fingers carding their way through his hair as you pull him in for a kiss. The taste of you overwhelming his senses, leaving him hazy and bucking into your grip as his hands wander up your shirt. You’re so soft beneath him, flesh dipping lovingly under his fingertips as he maps out your body with his hands.

Your breath hitches as he thumbs at your chest, letting out a soft whine into his mouth. You press your body impossibly closer to his own, grinding against his thigh as you drag your hand across his length. He bites his lip, picking up his pace as he feels the telltale heat begin to spread through his body. He won’t last long like this, and it takes everything in him not to slow down, to drag this out. But the sound of your laughter from the living room reminds him of where he is, and he’s bucking into his hand like his life depends on it.

His fantasy takes over for him, guiding his hand towards release. The hand at your chest slides down slowly across the expanse of your ribs, down to your hips and abdomen. You whimper his name against his lips when he dips below your waistband, needy and wanting as you buck into his hand. He places one last chaste kiss against your lips before leaning towards your neck, biting and sucking at the exposed skin; yet, your grip on his hair doesn’t loosen, leaving him with an exhilarating ache that goes straight to his dick. You chant his name like a mantra, like he’s the only man left in the world, as you beg him for more. You’re soaked, whimpering against him and dripping as he draws tight circles against your clit. God, the things he would do to hear you cry against him right now, to hear you chase your own high, to have your hands on him.

His necklace slaps against his chest, jingling against the various pins that adorn his flannel, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s so close —

His mind switches him to another scene, your hands pinned above your head as he pounds into you from above. Your chest heaves with the labor of your breathing, moans just barely audible over the metal tape playing into the background. His head spins from your lingering scent; mind fogged with the imagined sounds of your pleasure.

He doesn’t even register how hard his teeth push against his lip as he comes onto his hand, hips bucking involuntarily as he tries to hold back a particularly rough groan.

His chest heaves as he comes back down from his high, and it's a conscious effort to stay standing. He presses his back against the wooden door, and he's suddenly very, very aware of where he is. He opens his eyes, and is shamefully disappointed, as though his brain still expected him to be in your arms. He sighs, closing his eyes once again as he allows the sound of the TV on the other side of the wall to pull him back to reality. And then your laughter floats through the chaos of it all, and his heart gives a quickening thud at the sound. He shakes his head and gives the room a sardonic smile, directed at nobody but himself.

Oh, he's so whipped.

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